#referenced consensual spice

[quietly-by-myself]

An Earthly Cosmological Redshift - Chapter 12 - An Old Dog and New Tricks

Masterlist

No beta, we die like Fearon's dreams. This is angsty fluff.

CW: past domestic violence, referenced past noncon, consensual spice (with a little bit of kink), mafia whump, flashback, PTSD, cancer, addiction, relapse, vampire caretaker, human whumpee, low self-esteem

===

Fucking a fledgling vampire when Fearon was his sire was a strange thought indeed. However, Fearon knew that Jules was the same Jules he’d been ready to sacrifice anything for just a few months ago. This was the same Jules he’d fucked before. 

Or rather, who’d fucked him before. Fearon was seldom the one on top. Jules seemed perfectly happy with that. Sometimes, though, Fearon found himself wanting to be the one on top. 

He’d brought it up to Jules gently, knowing that Jules was sometimes sensitive about the subject. To his surprise, Jules had been open to the idea.

“As long as you stay my sub,” he’d teased, smiling. He’d been in much better health recently. Physically and mentally. “I don’t want you getting any ideas now that you’re my sire, too.”

Fearon had chuckled nervously. “I’d never forget, sir,” he’d teased right back, leading them both to laugh. After all - that stayed in the bedroom, at least for them.

Jules had given a smile that wavered. 

So, that late night, when Jules and Fearon had gotten in bed together, Fearon had forced Jules to pick out a safe word. Jules, with all his humor, had said “blood, guts, and glory.” 

“What, I’m a vampire now, aren’t I?”

Fearon glared at him. 

So, they decided on glory. Why that word? Neither of them were sure, but it seemed to work well enough. It was a word that seldom passed either of their lips, no matter how counterintuitive the idea of glory as a safe word was.

It hadn’t taken long for that word to pass Jules’ lips, though. Fearon had been thrusting maybe a minute or two before Jules’ face had turned pale and his eyes had glazed over.

Fearon immediately stopped, pulling out. He wasn’t a dominant - he never did aftercare. However, as he looked at Jules, who now had tears in his eyes, he knew what to ask.

“Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Jules wrapped his arms around his legs, tears flowing freely. Guilt swarmed Fearon. What had he done to Jules? 

“I- It’s- I-” Jules forced a breath in his undead lungs. 

Fearon didn’t lay a hand on Jules. He recognized the look in Jules’ eyes. Whether it was the bloodbags he fed from as a mafioso or the people he found himself working with, the straight-laced and unaware seldom found his old line of work. Trauma was all too common. 

And that was the look in Jules’ eyes.

Trauma.

“It’s okay, Jules. I think you’re having a flashback. Do you know who I am?”

“Y-you’re Fearon.” Jules let out a long breath.

“Good. Where are you right now?”

“I’m in our bedroom.” Jules’ voice was faint and shaky, his eyes still distant. 

“Jules,” Fearon looked his love in the eyes, “You’ve already survived whatever you just saw. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Jules closed his eyes, but nodded. It was true - nobody could hurt Jules as long as Fearon was around. Even as an ex-mafioso in exile, Fearon was a force to be reckoned with, one that most didn’t dare tempt.

Fearon got up for a moment and grabbed one of Jules’ favorite sweaters. He placed it on Jules’ lap.

“Can you describe your sweater to me? As much detail as you can.”

Jules went on to obediently describe what the sweater was like - its color, its material, its design, his guess at its thread count, even. The way he said it with no humor, no life scared Fearon. Jules hadn’t sounded like that, since, well, he was dying. 

After a little while, the life returned to Jules’ eyes, but the tears didn’t stop. 

Fearon knew that it was best not to pry. To allow silence and his presence do all the speaking. That it was enough to just be there for Jules.

However, Fearon couldn’t help but feel a little bit angry. Not at Jules - never at Jules. Fearon could see the fear, the look Fearon had seen countless times in his time under Galileo, and knew that someone had hurt Jules.

Vengeance was perhaps normal in the mafia. As an underboss, any slight against Fearon was returned tenfold, whether by Fearon or by one of his underlings. Fearon knew it wasn’t healthy. He knew it wasn’t right to be possessive. Yet, looking at Jules, coming down from some trauma, Fearon wanted to kill whoever had hurt Jules.

“Fearon, I can tell you’re angry.”

Jules’ words snapped Fearon out of his thoughts. Maybe he was the one who needed grounding. Going back on the pills to cope with Jules’ cancer meant that now Fearon was feeling that same withdrawal again. What was it? The third or fourth time Fearon had relapsed?

“They’re… old habits, Jules. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Jules laughed, but quickly choked on his tears. “Of course I’m worried. You’re withdrawing again. It makes you have those fucking mood swings-”

“I-I know, Jules.”

They both sighed. Silence filled the air, hanging awkwardly as the two lovers looked away from each other.

“I don’t let people fuck me because-” Jules swallowed, tears in his eyes. “I had a boyfriend who’d force himself on me. It went on for months. My boss- he’s the one who got me away from that fucker.”

Fearon was quiet, a little unsure of the right thing to say. He’d not known many mafiosos who treated their partners well. Fearon had somewhat overlooked it - Galileo and him were on-and-off and of course, Fearon had a never-ending string of boyfriends. He’d always treated them well.

But none of them were like Jules.

Fearon loved Jules. Fearon had never loved any of those guys he’d used to distract himself from his own misery.

“I’m so sorry.”

It was like Jules didn’t hear the words at all. “I was so worried that when I heard you were in the mafia, that you would be like him. That I was falling for another person who would hurt me. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Fearon. I’m so scared to lose you. I’m damaged goods.”

To that, Fearon felt every muscle in his body tense. “Jules, you aren’t damaged goods. I love you. I love you no matter what. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but it feels like it is.”

“Jules,” Fearon swallowed. “I’ve seen a lot of nasty shit in my days. I’ve been fucked by a lot of guys. Why would you be damaged? Because you have trauma? Because someone hurt you? I have trauma. People have hurt me. I’m not damaged goods. You aren’t either. You’re messy, but look at me. I’m a recovering addict, ex-mafioso.”

“There’s so much I’ll never be, Fearon. There are so many things I can’t do.”

“Jules, my dear, there’s so much you can’t see. You don’t value yourself enough. I want to show you all the things about you that are wonderful and amazing and that you should love yourself for. I want to be there for you, through the rough and the smooth.”

Fearon held his arms out. “Is it okay if I hug you, Jules?”

Jules nodded, grasping his arm. Fearon pulled the vampire into a hug, rubbing his back a bit as Jules cried. 

“I don’t deserve you, Fearon.”

“No. You don’t. You deserve more than me. You deserve the world, my dear.”

“But you’re the one I love, Fearon.”

“Then you have me, my dear. You have me forever.”

Jules sobbed harder, but let go of his arm and grabbed Fearon. Fearon just sat there, allowing Jules to cry into his chest, rubbing Jules’ back gently.

“We have all the time in the world, my dear,” Fearon started. “And even if I didn’t have all the time in the world, I would still spend it all with you.”

===

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @darkthingshappen, @honeycollectswhump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Same Bed: Lost (And Found)

CW: Trauma recovery, healing internal and external injuries, references to noncon and choking, brief suicide mentions at the beginning, references to past pet whump, consensual spice between survivors, brief masochism funtimes

The Same Bed: Part One: Jake | Part Two: Krista | Part Three: Chris | Part Four: Vincent | Part Five: Antoni | Interlude | Part Six: Nat | Part Seven: Owen | Part Eight: Tonight | Part Nine: Reunion | Part Ten: Too Late | Epilogue: Lost (And Found)

(using the “Lost” prompt for @whumpmasinjuly day 2 for this! Loosely interpreted, but still...)

-

“Hey.” Jake drops the stack of folders, stuffed with paperwork, onto the table. “I brought these by for you to look over. I think I have it all taken care of, though.”

“Cool.” Jenna doesn’t look at him, sitting with her chin in her hand, watching a TV in the corner. Jake follows her gaze to see the chyron running along the bottom of the screen, a news anchor talking animatedly. The volume is so low he can’t hear it, but the subtitles are on. 

NOTED FORMER CHILD STAR OWEN GRANT FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE…

Jake takes a seat across the table. “Suicide? That’s what they went with?”

“That’s what I paid the coroner to go with, yeah,” Jenna says, leaning forwards a little. She’s cut her hair short, to her chin. It suits her. “Figured it’d be better to have open-and-close suicide case then a bunch of cops looking for a murderer they’re not gonna find. Cops hate that shit, but they love getting to wash their hands of something and say it’s not their problem. And that Grant asshole doesn’t have any living relatives to push for it to be a crime, right?”

“Right. He just had his mom, some distant cousins that hated him as much as everyone else did.”

“Good. Yeah, the coroner’s going to find that Owen went a little off the rails after losing his mom. It’s believable.”

“Yeah. He definitely went off the rails, anyway.” Jake hesitates, and then offers, reluctantly, “Thanks, Jenna. For your help. I know how you feel about Kauri-”

“You know how I felt about Kauri,” She answers breezily. She sits up, then, pulling one of the folders in front of her, opening it up and looking over what she sees inside. “It’s been years, Jake. He’s not who he was then, and neither am I. Plus, I don’t like the idea of people fucking with us after we’ve started to really get better. It wasn’t that big of an ask.”

“Jenna.” Jake barks out a laugh. “I asked you to drive around with a dead body in the trunk to help Antoni get rid of it, that's not a small ask!”

“It is,” Jenna says, almost primly, “When I don’t mind doing it. I didn’t mind following him to make sure he went to that house like we thought he would, and I didn’t mind helping Antoni out with the body. Besides, I used Vincent Shield’s money to bribe a coroner to say Owen Grant is dead by his own hand, you can’t tell me that’s not some poetic fucking shit right there.” She sighs, looking over at him. “You can always ask me for help, Jake.”

“Can I? Since goddamn when? You’ve been calling Kauri a whore for a decade-”

“Nah, I haven’t done that in a while. Since I decided to stop like five years ago. Since, you know, I realized… I was just taking out on him what I wanted to say to the other pet in the house I ran from.” Jenna sets the file down again. A frightened young woman’s face looks back up from a printed out copy of stolen WRU records. Someone new to hunt for, someone listed as ‘assisted walk-in’, an abduction in flowery language. Someone they can save and if they make it public, WRU can’t try to take them back without running afoul of the law again.

“Jenna, I don’t-... I don’t understand-”

“People change. I changed. Just… let me have changed, Jake. I was scared, and pissed off, and just… lost… for years. I was angry at her for nearly getting me killed, and Kauri reminded me of her, so I took it out on him. But, years back, that little one, uh, your brother-”

“Chris.”

“Right. Years back, Kauri called me for help with him. And I helped, because I’m not a complete asshole, just like seventy percent of one, and after that… I don’t know. Kauri really stepped up for that kid, and I could see how scared he was. Kauri and I are never going to like each other, but that doesn’t mean he’s not one of us.”

“Well… yeah, okay. Thanks. I won’t push you on it anymore.”

“Welcome. And thanks. Congratulations on the marriage, by the way.” She waved at the ring on Jake’s finger. “Good fucking luck with that. Marrying two people sounds way worse than marrying just one.”

“Nah.” Jake shrugs, and opens a file himself. He circles what he sees - ‘referred by foster mother, assisted walk-in’. “It’s way, way better. They’re pretty cool to be married to.”

“If you say so. No marriage for me, thanks. Too much like being kept all over again.”

“That’s fair. Live the life you want to live, right?”

“Right.” She smiles, then, looking around the little kitchen in the small brick ranch she lives in. “Damn straight. Live the life you want to live, all yours, on your own damn terms. Okay, so I say we start with this one, she’s part of a bonded pair. We can get them both.”

“Where are they located?”

“That’s the best part. They’re handler’s pets. They’re local.” Jenna grins at him, sparkling and full of mischief. “Ready to break into a handler’s house and fuck some shit up?”

Jake can’t stop himself from laughing. “Clearly not as ready as you are.”

“... so yes or no?”

“Yeah, Jenna. Let’s do it. Let’s plan a raid.”

“Cool. So how do you feel about setting his house on fire?”

“... I might know someone who can help us with that.”

-

“She’s said sorry like seven fucking times.” Jameson lays on his side on his bed, his back pressed to the wall. “If she says it again, I might lose my goddamn mind, Allyn.”

“She just feels bad.” Allyn smiles at him, laying a hand against the side of his face, their thumb rubbing over his cheekbone, over a small scar. He shudders, closing his eyes as sparks seem to light and dance down his skin, buzzing just under the surface. When they move their hand away, he can still feel the weight of it, the ghost of pleasure. 

“I know, but I already told her, I don’t mind hurting for her. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t even that bad, I’ve been hurt worse than that!”

Between them on the bed Trash Cat lays curled in a contented little ball, eyes closed. Her ear flicks whenever Jameson speaks, as if listening to him, keeping track of the emotion in his voice. Reading it for potential trouble. 

“But she never wants to hurt you. She never wants to hurt anybody. I get it.” Allyn’s hair falls in loose red waves over shoulder and neck and lays against their face. He tucks a little of it behind their ear, watching their freckles shift as they smile at him, flashing white teeth against pink lips, sparkling gray-blue eyes. 

He listens to their voice, tastes the rainshower that comes with it. 

“I don’t mind hurting,” He repeats, but softer this time. “If it’s the right person hurting me.” There’s an unmistakable flirtation in his voice, then, although it’s tentative. He’s never sure how to start this, now that he isn’t having to guess at a master or owner’s mood, read the tension in the air and break it down by handing his body over to the whip and the cane until they are both bonelessly satisfied. 

No, this is… something else.

Something honest.

Something equal. 

If Allyn hurts him, he knows, it will be because he asked to be hurt. Not because it’s his place. The idea feels like wandering in a new landscape. Touching unfamiliar trees that at least still have bark and leaves, but wondering at colors and shapes he’s never seen. Lost, even with map in hand, because the place he is in is so like but not at all the same as the world he knows.

Jameson shifts forwards, as best he can, back curving a little so he can kiss them. Their lips are warm and soft and his own are a little rough and chapped. For a second they go still, and then they’re kissing him back. It’s perfect, at first, too perfect, and then both of them drop the instinctive training and the kiss goes clumsy and they both laugh as they bump teeth.

Trash Cat chirps, lifting her head to look back at them, and then slowly stands up. She stretches in a perfect arch before stalking down to the end of the bed.

“She’s giving us our space,” Allyn whispers against Jameson’s lips, and giggles. The sound of their laughter sends warmth down his spine, and he moves closer, until they’re touching from collarbone to knees, even their feet twining together. His bandaged hand moves slowly up their side, feeling the slight curve, nearly an angle, from narrow waist to larger ribcage. His thumb is so, so close to their chest, and they inhale in a soft hitch. 

“She just doesn’t want me to push her off the fucking bed in a minute,” Jameson answers, a little breathy, and he hates his hoarse voice - can remember he had a normal voice, with Nanda, before Brute and Robert made him scream until it was gone over and over until it stopped coming all the way back. 

“Can I-... can I try something?” Allyn asks in a whisper, and when Jameson nods, they give a little smile and reach up, taking his hand from their face and holding it in their own. Their soft sotto voice is like subtle droplets on Jameson’s tongue, a burst of the way the air taste just before it really starts to rain. He watches them, meeting their eyes with his own, as their thumb settles just over the center of his palm. Beneath that, a healing cut, where Nat had jammed a GPS tracker as deep as she could get.

And Jameson hadn’t screamed.

He knew how to hurt.

“Can I push down?” Allyn’s eyes search his. “While I kiss you, can I… push down on the cut a little bit?”

His mouth goes dry. Jameson’s body is a lightning rod, and he stares at the storm and wants to beg for the roll of thunder that follows the strike. He nods, a little jerk of his chin. “Yes,” He breathes.

Their lips are on his own, again, opening to slide their tongue against his, and he hums into the kiss, pressing his body to theirs. Warmth stirs deep in his stomach, his body waking up, answering the firmness of their kiss.

Then they press down, pain racing down Jameson’s arm and into his body, and he moans, unmistakable and louder than he means to be. He’s rolled onto his back with Allyn pressing into his hips before he can think, and Allyn’s mouth is on his neck, teeth bearing down on soft skin as they roll their own hips against his, and he moans again.

The front door closes, muffled downstairs.

Allyn pulls back, startled. Then they burst out laughing, leaning over until their forehead touches Jameson’s. “Oh, no, I forgot she was home.”

Jameson breathes in soft gasps, and laughs, too. He tips his head back, baring his neck. The place they were biting is cold where air and the remnants of drying saliva meet. “She’s not home anymore,” He offers.

Allyn leans down to bite again, and presses their thumb into his hand at the same time. 

“I love this,” Jameson groans, eyes fluttering closed. His hips move to meet theirs right through their clothes. It doesn’t occur to either of them to take them off… not yet. “I love, love this-”

“I love it, too,” Allyn murmurs, nipping at his earlobe.

Neither of them says what they really mean. Both of them have loved men who could never fully love them in return. Both of them know the words have always been hollow. But both of them think it, if not consciously, then with every inch of skin where they touch.

I love you.

-

“Antoni.” Kauri’s voice, still hoarse as he heals from the hands that had tried to choke the life from him, is laced with a kind of affectionate irritation. “I don’t need it.”

“You do.” Antoni sets the mug down on the side table next to the bed. The tea within is faintly pink, see through, not marked with milk. Kauri can look down into it and see, a little muddied, the image of a cat face painted on the bottom. He sighs and looks up at Antoni, whose eyebrows raise. “You do,” He repeats. “Tea is good for sore throat.”

“Yeah, for like… when you have strep or the flu or some shit,” Kauri groans, but he pushes himself slowly up to seated, back cushioned by approximately eleven million pillows Jake and Antoni have both insisted on keeping near him at all times. Not that it isn’t really, really nice to have one to sit on when he leaves the bed and ends up in a chair like a dumbass. “I was choked, Ant, it’s not the same. Not even the first time I’ve been choked. Not even just Owen! There was this one guy I went home with once…” He smiles, but the laugh dies in his throat before it comes out as he meets Antoni’s dark eyes.

“I remember,” Antoni says. “I remember that night.”

“Of course you do.” Kauri sighs, and pats the bed beside him. Antoni sits, just at the edge, as if he might flee at any second. Like he wants to run from the pain still marking Kauri’s skin. 

Kauri leans over, and places a hand over his. Long fingers that have been slightly cool for so long are warm from too much tea and time under the covers. His ring glimmers in the light, back on his finger where he plans to never ever take it off again. It overlays Antoni’s own. 

“Ant,” He says, softly. “For the thousandth time. It isn’t your fault. I knew what might happen when I went into that room. I was… I was ready for it.”

I was ready to die.

“I should have been inside faster,” Antoni says, and he leans slowly over until his head rests on Kauri’s shoulder. The soft, messy nearly-black hair tickles Kauri’s cheek and he smiles, pulling Antoni’s hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles, gently, one by one. Bruised knuckles, torn and bloodied the night of the rescue, now healed but still scarred. “The fight with the other one was not supposed to take so long. We had a plan, and we nearly-... you could have been dead-”

“I’m right here,” Kauri says, voice low. He turns and breathes deep. Antoni’s hair smells like tea-tree and mint shampoo, and there’s always something of a kitchen around him. Smells like flour and baking things and sweetness. “I’m right here, Ant. I am alive, I’m right here, look, I feel like a flip flop left out in the mud but I’m here.”

“If not for Vince-”

“Then you would have saved him.” Kauri smiles, and he keeps that smile in his voice. “And that’d be something, wouldn’t it? Secret runaway pet saves multi-millionaire movie star…”

“It would not matter. It would be nothing, if Jasha and I lost you.” 

“You would still have had each other-”

“It would be nothing. You are the… the piece of puzzle that holds two others together. You are color, we have none without you.”

“Bullshit.” Kauri’s smile widens, though, and he flushes a little at the praise, at being told he is needed. Not just needed but wanted. That, at least, he’s never quite lost, and he wonders if that was inherent in Liam Harker, the man who once walked around in his skin. What parts of him have survived within Kauri? 

Maybe just a need to be loved, and wanted, and needed. 

Maybe Liam had that, too.

“Kasha, I love you,” Antoni whispers. It’s hard for him to say the words. Kauri kisses his forehead. Then the tip of his nose.

He pulls back. “I love you, too, Ant. You and Jake and I… we’re forever.” They sit in silence for a few minutes. In the background, a soap opera plays, which both of them are entirely ignoring. Then Kauri says, softly, “Antoni… will you go get my phone? I forgot it in the bathroom and I don’t think I have the energy to go get it on my own just yet.”

Antoni stands, retrieving the phone where it lays on the bathroom counter. When he comes back, he climbs right into the bed, lying on his side under the blankets, near to Kauri without quite touching him. Kauri doesn’t push, this time. 

Antoni offers touch, when he wants it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kauri says, taking it and tapping idly on the screen, listening to his fingernail click against the shining black. “About a lot. Since I, uh, didn’t die. Lots of time to think when your partners won’t let you leave the fucking bed.”

“Mmhmm.” Antoni doesn’t take the bait, but he smiles a little, pleased with himself. “What do you think about?”

“I think I should call my mom.” Kauri says it all in a rush. He barely gets the words out, even so. The old drumbeat begging him to run from what’s behind him is still so strong, it nearly drowns him out inside his own mind. But he clings to this thought, because he needs Antoni to either encourage him or talk him out of it. “Well, Liam’s mom. I was thinking, if I had died… she’d been trying to get ahold of me, but what if I died and like, she found out Liam was alive and then I got his body killed anyway? Before she could see him?”

“You are Liam, Kasha,” Antoni says. He watches Kauri with inscrutable eyes, looking up at him from where he lays propped up on one elbow. 

“Yeah, but… what if I’m too different, and she hates me for stealing him? What if she thinks Liam is lost, and Kauri is what came back from the dead?”

“You cannot do this,” Antoni says, shaking his head. “Steal him. WRU stole, and he is not lost. You are him. I think it is a good idea to call your mother.”

“But… what if she hates me?”

“Then you never speak to her again, and she can go fuck herself.” Kauri’s eyebrows nearly raise to his hairline, and Antoni laughs, low and soft and deep. ‘What? You think I can’t swear?” He takes Kauri’s hand, and presses warm lips to the back, right in the middle of blood vessels and nerve-endings, making Kauri shiver pleasantly. “Call her. Kauri Grant is brave, and strong-” He kissed again. “Smart, and good. I think that Liam Harker would like this Kauri Grant. So I think Liam Harker’s mother will like Kauri Grant as well.”

Kauri swallows. “Are you-... are you sure about that? I’ve done some pretty seriously fucked-up shit to this body, Ant. Remember when I spent like a month straight on ecstasy?”

“I do, yes.”

“Plus, there have been, like, seven orgies…”

“Sssshhh. Kasha. Listen to me. She will love you. She loves you already, she is Liam’s mama and that means yours. And also… it will probably help if you do not talk to her about the orgies.”

“Right, right, keep a lid on the orgy talk. Got it.”

“Oh, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t talk to me about the orgies, either.”

Laughing hurts, but Kauri discovers that once he starts, he can’t quite make himself stop. 

-

“And… and, and then they… laugh at me.” Chris sits with his knees pulled to his chest, the heels of his feet just barely balanced on the edge of the chair, arms wrapped tightly around his calves. He won’t look at everyone else, keeping his chin tipped down so the shimmering light purple of his hair hides his green eyes. “And, and, and say, um, you-you wanted me to, and when I, um, when I say I, I, I-I didn’t, they, they, they… get angry.”

He has a silicone feather pendant on a small cord stuck in the corner of his mouth, slightly muffling his speech. 

“They say then, um, then why did you you you sign up? Like… like they, they don’t already know that, um, that I didn’t, and… and then they, they say, let’s go again, and I start… I, I, I start crying, because, because they sound just, um, just like… like my-... like him. And they, um, they put me on my, my my my my, my, my… on… on m-my… stomach…”

There are tears in Chris’s eyes, running down his cheeks, but no one moves. No one speaks. Not yet. 

“And, and, and then… I wake up.”

There’s a breath of silence, and then a man to the left of Chris leans towards him, putting a hand to his back. “I have dreams like that, too.”

Chris looks over at him, resting his head on his knees. His eyes are red-rimmed, wreathed in shadows. “You, you do?”

“Yeah. I’ve been married for, like, what, three years now?” The man gives Chris an encouraging, soft smile, rubbing at his back a little. “And free for ten. And I still, sometimes, I wake up just gasping for air because I remember how it felt. And sometimes I dream that my wife is the one hurting me like he did. Probably-... probably all of us have nightmares, right?”

He looks to the rest of the group of twelve, seated in a circle of folding chairs in a small side room in a community building they rent for these meetings. The others, men and women from their early twenties through their late forties, all nod. 

“It just… it goes with getting better, is that-” The man’s eyes flicker to the therapist ostensibly in charge of this meeting. Dr. Francis just nods, gesturing with one hand for the man to continue. He has a cup of bad, bitter decaf coffee in his hands, slowly warming the styrofoam cup, with powdered creamer stirred in and bits still floating a little on the top, refusing to fully dissolve. “That your brain doesn’t always know that you’re safe. And nightmares are just… how your mind tries to, to put together the two parts of your life.”

“It’d… it’d be, be, be be-be nice if it could, um, could do that some other way,” Chris mutters, and there’s a scattering of soft laughter, kind and well-meaning, from everyone else. 

“It would be,” The man says, and gives Chris a final pat on the back before sitting back. “But that’s not really how brains work.”

Dr. Francis clears his throat. “Isaac is correct,” He says, and moves to take his own seat, sipping his coffee and steadfastly making no expression at the awful taste. “It is, indeed, more common than not to have nightmares, and for many those nightmares can last for years. But they are just that - nightmares. They are your minds working inside of you to put together a life of subjugation with one of freedom, and struggling to reconcile the details. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t doing that. It’s only that our brains must adapt in order to survive at a lightning speed. But… it takes so much longer, doesn’t it, for our brains to realize those adaptations are no longer necessary.”

More nods from everyone around the circle. 

“It… it, it does help,” Chris offers, without uncurling himself. “To know everyone else, um, does, does those dreams, too, that it it it doesn’t… they wouldn’t ever, um, hurt me… they wouldn’t.”

Dr. Francis nods. “But someone did. And our bodies and minds catalog those hurts, and hold on, because they are trying to prepare you for that pain to start again. Your body is trying, as hard as it can, to keep you safe. Let’s take a moment to close our eyes, and just-... you can do this silently, everyone - just say thank you to your body for keeping you alive, and safe, to get this far. Just a quick thank-you. All that fear and pain, that was adapting to survive. Let’s thank our bodies for those adaptations.”

There’s another silence, heads bowed and eyes closed. It looks like a prayer. Some of their lips even move, but no one here is thanking God, not really. Instead, they’re whispering a prayer of thanks to nerves and bone and blood that bruised and broke and sent screaming pain signals to brain cells that rearranged, rerouted, made new pathways of survival where none had previously existed. They are giving their gratitude to lungs that fought to expand even with hands around their throat, to a heart that refused to stop beating even as it broke again and again, to hands that slapped and punched, feet that kicked out, lips and tongue that held desperately to the memory of words they weren’t supposed to say.

Words like fuck you and I don’t want this and stop touching me.

Words like we did not sign up for this.

Words like no.

Dr. Francis ends the moment of silence by clearing his throat again. Some of the men and women in the circle have glimmering eyes when they look back up, rubbing just under them in ways they think are subtle, but which everyone recognizes and no one remarks on. 

“Now,” Dr. Francis says, “We have someone new here tonight, and he would like to tell his story. Would it be all right if I call him in? Remember that there is no wrong answer here. And he won’t be listening to any of your stories, just telling his own.”

Some of the group meet eyes, and then they look back to the doctor and nod. Some carefully, others more enthusiastically. A few even smile, kind and soft, agreeable. 

The doctor stands and steps out of the room.

“It’s the guy who came with you, right?” A woman asks Chris, and he nods without uncurling, chewing on the silicone feather. He starts to sway, just a little. “I wondered why he didn’t come into the room right away. He’s one of us, right?”

Before Chris can answer, the door opens again. Dr. Francis steps in first.

Vincent Shield steps in after him.

He moves with a slow, slightly shuffling step, showing the aches that haven’t quite faded in a body still working hard to heal itself. His movie-star megawatt smile is subdued, simply lips pressed together. The shadow of a bruise still wreathes his eye on one side, another clings to a cheekbone. Finger-shaped bruises are finally fading enough from his throat to not be immediately visible for what they are. 

“Hey, Chris,” Vince says, voice low and slightly rough. Chris hums a greeting. There’s a whisper from a few of the circle participants, people who have seen his movies. Their eyes are wide, surprised, but no one comes at him. No one even stands.

They respect the circle, and the people within it.

“Okay, Vince,” Dr. Francis says amicably. “The circle agreed to hear your story tonight, and welcome you to our meetings from here on out. Gang, let’s make some room for Vince to sit down.”

“Uh, Dr. Francis-”

The doctor looks over at a woman in her thirties, while others are shifting their chairs with soft scrapes along hard floors so Vince can unfold a new one and put his own into the empty spot, slowly sitting down, looking around and smiling with a nervous shyness utterly at odds with the empty friendliness he has on the red carpet. 

“Yes, Trin?”

“He’s… he’s not a Romantic, though,” Trin says, glancing to the side. “Sorry, Vince, no offense.”

There’s a bit of low laughter, not unkind, from the participants. “It’s not exactly something anyone should apologize for not being,” Isaac says, good-naturedly. Trin blushes a little and looks down and away, shrugging, smiling a little uneasily. “But she has a point, Dr. Francis, this is group for Romantics only, isn’t it?”

“Normally, yes. But Vince’s story is a little different. He’s been seeing me for a couple of weeks now, and I think it’s worth all of you hearing it. So many of you struggle with feeling separate from the world, and that’s because of the laws and societal isolation, of course, but… I want you to hear this. Your stories, your experiences, they are connected with the experiences and stories of people outside of WRU, outside the system. I think it could help to see that you are not set apart in that way. Vince, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Vincent Shield sits back. He doesn’t look like a movie star - his hair is shaggy and unwashed, he’s wearing an old Nirvana t-shirt he borrowed from Nat and sweatpants, a pair of sandals that don’t even match. You’d never know who he was, if you saw him on the street.

You might wonder if Kauri Grant was having a bad day, but looking at Vince, you’d never see the movie star beneath the real man. 

“Hi, um. Hi everyone.” Vince smiles. “Dr. Francis asked me to talk to you all tonight. He thought it might help, and I’ll… I’ll talk about my, um. What happened to me, and then you can… I’ll step out and you can vote if you want me here. If you don’t, no harm no foul, I totally get it. I’m not sure I even want me here.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m… I’m really lost, if I’m honest. I’m totally lost at what to do with… everything now. I have this entire life and it’s just… hollow. I’m just doing what everyone told me I wanted to do, but-...”

“But it’s not what you want,” Trin suggests. 

“It isn’t. I’m not sure it ever was, or if I just… was told so many times…”

“They tell you that you want it, the way they treat you.” That’s another young woman. “They tell you you’re a flirt, but they make you flirt to get everything, to get food, to get a place to sleep. They make you… they make you pretend, over and over, and tell you that you’re not pretending.”

“They call, they, they call you a slut,” Chris whispers. “And, and, and if you say you’re not, they, they, they say you’re so good at acting that, that, that you must really be…”

“Right.” Vince clears his throat. “Shit. I didn’t know that I would feel… I told myself for forever that what everyone told me was true. But I can’t… I can’t lie to myself any longer. I just can’t. It’s been eating me alive for so long, and I don’t know what it’s like not to feel that way, and… I guess we’re going to find out. But Nat suggested… therapy, and… maybe not lying to my therapist so much this time.”

“You lied to Dr. Francis?” A third person, a man Chris’s age, asks in a scandalized hush.

Vince smiles - it’s a real and sincere smile. He shakes his head. “No, my old therapist. I’m not seeing her any longer. I wanted to start over. I’m… I’m starting over. So. Uh, where… Dr. Francis, where should I start-”

“Anywhere you like,” Dr. Francis says, voice low and gentle. 

“Uh, okay. I’ll, uh, I’ll start kind of like I start when I go to AA, if you all don’t mind?”

“I go to AA,” Isaac offers, a kind of hand outstretched, in words if not in gesture. “Every week. I’ve been sober for two years.”

“Congrats,” Vince says, sincerely. “I’m, uh, it’s been… a few weeks, but after I got to Nat’s I kind of, I fell off the wagon. I wasn’t sleeping, every time I closed my eyes I saw him... what happened. At the end. Drank until I blacked out and woke up on the floor with Nat’s, uh, that Jameson guy pouring water on my face. Then I got so sick I could barely move, turns out when you stop drinking and then start again, your liver gets really angry… it doesn’t matter. I’m starting over. So here’s to… three days sober, I guess?”

“Here’s to three days,” Isaac says, and smiles. “Three days is a start.”

Vince looks up, then, letting his eyes drift over the ceiling. He shifts and his chair creaks beneath him, as if castigating him for pausing for so long, for letting the silence draw out. Then he takes in a deep, deep breath. He fills his lungs with the oxygen until it burns, lets it slowly, slowly push out again.

“My name is Vincent Shield, and I’m an alcoholic. Sorry, just. That bit’s habit. Anyway… When I was twenty-one,” He starts, still not looking at anyone. His voice shakes a little. It’s thin and strained, pushed out past twenty years of keeping secrets and bruised from Owen’s hands. His throat wants to close around the truth, the way it has always wanted to close. The way he allowed it to close over and over for so, so long. His hands find the sides of the chair and grip, white knuckled. “When… when I was twenty-one, my best friend - my only friend, really, kind of my only real family, my parents had already stopped talking to me by then - told me he loved me.”

The room is silent, except for the soft hissing crackle of the coffeemaker and the hum of air conditioning blowing cold air through vents. 

“I told him I didn’t… feel that way about him. He said okay. For a little bit, things were okay. I thought it was fine… and then he-... he acted normal for a while, but… but then he drugged my drink. And when I woke up, I was tied to a bed.”

Vince swallows.

“Naked.”

Perfect silence, nodding heads. They’ve been tied to beds, they’ve woken up naked, they’ve faced down what had felt like such a unique horror to Vince. A terrible thing that it felt like didn’t happen to other people, and here is an entire room of people for whom it was so commonplace they were told their entire lives revolved around it.

Here they all are, with new lives, hobbies, friends. Things they do that aren’t pretending to be someone else, or being… or…

“I was raped.”

It comes out all at once, a single breath of air, a slur of syllables. Iwasraped.

The next words, somehow, harder to say. He forces himself to speak more slowly. He makes his mind dwell on each and every single word. On what it means, on what it’s always meant, on what damage it’s done. He fights not to cry.

Vincent Shield confesses someone else’s sin.

And grants himself absolution.

“Owen Grant raped me… and it wasn’t my fault.”

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[cheesecakeluvrs]

Rogue and Gambit in X-men 97’

This is neither One Piece nor Sanami but I’m obsessed with X-men 97’ currently and I need to talk about this somewhere

I keep seeing people say that Rogue is cheating on Gambit in X-men 97’ but that is absolutely not the truth. This is understandable because the general knowledge is that Rogue and Gambit are together because they are in the comics and I’m sure some people who watched the original X-men animated series as a child look back and remember them being together. While they were awfully flirting with one another they never got together officially

This is also probably because Rogue and Gambit were a pretty fresh couple in the early nineties so I’m sure the writers just went with the same flirty approach that they had before they got together in the comics

While it’s clear they have feelings for each other as they kiss 2 times and almost another (although one of those kisses was not consensual) and Rogue also calls herself “Mrs. Lebeau” when she needed a name (which I’m sure there was also confusion on Rogues name due to it also being fresh) they are definitely NOT together

Gambit is literally my favorite character so it’s hard bashing him so much like this but he has no right to get jealous of Rogue. Everyone on the internet keeps saying “poor Gambit” and such and I just wish they would watch the original

Gambit in the original is just not a great guy a lot of the time to Rogue. First, one time Morph flirted with Gambit as Rogue and told him that she had been lying about not being able to touch people (LIKE HOW DO YOU FALL FOR THAT HOW DOWN BAD ARE YOU) so his reaction to that is to go up to her while she’s sleeping and kissing her resulting in his passing out. Like I get you want this woman but leave her to her sleep

Second, he makes kinda creepy comments too. Like one time he tells her “you need to lay off the fried chicken” and one time she was just out of her usual fighting clothes and he said “you should dress up for me sometime” (but she did flirt back in that situation so I’ll give him that one)

Lastly, saying Rogue cheated on him is crazy because Gambit flirts and hits on so many people (even though they’re not serious he still can’t get jealous of someone else’s relationship if he’s doing that) then has the audacity to get all angsty when Rogue and Cody go on a date or when Rogue and Archangel touch and share a sentimental moment due to Rogue absorbing some of his memories one time

Okay okay and DESPITE all this I am still Rogue and Gambits biggest shipper and cheering for them in 97’ so what is going on with Magneto. People who did a single google search keep coming up with the “well Rogue and Magneto were canon in the comics”, yeah they got married in “Age of Apocalypse” but referencing couples outside of 616 is crazy. You know who else has been together when we are counting EVERY timeline? LITERALLY EVERYONE. This is Marvel comics, this is not new, everyone has hooked up and everyone will continue to hook up. Just look up a list of all the people Wolverine alone has been with

Sure they COULD go with Rogue and Magneto for X-men 97’ and I’m just a stupid dum dum for believing otherwise but I see no reason to with all the buildup of the original and that sad face Rogue made in episode 4 was a little hm….

I think this is all for a little drama, a little development, a little spice because if Marvel hates anything it’s happy couples with no problems. I am praying that this is just to improve their relationship and at the end of this stupid love triangle they will finally be together but who knows

There is also a little theory that Magneto and Rogue actually aren’t doing something too crazy. I just find it weird that they haven’t actually shown us anything (I know they can’t show us them doing something devious but maybe at least kissing) only heavily suggesting it with the training room and Gambits nightmare thing. It’s just because a lot of times shows and movies will heavily force something like someone cheating then they later find out that they were actually just spending so much time together because they were planning their birthday party or something

I sound as desperate and delusional as Gambit but I’m doing all I can. I probably should’ve just waited for tomorrow then posted this after watching the new episode but I couldn’t wait so maybe all of my thoughts and opinions will change in a few hours

[greetingfromthedead]

Tempest Wind Masterlist

Through a destined meeting, Vash found you, a lost soul much like himself, under the weirdest of circumstances, and he made a promise to follow you across any desert. That turns out to lead both of you down a path of self-discovery, love, and hurt. Vash's unlucky shadow drives the two of you from one crisis to the next, but there's nothing you can't overcome together.

Tempest Wind is a 18+ Vash x F!Reader fic with some spice, some gore, a bit of action and a lot of fluff, for added flavor there's angst too ofc.

The rating of 18+ comes mainly from the occasional dark themes and not so much of the smuttiness (as those parts are labeled and can be skipped without it really affecting the story).

NB: The content is mostly Trimax canon-typical violence/gore/themes, but I give warnings and summaries for the heavier chapters and smut so you can skip them if you want!

Tags/CW below the cut!

Tags/CW: Romance, Fluff, Angst, Action, Adventure, Slow Burn, Hurt, Emotional Baggage, Reader-Insert, badass female character, Eventual Smut, Healing, Immortality, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Implied/Referenced suicide, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, powers, Mentions of impregnation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Experimentation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Blood and Violence, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Established Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Tragedy, Protectiveness, Pre-Canon, Canon Universe, Injury, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Tenderness, Illnesses, Scars, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Caretaking, During Canon, Creature Vash, Angel Vash, Body Horror, Body Worship, i'm shit at tagging, idk what im doing

COMPLETED: 84 Chapters / 165k words

C1: In Death

C2: Tracking Through the Desert

C3: Acts of Kindness

C4: Night Watch

C5: Birdbrain

C6: A Heavy Heart

C7: Midnight Run

C8: Odd Job

C9: A Wild Beast

C10: Wounds

C11: Laundry Day

C12: Language of Flowers

C13: Unlocked Horrors

C14: Sweet as Sugar

C15: Resemblance of Normality

C16: Taking Out the Trash

C17: Unfamiliar Experiences

C18: Moving On

C19: A Gut Feeling

C20: Gods and Angels

C21: Perfect Morning

C22: Renewed Conviction

C23: Dusty Memory

C24: Unexpected Visitors

C25: Guardian Angel

C26: Calamity J

C27: Playing Doctor

C28: Otherworldly Lullaby

C29: Patchwork

C30: Burn

C31: Towards New Horizons

C32: Stormy Emotions

C33: Tempest

C34: Desert Night

C35: Mayfly of Love

C36: Sign of Appreciation

C37: Plotting

C38: Execution

C39: Hands

C40: Storm Clouds

C41: Truth Unfurled

C42: Ray of Hope

C43: Lucky

C44: Sandstorm

C45: Back in a Lab

C46: Signals

C47: Glimpse of the Past

C48: Nature of Your Being

C49: Irises

C50: Frozen Dream

C51: Spring

C52: Worship

C53: Breakfast

C54: Experimented

C55: United Again

C56: Rest of Eternity

C57: Subject 0325

C58: Project HUMAN

C59: Comfort in Knowledge

C60: First Day of the Future

C61: Puzzle Pieces

C62: Day and Night

C63: Daylight Robbery

C64: Journey to December

C65: Snatchers

C66: Last Calm Breaths

C67: Dark Underworld

C68: Rescue Mission

C69: A Bloody Demon

C70: Time Catches Up

C71: Blame

C72: On to the Next Crisis

C73: Last Night

C74: Goodbye

C75: Fragments

C76: Talk of Love and Peace

C77: Uncanny Valley

C78: Lover's Face

C79: Ghost of You

C80: Happy Birthday

C81: A Paradise for You and Me

C82: Breaking of a Will

C83: Life and Death

C84: Epilogue

Demo Chapters modified into oneshots:

Womanizer - confined spaces affects Vash in a strange way and he has turned on his charm to try and seduce you.

Perfect Morning - domestic fluff, intimacy, mild smuttiness, shy Vash

Festivities - delusional bliss on an unfamiliar planet with weird traditions, ice skating and sweet Vash

Burn - basically smuttiness with little actual plot

Desire - no plot, just porn. Often the quiet and shy ones surprise you...

Happy Birthday - You find yourself on a furry side quest and it turns into a very special birthday celebration that Vash puts on for you.

You can also read it on other platforms: AO3! Wattpad! Quotev!

Check out my other stuff: MASTERLIST.

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

Plant Covered Rooftops

by writingonred

Tommy, by definition, was a hybrid. People hated hybrids. Though for Tommy that didn’t mean much, he just occasionally made plants and had a few features to hide.

Well, he doesn't make plants occasionally, it just happens. He can’t control it, he isn't an adult yet–though he’s somehow managed, even if it's a little hard to control. It was even harder to control when his emotions were strong, which didn’t exactly help when it came to being a foster kid. Iit did however help whenever it came to his nightly activities of being a vigilante.

Though now he was leaning his head on the window of white BMW, listening to Puffy talk about prime knows what while trying to talk louder than the rain outside.

AKA: Tommy’s a vigilante who’s also a hybrid of a spices I made up, and a foster kid who just got out in a new foster home. Oh yeah and Wilbur and Tommy are enemies—not that they know yet.

Words: 1891, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Dream SMP

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot, Cara | CaptainPuffy, Toby Smith | Tubbo

Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Cara | CaptainPuffy & TommyInnit

Additional Tags: Blood, Blood and Injury, Panic Attacks, Flashbacks, Cussing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Non-Consensual Touching, Near Death Experiences, Bullying, Discrimination, (against hybrids), | okay normal tags now, Foster Care, Foster Child TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Teen TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hybrid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Vigilante TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Scared TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit is a Big Man (Video Blogging RPF), and you can’t prove me wrong, Wilbur Soot is TommyInnit's Parent, Foster Parent Wilbur Soot, Protective Wilbur Soot, though that’s not shown until late chapters x3, Wilbur Soot Loves TommyInnit, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Badly, Villain Wilbur Soot, Not mentioned yet but it will

[ao3feed-dadzawa]

Inevitable Tragedy

Inevitable Tragedy by Lunar Spice

The lights of the city looked so small from Hitoshi's vantage point.

He threw the end of his scarf out, mirroring Aizawa's, and both leapt through the air again.

He was grateful that the underground hero had taken him on as an intern, but anxiety bubbled throughout his body, keeping him on edge.

It was his first time chasing villains with his mentor.

Words: 2042, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English

Series: Part 16 of Lunar's Whumptober of Suffering (2022)

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Original Male Character(s)

Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shinsou Hitoshi

Additional Tags: Tags Contain Spoilers, Shinsou Hitoshi Needs a Hug, Shinsou Hitoshi is Bad at Feelings, Shinsou Hitoshi-centric, Shinsou Hitoshi Deserves Happiness, Sarcastic Shinsou Hitoshi, Dark Past, Quirk Discrimination, Traumatized Shinsou Hitoshi, Muzzled Shinsou Hitoshi, Suicidal Shinsou Hitoshi, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Training Shinsou Hitoshi, Mentor Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Hurt Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, So just normal Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Needs a Hug, Coma, Trapped, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paralysis, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Altered Mental States, Despair, Loneliness, Multiple Endings, They're all bad, Tragedy

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42414177

[ao3feed-hitoshi-shinsou]

Lilac Insomniac

Lilac Insomniac by Lunar Spice

It took him a second to remember what had happened, but when he did, he cringed.

He'd been climbing up the scarf without a mat underneath him. He'd lost his grip and…

As if on cue, Hitoshi felt dampness making his hair sticky. He reached up a hand, startled when it came back bloody.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

Words: 2336, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of Lunar's Whumptober of Suffering (2022)

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Shinsou Hitoshi, Kirishima Eijirou, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Eri

Relationships: Kirishima Eijirou & Shinsou Hitoshi, Eri & Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shinsou Hitoshi

Additional Tags: Tags Contain Spoilers, Shinsou Hitoshi Replaces Mineta Minoru, Shinsou Hitoshi is in Class 1-A, Shinsou Hitoshi Needs a Hug, Insomniac Shinsou Hitoshi, Shinsou Hitoshi-centric, Shinsou Hitoshi is So Done, Kirishima Eijirou is a Good Friend, Kirishima Eijirou is a Ray of Sunshine, Kirishima Eijirou is a Good Person, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Training Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Adopts Eri, Brain Damage, Head Injury, Concussions, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Headaches & Migraines, Sleep Deprivation, Altered Mental States, Confusion, Babysitting, Accidents, Medication, Medicinal Drug Use, Overdosing, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Character Death

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42136569

[archonanqi]

consequence / pt i

⛔️ Warning: This is an exploration of Zhongli’s manipulative tendencies that we see glimpses of in his archon and story quest. Absolutely no part of the relationship depicted here is healthy or consensual. Please proceed with caution. 

🔖 [info] [next]

—

pt. i of iii

Looking back, you should have noticed that something was wrong the moment Zhongli had insisted on treating you and Aether to dinner. 

You and Paimon tried to stop him, of course — far too many of his shopping sprees in the past had ended with the Millelith involved or your pockets emptied of Mora (usually both, really). Yet today, he’d produced a wallet lined with gleaming coins, and any protests died quickly on Paimon’s lips. 

“Wow, that’s enough to buy—” she marvelled, staring as intently as though her gaze itself could start pocketing the Mora, “at least… TEN Golden Crabs from Wanmin Restaurant!” 

Zhongli chuckled, the sound still sending pleasant shivers down your spine even after all the months you’d spent traveling with him. “A little more than that, Paimon, but a good guess nonetheless.” He turned his amber gaze to you and your brother, who had not strayed a foot away from you since the Abyss released its hold on him. 

Aether had kept an easy smile on his face for the past few days, but you’d known him long enough to pick out the signs of guilt, despite your reiterated reassurances that what the Abyss did to him was not his fault. It would take a long time for him to feel alright again; and you’d be there for him for as long as it took. 

“And as for you two?” Zhongli continued, “will Wanmin Restaurant be agreeable? Though of course, if you believe that such a momentous reunion demands something a little more extravagant, I’m sure that Xinyue Pavillion is still taking reservations—”

“No, that’s not—” you weren’t sure why you were hesitating. So what if he mysteriously found himself without enough Mora by the end of the meal, and you ended up having to foot the bill as usual? It stung a little to think about, but it wasn’t as though you’d have any need for Mora after tonight. “That’s not it. After everything you’ve done for us during our travels, I couldn’t possibly accept more from you, Zhongli.”

Couldn’t possibly bear sitting at a table with Zhongli, knowing that it’d be the last time you’d ever see him. This was why you’d always tried to leave each world with a clean cut. This was why, at the break of dawn, you and Aether would leave without telling anyone — not Jean, not Cyno, not Dainsleif, not Ajax. Not even Zhongli, with whom you’d spent the bulk of your past year.  

“Oh, no,” Zhongli replied, brows arching upwards, “I’ve told you, have I not? The pleasure of our travels were mine to enjoy.” 

“Er... well. I’m sure Aether is also tired and wants to rest,” you prompted, squeezing Aether’s hand. Aether nodded quickly — no matter the world, you’d always been able to count on him to pick up on your nuanced signals. Though he might not know why, he knew that you were uneasy with going to this dinner, and that was enough.

“Hmm,” Zhongli pondered this shortly, then turned to your brother. You’d seen that look of calculated determination on his face before, in front of basha stalls and souvenir stores across the continent. A look that meant Zhongli would get what he wanted. “I had rather been looking forward to getting to know the sibling of my favored travel companion. Are you certain? Wanmin Restaurant is quite the gem of Liyue Harbor, and I’m certain that the food here will be a fair few notches above what the Abyss Order has been able to offer you.” 

There was a slight, amiable smile on his face, but bringing up the Abyss was a painfully low blow and you had no doubt that Zhongli, the lord of contracts and negotiations and everything in between, knew it. You watched in mute horror as the guilt and regret danced on Aether’s face, before he finally gathered it all back into an apologetic smile. “Of course, Mr. Zhongli. Far be it from me to refuse a dinner with the former Geo Archon himself, especially with all the trouble I’ve caused you...”

—  

Even after traveling the seven nations, you’d never once stopped pining for the savory, hearty flavors of Liyue cuisine. The spice of the black-perch stew that Xiangling taught you to cook had kept you warm through many a Snezhnayan blizzard, after all. Basking in the familiar scent of Wanmin Restaurant with a stomach full of hot food, and watching Paimon devour skewers of meat five at a time, you began to feel much better. 

The anger you’d felt at Zhongli’s manipulation of your brother had also since faded into contentment. After all, negotiation, you found, came as naturally to Zhongli as breathing; he had likely meant nothing by it.

Maybe it was okay that you spent just one more night with Zhongli. Maybe it would turn out to be the closure you need. 

You glanced at the man in question; he was teaching Aether how to use chopsticks, of course, and you were grateful to see that the haunted look in Aether’s eyes had given way to exasperation for now. By the time your brother had snapped his third pair of wooden ones, he was smiling and Paimon was just about rolling around on the ground in glee. As you stifled your own laughter, Zhongli set two small bottles of wine on the table.

You tried not to let yourself think about how the string lights of Chi’hu Rock glinted like stars in his eyes. 

“What’s this?” You joked, referencing Zhongli’s anger from the one time he’d seen Venti get you drunk. “Are we all to become disgraces to the arts tonight?”

Zhongli’s lip curled into a small smile. You couldn’t remember when his smiles had started coming more and more frequently, but you’d learned to savor each one. “Ordinarily, I would not condone such strong drink, but today is the most special of occasions, no?” 

As you watched, a goblet began to form between his fingers, golden, black and resplendent. You’d seen similar ones before, buried deep within the Domain of Guyun Stone Forest — an Archaic Petra Artifact, a Goblet of Chiseled Crag. According to Zhongli’s stories, the very same ones that he had created for the Seven to drink from in celebration, before all but two of them had vanished from this world. 

The cruel irony was not lost on you. 

“Besides, this is nothing like the watered down Mondstadt alcohol that that young bard partakes in,” Zhongli said, gloved fingers masterfully plucking the cork from the first bottle and pouring it into the goblets. “These two bottles contain the finest wu’liang’ye spirit that Liyue has to offer. They’ve been aged for well over decades with a technique passed down from the goddess Guizhong, whose mastery over grain and crop transcends even my own today.” 

“We’re—  flattered,” you bowed your head. The matter of Guizhong, the late Goddess of Dust and Zhongli’s good friend from when the Archon War still ravaged the land, was but one of the many things that you’d wanted to talk to him about. If only you had more time. “Thank you, Zhongli.”

He passed you the first goblet, then the second to Paimon. “Please, let’s forgo the formalities tonight. You are a dear friend to me, and so, by extension, is your family.” The second bottle was opened, its contents split between Zhongli and Aether. “Let us drink, to the happy reunion of loved ones, to the fruitful friendships you have forged in this world, and to all the triumphant adventures to be had still.”

The wince you hid was only partially from the burning drag of liquor sliding down your throat.

It had not escaped your notice that Zhongli had been staring at you all night — more intently than usual, and that was saying something. 

“y/n, I think—“ he began, as you met his gaze. By the Archons, the way he said your name—

“ Paimon thinks there should be less talking, more drinking! Ganbei!” Paimon screeches, downing half her goblet and immediately falling down to the cobblestone road, spluttering and choking at the heat. 

“This is… very strong, Mr. Zhongli,” Aether was the first to speak after. “Wonderful liquor. What gives it its mild bitterness?” 

“Bitter?” You asked, letting the drink roll on your tongue, “where’s the bitterness? It tastes mostly sweet to me.”

Aether took another long drink, thoughtfully. “Definitely bitter. Here, try a sip?”

You took his goblet, but as you pressed it to your lips, you felt it begin to violently vibrate. Quickly, you pulled it away from your face just in time for it to shatter in your hand, gold and black shards falling to the floor as what little drink left in the goblet splattered across the table. 

“Goodness,” Zhongli said, after your surprised yelp brought Paimon stumbling back to your side, her cheeks still stained scarlet from the liquor, “I must apologize. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had to construct something so small and intricate — I am out of practice, it seems.” 

“Oh! That’s quite alright, I drank most of it already—“ Aether glanced over your shoulder, “by the Archons, Paimon has a knife!”

As you watched Chef Mao try to wrestle his knife back from a cackling, red-faced Paimon, you recalled the crystal hairpin Zhongli had forged two months ago — when you’d complained of the Natlan desert wind blowing your hair into your eyes. It had been just as intricate as the goblets, and much, much smaller. One of the few belongings you were planning on bringing with you.

You wondered what reason Zhongli had to lie. 

— 

“Maybe it was a good thing your goblet shattered,” you told Zhongli, prodding Aether with one of your chopsticks. He had stopped even groaning in response. And though Paimon was still conscious, she looked as though she would much rather not be, sitting forlornly on the table with her head in her hands. “Look at them. Drunk as skunks.” 

“Maybe,” Zhongli replied, “though I did not expect these two to have such low tolerance to alcohol. It was a miscalculation on my part.” 

“Paimon’s always like this —you know, remember that bar in Snezhnaya?— but Aether’s usually better at holding his drink,” you sighed. “I should probably get him back to Wangshu Inn.”

“Let him sober up a little here. It’s a long trek to the inn, and you don’t want him making a mess of his dinner on the way back.” Loathe as you were to admit it, Zhongli was right. It seemed that the fates were demanding that you spend a little more time with him, after all. He stood up, his tremendous height still a little startling to you. 

“Will you walk with me for a little, y/n?”

It wasn’t fair, really, the way he said your name. “Where are we going?” 

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “The harbor for a breath of fresh air perhaps, or Bubu Pharmacy to fetch a remedy for Aether. Does it matter to you, where we go?”

Going anywhere with him was a pleasure, one that against your better judgement, you yearned to partake in one more time. “No,” you admitted. “Let’s go.” 

--  

“It’s been so long since we’ve walked through Liyue — a year, almost. Do you remember? It was my birthday, and we walked for hours through the harbor.” Zhongli chuckled, the sound a deep rumble through your bones. “You wouldn’t let me buy dinner that time, either.” 

The nights of Liyue, its rolling hills and monumental mountains, were a peace you’d never known before coming to Teyvat. The city was uncharacteristically quiet tonight, and by the time you got to Yujing Terrace, you realized that it was the emptiest you’d ever seen it. The usual evening crowd of kids out of school and elderly taking strolls were nowhere to be seen — not even the Millelith guards usually standing by the gate were there. 

“ That time ,” you corrected, swallowing your unease at the silence of the city, “you didn’t have a single Mora to your name.” The strides you had to take to keep up with Zhongli’s long, long legs were huge, and you struggled to stay by his side. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that I wouldn’t have had to pay the entire bill if we’d actually gone to Wangshu Inn for dinner that night.” 

You immediately regretted it when he turned his golden gaze upon you, and it took everything within you to not avert yours. “Perhaps that may have been the case,” Zhongli allowed, “though I would have returned your investment tenfold over the next week. Have I not proven as much throughout our travels?” 

His vast knowledge of valuable gemstones and herbs — and more importantly, his uncanny ability to get any deal he set his mind to — had kept you and Paimon fed for many a week during your trek through the caves and jungles of Sumeru. You had to give him that. And that wasn’t not even counting the number of boulders, traps, swords and ravenous winter wolves that his shield had protected you from—

“Fine, I’ll admit, it was nice to have you around, you bourgeois parasite,” you said, playing on his joke back from when you’d first met. Then, after a brief silence, “Zhongli, in all seriousness, thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that you’ve accompanied many adventurers on their journeys,” you explained, “but you — you dropped everything and journeyed with me, and you’ve done more for me than anyone else. I could never have found Aether without you.” Zhongli was being uncharacteristically quiet, and so you hurried along to fill the silence, “We— we made a great team together. And I will never forget everything that you’ve done for me. So, thank you.” 

“A great team together...” he repeated, voice lower than a whisper. “y/n, this sounds like a farewell.” 

Your breath caught in your throat. Even in silence, you were breaking the most important rule you’d learned throughout all your travels. Never let them know you’re leaving.

Zhongli turned to face you, and his full attention is a force that you had not yet learned to endure. So instead, you turned your attention to the koi darting about among the lotus reeds as he continued, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been more careless with your Mora lately. And as for your hard-earned weapons, artifacts, and resources, you have given them all to the Knights of Favonius, correct?” 

“I gave some to the Millelith too,” you objected quietly.

“You know that is not what I meant,” Zhongli said. You did know. “Are you planning on leaving this world, y/n?”

“I have to,” you heard yourself say, “we don’t belong here.” 

As though he heard the waver in your voice, the Lord of Contracts honed in on it like a Sumeran jaguar. “Do you remember the first Lantern Rite you partook in? Though you had just arrived in Liyue, and though the Millelith, Qixing and Adepti each gave you reason to distrust them, you still chose to spend the festival helping people.” 

“I didn’t help that many—” 

“Twenty-six people,” he corrected, and you cursed yourself for not thinking that he would remember. “A dozen more, if we are to count the young and elderly of Qingce, whose lives were brightened by the festivities you brought to the village. And hundreds above that, if we acknowledge every person in Liyue Harbor, whose Lantern Rite would have been ruined had you not stopped the thief who tried to steal the Mingxiao Lantern. Am I correct?” 

“I did it for the compensation,” you retorted, determined not to let yourself think about the people you’d helped. Who would help them after you left? 

“Hmm.” Zhongli rested his gloved fingers against his chin, and you could tell that he didn’t buy your bluff, not for a moment. “Anyone else, I may have believed. But you, y/n, who have begged me to stay my hand against fleeing Hilichurls? You, who could not bear to attack the Mitachurl that sits alone on Mount Tianheng and watches the harbor? You, who gave it a name ?” 

“Okay,” you finally relented. “Okay, I like helping people, and I don’t want to go. But that doesn’t mean I can stay. It’s— it’s not good for Aether to stay here, after what this world has done to him.” 

“With time, I believe your brother can adjust—”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Zhongli,” you begged, and the tone of your voice finally made him take notice. He regarded you for a moment, and you thought you saw his eyes glow bright. 

“The last thing I wanted,” he sighed, reaching into his coat, “was for it to come to this.” 

Your first reaction was to reach for your weapon — it wasn’t there; you’d given Festering Desire to dear little Bennett just before you’d left Mondstadt. Still, you felt the bright burn of shame when the only thing Zhongli pulled out was a piece of parchment, folded into a perfect square. How could you think that after everything, Zhongli would ever hurt you? 

“Do you remember this contract of ours?” Zhongli asked as he carefully unfolded the paper, handing it to you. You stared down at the neat lines of calligraphy, punctuated by your name in your own handwriting. 

Of course you remembered: the moment you had approached Zhongli at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, after your expedition into Havria’s domain. The day you’d asked him to join you on your travels.

“ Oh? A new contract? I'm still on leave, but I can accompany you for a while. ” Zhongli had mused, as though he hadn’t just sent butterflies soaring through your insides. “ What name should I use on the contract? I have a great many names, though when on leave... I tend to go by Zhongli. And you, Traveler? What name will you be signing on this contract— ?” 

The following contract had been quickly printed in his swift brushstrokes — simple terms: he would lend his strength and knowledge to your endeavor of finding Aether, and you, in turn, would simply keep him in good company. 

Even at the time, you’d wondered what was in it for Zhongli — the terms of the contract had seemed rather imbalanced, but in your euphoria at having gained Zhongli as your new travelling partner, you had not thought more on it. 

—

The same terms stared back at you now, and you were quickly realizing what was going on. 

For thousands of years, I have made countless contracts. If the deal was of no benefit, then I certainly would not be inclined to agree to it. 

The day you discovered his identity, Zhongli had said this to you. He’d never signed a contract before that did not benefit him wholly; and you were a fool to think he would’ve made an exception for you. 

“By keeping you in good company,” you said, numbly, “you don’t mean— forever ?”

“In the circumstances that the duration of a contract’s term is unspecified—” Zhongli held out his hand for the parchment. Briefly, you debated tearing it up and scattering it to the koi, but you knew well enough that it would not void the contract — one of the hundreds of thousands that Zhongli had undoubtedly seared into his memory. You handed it back to him silently. “Well, it would be fair to say that you are obliged to uphold it, until I personally release you from it, no?”

The first thing you felt was: fear, deep and chilling. You hadn’t truly believed that Zhongli would hurt you — until now. Until a contract had come into play. Until you realized you were poised to break one.

“You can’t be serious,” you said, but you’d known him long enough to know that he was. “I found my brother. I’m not from this world, and so I have to leave. I have to go home.” 

“Has Teyvat not provided you enough of a home? You have made friends here, allies who would die for you in a heartbeat. And as for Liyue — Liyue will always be as much of your home as mine. You have your own room in Chi’hu Rock, you are on a first-name basis with the Qixing and the Adepti would spar with you as though you were one of their own—”

You could feel your resolve trembling, but it was not enough. You would not ask your brother to compromise his wellbeing in a world that had not been kind to him. “I’m sorry,” you said, and you understood fully what was coming. “I can’t stay.” 

“After everything we have gone through, my friend, you would leave... me?” And there it was. In that moment, the former Archon — the oldest being in the world — looked so lonely that you almost broke down, almost apologized, almost reassured him that you would never once again put him through what he’d gone through far too many times: the loss of a friend. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “My family comes first. I can’t stay.” 

Zhongli’s expression became unreadable. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, there was a peaceful silence that you savored. You had a feeling that it would be the last one you’d ever have in Liyue. The seconds crawled by, and briefly, you let yourself hope that Zhongli might relent, might make an exception for his close travel companion. 

“Well then, my friend,” Zhongli finally said, holding out his right arm. Sparks of energy gathered in his palms, forming a wicked, golden spear. The Vortex Vanquisher. You’d seen it countless times, marveling each time at its beauty and strength. You never thought you would one day be staring down the end of it. “You must know what comes next.” 

—

On your journey, you’d witnessed many a broken contract between Zhongli and other people — an Inazuman merchant whose greed for an extra trinket got the better of him; a Sumeran scholar who just needed to grab that last book from the hidden ruins; a Snezhnayan soldier whose loyalty to the Tsaritsa transcended his gratitude to you saving his life— 

None of them had escaped unscathed.  And each time, after delivering the punishment required of the situation, Zhongli would ask you the same thing, uncharacteristic frustration in his voice: 

“ To get people to abide by a contract, and act in accordance with the guidelines set out within, is simply to ask them to respect the concept of fairness. It is not a large request. How are there those who still do not understand such simplicity? ”

Each time, after you’d cheered him on in his reckoning of justice, you would nod and agree sympathetically. None of their contracts, you thought, had been particularly difficult to uphold. And each time, you would thank the heavens that you had more sense than to break a promise between yourself and the God of Contracts. 

It seemed that today, you were going to learn of what happened when you did. 

You took a step backwards as Zhongli took a slow, calculated one towards you. Having closely watched him rain destruction down upon your foes for the past few months, you knew with certainty that you, lightheaded from the wind and the still exhausted from your fight with Aether, would not be able to keep up with his speed and technique. 

And even if you weren’t, how could you even hope to compete with six thousand years of experience in war and strife and carnage? No; fighting him was not an option.

“Come on now, Zhongli,” you pleaded, taking another step and discovering, to your horror, that one more step backwards would have you falling into the koi ponds. You had nowhere else to go. “Aren’t we friends?” 

Even as the words left your mouth, you knew that they would fall on uncaring ears. Friendship had never stayed the hand of the victor of the Archon war.

Zhongli took another lazy stride forward. 

“Are we really going to fight in the city? We’ll destroy half the harbor.”

“While I appreciate your concern, I am quite confident that it will not come to that,” Zhongli said, the ‘because I would long have you pinned under my spear before then’ unspoken but tacit. “And besides, most of Liyue architecture is of stone. It would be nothing that I could not easily fix.” 

Fair enough. You switched gears, praying that two millennia of walking amongst the mortals had given him some vestige of human empathy. “Please, I need to go back and check on Aether. What if he woke up and found himself alone? Who knows what Paimon’s done to him by now.”

“Aether,” Zhongli said, “will not wake up for another day or two.” 

You pause, letting that register. “What?” 

The first bottle: you and Paimon. The second bottle: Zhongli and Aether. You remembered how carefully Zhongli handed you the first goblet, though Liyuenese etiquette would have mandated that he pass the first drink to the guest at the table. The way the goblet had shattered suddenly rang clear in your mind’s eye. His lie. How adamantly Zhongli must have been trying to keep you from drinking from Aether’s cup— 

“The herb I placed in his drink was but a very mild… sedative. He will almost certainly not die from it, but it can take mortals up to two days to regain consciousness.”

“ What ?” You could barely breathe. “You’re joking. You drank from the same bottle he did.”

“You need not concern yourself about me. My body has always been much more resistant to poisons than that of mortals.” 

The rage made your throat tight; it had been a long, long time since you had been so angry. “Congratulations, you know that there’s absolutely no way I’m staying now, right?” 

“Even before our confrontation today, I could tell that your mind was already made up,” he explained, as nonchalant as ever, as though he hadn’t just poisoned your fucking brother . “Naturally, the next course of action was to prevent you from breaking your contract by any means necessary, so that we could further negotiate. I did not want—” 

You would never learn what Zhongli didn’t want, because the fury in your lungs erupted outwards in a burst of elemental energy. You reached out, grabbing one of the last swords in your arsenal — a dull blade that you had been keeping around for enhancement fodder — but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter didn’t matter didn’t matter. All that mattered in that moment was making Zhongli pay . 

The familiar warmth of the element you were attuned to channeled through the sword, and you swung it as hard as you could in the direction of the former Archon. A wake of hardened earth ripped through the stone brick of the terrace, circling Zhongli in a jagged cage of rock and crystal. A little too late, you realized your folly.

Zhongli absently reached out, resting his gloved fingers against the earthly fangs you’d entrapped him within. Even through the haze of your anger, you could see a smile — a kind you had never seen on him — forming between his cheeks. “How ironic,” he said, “that you would use the powers that I granted you against me.” 

You could see the glow of Geo flowing from your constructs towards his outstretched palm. Vaguely, you knew that you had to run . 

“And how endearing—” he continued, and you could hear the rumbling beneath your feet, even as you turned to flee, “—that you truly thought it would work.” 

From behind, a shockwave of Geo more powerful than anything you’d ever felt smashed into you, throwing you off your feet and slamming you against the wall behind the pond. You crumpled like a paper lantern, cheek hitting the cool stone floor. As you struggled to keep your eyes open, the last things you saw were Zhongli’s intricate boots, gleaming in the moonlight before you.

[justplainwhump]

Pillow Talk

Mark and Gemma get a pet - p. III

Cw - BBU, referenced pet whump, a hint of consensual spice (fade to black)

[Part I] [< Previous] [Next >]

Mark sat on the corner of the bed and slowly slipped into his pyjama pants, while intently staring at the chipped off corner of his wardrobe door. He ignored the light hand on his naked back, the soft sound of Gemma smacking her lips.

"Babe, are you sulking?" She asked, a hint of indignation in her voice.

"Maybe," he said. It was a dumb reply, and he could picture her rolling her eyes at him.

"Our apartment is too small. We have no space for... what? A pet room? Also, Madeline didn't have one either. She kept it in a closet, I think. Or in her bed."

Mark sighed and shook his head, began to reply, but Gemma cut him off. "It will not sleep in our bed. Didn't you see how it wanted to touch me, earlier? Like... seductively? Gross. Imagine it doing this when we're sleeping."

Mark couldn't help but smirk. "Gem, honestly, I wouldn't -"

"You have the tendency to think with your groin, Mark. But also, you're strong. You could fight it off. I couldn't. Did you see its muscles? Imagine it on top of me, pressing me down? I wouldn't stand a chance."

Mark shifted uncomfortably on the corner of the bed, trying to ban the images forming in his mind. Gemma's delicate form, her ginger hair spread over the pillow, held down by the white-haired girl, maybe another hand playing with Gemma's -

No. He jerked at the blanket, pulled it up to cover the bulge in his pants. He shouldn't let this get into his head. Neither the pet, nor whatever his girlfriend's game was.

"Still shouldn't let her sleep on the bathroom floor," he muttered as he wrapped himself in the blanket.

"Shhh." A shiver ran through him, when Gemma pressed herself against his side. The silk of the nightgown she kept for special occasions was cool on his skin. Her lips nibbled on his ear lobe, her hand wandered down his chest, further down his stomach, to find what he'd been hiding.

"Don't think about the pet, babe," she whispered, and he gasped, as her fingers closed around his cock. "This is about us."

He wanted to say something, really, but her hand shifted, and his thoughts dissolved into sweet nothingness.

[Next >]

[killemwithkawaii]

Announcement: October Event! 🎃🍁🍬🔪

Hello, my darling kouhai~

I hope all of you are doing well and looking forward to the upcoming spooky season. I know I post a lot of fluff and spice on this blog, but I think it's time all the fresh new kouhai are made aware that I don’t call myself “Killemwithkawaii’ for nothing~ October gives me an excuse to change things up a little, so I will once again be participating in Goretober this year. This is your official heads-up about the change in content: 

The majority of content posted during October will feature my S/Is, OCs, SF characters, and/or [Y/N] in graphic, violent, disturbing and/or grotesque situations- and you, the audience, will have some major say in what those situations are! Please feel free to send in prompts for gore/horror you’d like to see me depict, since I won’t be using a specific prompt list for goretober. Instead, I’ll be referencing multiple lists, as well as your suggestions, and drawing whatever strikes my fancy each day. Please read my ask box and writing rules before submitting your requests.

(If you'd like to see the art and to get up to speed on all the shenanigans from last year, you can check out the masterlist here.)

For any of my followers who may become concerned for my mental health or physical safety during this time, please rest assured that i am in no way a danger to myself or others and am not encouraging the actions depicted. The events that will take place on this blog during October 2021 are all in good fun, so please rest assured that your Senpai is safe and sound! ^^

I won’t be posting any screamers or jump-scares, but only very long posts will be put under a ‘read-more,’ so please look through the blog at your own discretion. I WILL NOT BE OFFENDED IF YOU UNFOLLOW OR EVEN BLOCK ME TO AVOID TRIGGERING CONTENT!! I know many of you follow my blog to find a distraction, and I completely understand if you need to skip all of this stuff for your own mental well-being.

The following is a list of trigger warnings (in alphabetical order) for things i might be posting about during this event, though triggering content not included on this list may appear and tags will be added accordingly. All of my goretober prompt art will be tagged as #goretober2021. Please block any of these tags that may trigger you, and let me know if you see I’ve missed a tag or if you would like to request a tag to be added to the list. (all tags will begin with 'tw'):

-Animal death 

-Blood

-Body horror

-Bondage

-Cannibalism

-CNC (Consensual Non Consent- any scenarios with this will have a lot of mentions of it being pretend, having a safe word, previous discussion of limits, the participants having fun, the dom checking in, etc.) ex: two willing participants acting out a kidnapping, roleplaying being hunted down by a 'slasher', etc.

-Death (including homicide, suicide, accidents, natural death, etc)

-Disembowelment

-Dismemberment

-Drug use (including tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, sedatives, psychedelics and hard drugs, implied or explicitly used)

-Eye trauma

-Gaslighting

-Impalement

-Injury (major and minor)

-Kidnapping

-Necrophilia

-Needles

-Organs

-Religious sacrilege

-Self-harm

-Somnophilia

-Stalking

-Suicide

-Surgery (major and minor)

-Torture (Physical, emotional and mental)

-Unreality (feeling you are unreal or doubting the truth of reality, trouble with memories, mentions of multiple realities or universes, etc.)

-Unsanitary (bodily fluids, unwashed hands, dirty environments and generally not-clean things… just anything that might be considered kind of gross)

-Weapon (including knives, guns, improvised weapons, etc.)

-Yandere (Generally unhealthy behavior toward a love-interest. These posts may contain dubcon and other more extreme yandere themes I don’t usually post about)

—-

The vibe of the blog will be back to normal starting in November. I won’t be posting for general ficlet prompts or taking on new commissions during October, but will continue working on those that I’ve already accepted and will be (planning on) opening a few new commission slots on November 1st.

If you would like to treat me to a little somethign during the event, you can support my redbubble shop or buy me a ko-fi here c:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you're forward to having some 'killin' with your 'kawaii' very, very soon~

[ao3feed-tmnt2k12]

spice up your life (who would want anything else?)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/ZtxhNMo

by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters

Title taken from the song Spice by Sam Fender.

Valentine drabbles from this prompt set (Steamy Prompts Edition).

By the way, here’s the link to fullhalalalchemist’s post about the Earn It Act, a bill that attacks free speech and queer people, and hampers the fight against child sex abuse while claiming to protect children.

And I know this is weird for a porn collection, but consider checking out this article and this petition about a potentially innocent woman on death row, because there are less than 75 days to save her.

Words: 1408, Chapters: 14/14, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Valentine Chocolates

Fandoms: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (IDW Comics), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M

Characters: Leonardo (TMNT), Donatello (TMNT), Michelangelo (TMNT), Raphael (TMNT), Karai (TMNT), April O'Neil (TMNT), Casey Jones (TMNT), Shinigami (TMNT), Oroku Saki | Shredder, Alopex (TMNT), Angel Bridge, Kitsune (TMNT), Leatherhead (TMNT), Kirby O'Neil

Relationships: Donatello/Raphael (TMNT), Casey Jones/Raphael (TMNT), Karai/Leonardo/Shinigami (TMNT), Alopex/Angel Bridge, Kitsune/Leonardo/Shredder (TMNT), April O'Neil/Shinigami (TMNT), Leonardo/Miyamoto Usagi, Michelangelo/Raphael (TMNT), Donatello/Casey Jones/April O'Neil (TMNT), Leonardo (TMNT)/Other(s), Karai/April O'Neil/Shinigami (TMNT), Leatherhead/Michelangelo (TMNT), Alopex/Shredder (TMNT), Karai/Leonardo (TMNT)

Additional Tags: Turtlecest (TMNT), Boys in Lipstick, Blindfolds, Threesome - F/F/M, Menstrual Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Underage Rape/Non-con, Foot Leonardo (TMNT), Foot Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Vaginal Fingering, Finger Sucking, Bubble Bath, Bathtub Sex, Handcuffs, Bondage, Wax Play, Telekinesis, Threesome - F/M/M, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Photography, Hickeys, Episode: s05e05-06 When Worlds Collide, Electricity, Sexual Abuse, Power Imbalance, Secret Relationship, Orgasm Delay/Denial

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/ZtxhNMo

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Intrinsic: Jameson in Therapy

Prompt from Anon:  If you're still taking prompts... "Have you tried NOT doing that?"

CW: Noncon survivor discussing future consensual spice, Jameson’s masochism, frank references to noncon and pet whump, brief internal victim-blaming, world-building detail about WRU

Dr. Berger tucks a bit of graying hair behind one ear, smiling slightly at Jameson from her place in the soft armchair she uses during appointments. “Well,” She says, thoughtful, “have you tried not doing that?”

He looks up at her from where he sits curled up on the long sofa, knees to his chest, picking absently at loose threads across the knee of his baggy blue jeans. As always, she is careful not to let her eyes move to the places where hair is slowly growing back in over bald spots where the straps of a leather muzzle had rubbed, careful not to look at the scars he wears on every inch of exposed skin - she’d made the mistake of being caught looking, however briefly, and had discovered that the newest of her clients was deeply insecure about the visible evidence of his captivity.

She’d apologized, but it had taken time to develop enough trust to come back from her initial mistake. She would not jeopardize that now, after they’ve made so much progress and she’s begun to see a shift in how he talks about and relates to his new life, his world.

He even told her the name he chose for himself, and that he’s been telling the others in the house, one by one. Accepting that it won’t be taken from him like his original name was - that it belongs to him, and is his to share or not. 

She would never, ever admit it, but... Jameson is one of her favorite clients to work with. He’s working so hard, every week that they meet he trusts more and more that the path he’s on is one that will move him forward. 

“What?” 

His voice is slightly rough - someone who has screamed enough to have permanent vocal chord damage, she thinks. She makes a note to speak to Jake Stanton about having a physician check on the potential for nodes or other issues that might pop up later. She’s not a medical doctor, but… well. She’s had a lot of clients with vocal chord damage in the sixteen years she’s been working in the pet lib movement, and you start to pick up on the little signs and symptoms they don’t necessarily declare out loud.

“My question is really just me being a little facetious, I won’t lie, but I do want to talk through the spirit of the question. When you mention feeling guilty that you are having a physical response to your housemate, that you are attracted to them and have been struggling with... well. I’d like to really dig in to where that guilt comes from. Now, I am aware that adjustment houses tend to discourage relationships between household members during their time in residence to cut down on the chance for conflict, but that’s not where your guilt lies, is it?”

He goes back to picking at the hole slowly wearing through his jeans. Dr. Berger waits, giving him the silence and time he needs to think his way through the question and the possible answers. After a long time, he says softly, “No. It’s not. I don’t give a fuck if Stanton wants me to hold somebody’s stupid hand or not.”

She has to force her smile not to widen, wondering if Jameson is aware of just how like Jakob Stanton he really is. No wonder they don’t always get along. “Okay. So can you talk to me about just what you sense of guilt, this worry you feel, is rooted in?” 

She watches with some small surprise as the angry, defiant recovering Box Boy who has spoken frankly and openly to her about being maimed, injured, treated as an object, referred to as an animal... blushes.

“I want-... It’s not the, um, the response. That I hate.” He won’t look at her now, and he’s one who loves to stare her down whenever he thinks she’ll be shocked or disgusted by what he has to tell her. But this… this, he’s ashamed or embarrassed to say. “They’re fucking gorgeous, that’s... anybody would like them. It’s… it’s what I want from them that... scares me.”

“You are accustomed to a certain level of unwanted physical attention, it’s not at all uncommon in Romantic rescues to continue to feel sexual attraction and desire after freedom-”

“No. It’s. It’s not that I-... I know that’s normal. It’s… I want…” He shifts, uneasily. “I want… I want Allyn to hurt me.”

The last sentence is whispered. It’s not sharing a thought, it’s confessing what he feels is some kind of sin he is committing or intending to commit. Dr. Berger sometimes feels like a priest in a confessional booth, although she’s never been one to suggest atonement - no, fear of oneself is where the core of most of her clients’ pain lies, in her experience. Instead, she works on reconstructing the impulse or fear from its foundations, breaking apart the horror of its weight and reconfiguring it so it’s easier to understand. 

To take control of, to direct.

She helps them to own themselves, not to fear the prospect but to see in it freedom they have always deserved. 

Fear is the absolute last thing any of her clients should ever have to feel again. They have been taught to devalue and debase themselves, to fear what their bodies can be made to do. If she does nothing else, Dr. Berger hopes she is able to help them be just a little less afraid of the bodies they live in.

“You want your housemate to hurt you?” She asks, gently. “Do you mean in the sense of a serious injury, or…”

“No. Um. No, I fucking… I think about them, um. Hurting-... like… like they used to do. Biting me, or... or scratching... I th-think sometimes about Allyn h-holding a... never mind. Just. Hurting me. I’m-... made to be hurt.”

“You are made only to be yourself,” Dr. Berger reminds him, her voice low and without any hint of judgement. “We’ve talked about your captors before and how you were held. You believe that you were made into a masochist as part of your training, and so you’re frightened that your mind is thinking about your housemate in ways similar to how you were once forced to think about your captors.”

His nose wrinkles - he’s more dismissive than most of the language she uses, and early on delighted in insisting on using words like owner, handler, master. Things he thought might shock her. But Dr. Berger has heard nearly everything she thinks there might be to hear, by now. She only smiles slightly at his expression, jotting quickly down on her notepad a few notations. 

Finally, he offers hesitantly, “I-I guess. Allyn is… good. They’re soft, and nice, and they’d never-... but I want them to. And it’s-... it would make-... them be like Robert, or… wouldn’t it? It’d be… treating them like… I don’t ever want to be what I was again, so why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about it?” 

He is so rarely vulnerable. Dr. Berger doesn’t take for granted the gift he gives her by letting her see past the wall of anger and derision he has built to keep himself safe. In many ways, he reminds her of when she saw Jake Stanton after his own brush with WRU’s handlers and their methods. Bristling, defensive, and with wounds that cannot be bandaged. They instead need to be exposed to the light.

“Intrusive thoughts that contain elements of your captivity are absolutely normal. You are still in the early stages of making progress, and progress is never linear, Jameson. There is no starting line, no ribbon at the end of the race. There is only moving forward, bit by bit, even if sometimes we move back.”

“You mean I move back,” He says, sullen now. “You don’t do shit. You’re already fine.”

“Mmmn, that’s not… quite accurate. I actually see someone myself, you know.” Dr. Berger smiles at his obvious, visible surprise. “My mentor once told me he never trusted a provider of therapy who did not themselves seek it out. I have my own progress to work towards, just as you have yours.”

“Problems are probably real fucking different, though.”

“Well, that’s true.” She allows herself a warm laugh - and is rewarded when he doesn’t bristle or assume mockery like he used to, but relaxes and even gives her a very small smile in return. “But I would advise you not to compare yourself to others. Your situation, while not unique in some ways, is still unique to you. You’ve been through a kind of horror that no one else has - even if others have experienced some similarities, the traumatic events they experienced will never be entirely like yours.”

He nods.

“But-” She holds up one finger “That doesn’t mean we can’t use what we know as a framework, a foundation you can build your own way on. Think of an ancient Roman road paved into a highway in modern Italy, for instance. The foundation was there, a path laid by people who came through before. But you can take what you need and use it to find your own way. I know that you’re scared of your thoughts, I know that you are frightened of wanting to find gratification or satisfaction in pain because you think it means a return to how you were treated before, or that you are inherently changed in damaging ways by your captivity, but…”

When she trails off, he leans slightly forward “But?”

She chooses her words carefully. “Jameson, would you be willing to consider something that may make you a little uncomfortable?”

He looks at her, depths of feelings in his brown eyes, and slowly nods. “Why not? I’m already fucking uncomfortable. All the time.”

His thin shoulders under the oversized band shirt he wears make angles under the fabric as he shrugs, although in the time she’s been seeing them those sharp edges have already begun to round out, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones are softening.

She’s seen it over and over again, the physical changes reflecting the rebuilding of an entire life. It never ceases to amaze her, how hard each and every one of them works. 

“Okay. This may be hard to hear at first but I think it will help you.”

Eventually he nods. “Yeah,” He half-rasps. “Yeah, okay. Just say it. Everything… everything else you’ve said has helped. Go ahead.”

“Okay. So, what I would like you to consider… perhaps what you see as an enforced flaw, a crack that was put into you, a danger you present to your housemate due to your conditioning and mistreatment… it might be in fact an intrinsic part of your sexual expression, and simply an aspect of your attraction to them, and the wish you stated to me to perhaps escalate your current relationship.”

He swallows. The color drains from his face, except for two spots of bright red high along his cheekbones. “What?” His lips barely move. 

“Jameson…” Her tone dips, reassuring and soothing. “I know what you were told. I know you were likely given a series of half-truths and whole lies designed to engender dependence and teach you to loathe yourself and therefore disconnect from your body. But… that body? It’s very real, and it’s entirely yours. I think that we need to look into the possibility that you already had certain tendencies that were exploited and twisted. Those tendencies are not inherently unhealthy or damaging if you learn to pursue them in a safe environment.”

He blinks, once, twice, his eyes glittering. 

She’s made a misstep and she knows it immediately, clear as the tears Jameson never allows to fall. She didn’t time it quite right. They should have spent more time working up to it…

“Are you saying I’m just-... like this?”

“Not the way you are suggesting,” Dr. Berger says softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t express myself clearly enough. Please let me elaborate a little.”

“I fucking hope you d-didn’t mean that I’m-... that I’m just fucked up,” He says, looking away from her, down at the floor. She pretends she doesn’t see one hand go up to curve around the side of his neck, recreating some of the weight of the collar they are so often taught to rely on for a sense of safety.

“I absolutely did not mean that. One thing WRU excels at - one of the reasons they have been so successful - is that they utilize very effective techniques that encourage a sense of complicity and responsibility in the people they abuse and violate. I’m going to hazard a guess that you were told that you chose what happened to you.”

“I signed up for this,” Jameson whispers automatically, rote and robotic, without hesitation. At least, Dr. Berger thinks, she’s been doing this job long enough that hearing that no longer gets to her like it used to. “I wanted to be some rich asshole’s-”

“Yes. That. One way I think they are able to convince so many individuals so thoroughly isn’t only because of the standard methods of sleep and nutritional deprivation, the repetition, memorizing, the mistreatment… no, I think one thing WRU does is find in each of its victims a core truth they can exploit and cause you to fear in yourself, making you more vulnerable to the idea that this company is somehow saving or helping you by ‘making use’ of it. They find your weak point and use it to shatter you, but what WRU never realizes is that the very weakness they exploit is also often the same piece of you we can recover, that we can reclaim. In your case… Jameson, have you ever heard of consensual masochism?”

He’s hooked, she thinks, on this line of logic. On the lifeline she’s thrown him, something to grab onto. A way to begin to believe, in some small way, that he isn’t ruined. They all think they’ve been ruined, by the time she meets them.

None of them is.

“No, I-I haven’t. Does this mean… there are people like me who aren’t, you know, fucktoys-”

“Recovering Romantics,” She corrects, gently. “And yes. Masochism is a not-uncommon mode of expression that many people engage in consensually in the context of healthy sexual expression.”

He swallows, hard. She watches his throat move. Sees the look in his eyes, the minute changes in his expression. The hand pushing against the side of his neck slowly drops. She can see the gears turning within him, a shifting point of view maybe. She can see what he doesn’t want to speak out loud.

There’s another silence. This one is more comfortable, and as always she gives him all the time he needs. 

“How-” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, blinking rapidly again. His knees slowly uncurl and his feet, clad in old hand-me-down sneakers, find their way to flat on the floor. Without his ever-present scowl, he looks years younger. Terrified.

Hopeful.

“How can I-... how do I-...” He takes a deep breath. “If it’s just… part of me… how do I make it safe?”

-

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump

[ao3feed-bakusquad]

“Please”

"Please" by Lunar Spice, Persona4fantasy

The Merry Whump of May: Day 23

When Eijiro debuted as Red Riot, he had shown off his Quirk at its maximum: Red Riot Unbreakable. The publicity from the fight had made his mind spin.

But, as all seasoned Pros knew - as Eijiro was about to discover - publicity had the tendency to backlash.

Words: 1173, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 23 of The Merry Whump of May

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Kirishima Eijirou, Shie Hassaikai | Eight Precepts of Death, Chisaki Kai | Overhaul, Nemoto Shin

Additional Tags: Tags Contain Spoilers, Overhaul Arc, Chisaki Kai | Overhaul Being an Asshole, Kirishima Eijirou Needs a Hug, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Human Experimentation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Torture

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39170292

[edupunkn00b]

Overruled, Chapter 1: Sanders

Sanders - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 6608 - Rated T - Alcohol, swearing, referenced non-consensual drug use Loceit Week 2021 Day 5 Prompt: Alternative Universe - This story is an alternate version of Objections and contains mild spoilers for Objections and And I Feel Fine. --- 2001, Seattle, Washington. Logan Sanders and Janus Pater are first year law students, eager to take on the world. Logan sees the world as a game of chess. He's brilliant, confident and perhaps more than a little arrogant. When he sets a goal, he achieves it and has yet to meet anyone who could stop him. Janus sees the world as a war zone and he is an army of one, taking in the sights, enjoying a bit of company from time to time, but then the armor snaps right back into place. He made the mistake once of letting down his guard, only to have his one true love ripped from his life by his own brothers. It's a mistake he will not repeat. Love is for people who don't know any better. --- Rated T - Human AU (College/Law School) - CW: alcohol, swearing, mild violence, non-consensual drug use, innuendo/references to sex, OC villain --- Special thanks to the amazing Treeni for beta reading the first chapter. ---

Logan looked up from his book just as he walked into the classroom.

Dressed in slim cut black trousers, a matching velvet vest and a crisp lemon yellow cotton shirt with the first—Logan quickly counted—four buttons undone, he stood in the doorway as though surveying his kingdom. Logan forced his eyes back down to the page in front of him to read another line before raising his eyes again. Logan's stomach turned a somersault when he saw the man was staring right back at him.

"This is Constitutional Law 168," Logan remarked, raising an eyebrow at the man. "Are you where you want to be?"

He gripped the strap on his shoulder bag, "Yes, of course." He scowled, eyes still locked on Logan.

Logan marked his page and closed the book. smiling lightly at the man. "Is something else troubling you, then?" He leaned back in his seat, resting an elbow on the backrest. He looked around the classroom and then pointedly at the other students sidling past the man to get inside. "Class will likely begin soon. You will want to find a seat."

"You're sitting where I planned to sit," the man said at last, fumbling with his bag for a moment before squaring his shoulders and casually putting one hand in his pocket.

Logan's smile grew. "Fortunately for you, then, there are other seats to be had," he said mildly, waving his hand invitingly toward the seat next to him.

The man opened his mouth, appearing ready to refute said fortune—we law students do like to argue a point, Logan thought to himself—when the professor appeared behind him.

"In or out. I've got a class to teach."

Still scowling, the man quickly took the seat next to Logan, taking out a laptop and the textbook for the class. Logan’s eyes flicked over as he opened his immaculately organized bag. Even the pens tucked into the organizer flap were sorted by color and type. As the man bent to tuck the bag under his seat, Logan caught a tantalizing whiff of his cologne, vanilla, oak, and warm spice. Realizing he was staring, he quickly gave his attention to writing out the date and class at the top of the first page in his notebook.

Shaking his head, the professor hurried to the lectern, addressing the class as he walked. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Constitutional Law 168. This class is not a spectator sport. You will come prepared to discuss our readings and defend your positions. This class is required for all first year law students. You fail and I'll see you again next year." He looked up at the students. "Starting in the front," he pointed at the seat on the left-hand edge of their row, "you will be paired with your presentation partner for the year." The professor turned and began writing out case names on the board. "Take a moment now to exchange information and then we'll begin."

Logan looked down at the number '8' etched on the armrest between them as the man turned to count the students in their row and closed his eyes. Logan turned in his seat, smiling, He held out his hand. "Well hello then, my name is Logan Sanders. It is a pleasure to formally meet you."

The man swallowed and briefly shook his hand, eyes looking anywhere but at Logan. "Janus Pater. Pleasure." He held himself stiffly, lips pursed and shoulders tense.

"Hmm," Logan hummed, tilting his head. "As in the Roman god?"

Janus' eyes shot up, narrowing slightly as he finally met his eyes. "Not bad, Necktie. Not bad." Logan raised an eyebrow and smirked, smoothing down his indigo tie. He opened his mouth to respond just as the professor resumed the lecture. Logan turned back to face the front of the room, watching Janus from the corner of his eye, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.

After the lecture and as the rest of the students filed through the door or stood in line to speak with the professor, Logan and Janus stayed in the classroom to exchange telephone numbers and schedule a first project session. Janus pulled out a black and yellow business card and presented it to Logan with a flourish.

He accepted the card with a small bow of his head. "Oh, is that a pride flag?" Logan asked, eyeing the tattoo peeking out from under Janus' sleeve.

Janus looked up quickly, edging back and tensing, watching Logan more carefully. "Yes, it is. Don't worry, though, homosexuality isn't contagious."

Logan blinked, the vehemence of the man's response dissolving the flirty comeback he'd had at the tip of his tongue, "I— I meant no offense. I was merely..." he closed his mouth for a beat, seeing the fire behind Janus' eyes only grow. He tried a different approach, leaning a little closer and smiling, "I was merely wondering if you are... "

"What, gay? Do you have a problem with gay men, Sanders ?"

Logan raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, "No, on the contrary.” He let his gaze trace the lines of Janus’ lips before meeting his eyes. “I assure you, my inquiry was driven by more than idle curiosity.”

Janus's eyes widened slightly and he started to lean forward with a response when another voice called from the hallway, "Janus! C'mon, we'll be late for Torts." The other man entered the classroom, suddenly smirking at the two. "Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?"

Logan smiled and replied, "Yes," just as Janus muttered a quick, "No," a flush starting to crawl up his face. Logan chuckled lightly, adjusting his eyeglasses and starting to gather his books. Janus practically ran toward his friend.

"Now, Janus, don't be rude. Introduce me to your new friend." Janus glared at him for a moment, before turning back to the classroom as Logan approached the pair. "Logan, this is Jack Marin. Jack, this is Logan Sanders." Logan nodded, reaching out to shake Jack's hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Logan," Jack grinned then gently elbowed Janus, "You'll have to forgive my friend's rudeness."

"Oh, I apologize... are you two..." Logan gestured vaguely between the two of them.

"Ha! He wishes!," Jack laughed. Jack watched as Janus' blush returned and Logan's smile grew slightly, eyes lingering on Janus' features. "Say, Logan, what are you doing Friday night? I'm having a little get together at my place. You should come," he said, staring at Janus.

"I have no plans this Friday," Logan replied, winking quickly at Janus before returning his attention to Jack, passing him his notebook to write down his address.

"Jack, don't we have a class to get to?" Janus finally muttered, avoiding Logan's gaze.

"Wow, Janus. I never thought I'd see the day when you were flustered by a hot guy making eyes at you," Jack tsked as they walked across the Quad.

"I wasn't flustered," Janus insisted, tightening the strap on his bag. "Simply put-off. He's a little too forward for my tastes."

Jack snorted. "'Too forward?'" He shook his head, laughter bubbling up, "This coming from the man who picked up three different guys at my Halloween party last year, ultimately hooking up with each of them over the next three nights?"

"When you put it that way, you make me sound like an absolute cad ," Janus smirked, feeling his control gradually return now that he was no longer under that steely bespectacled gaze. "I am a gentleman," he insisted, pressing a hand against his chest, "I bought them all dinner first." He raised an eyebrow, "Besides, you are hardly one to judge. Is there a freshman on this campus you didn't bed last year?"

Jack tapped at his chin, looking thoughtful, "Hmm... I think there was one... he would be a sophomore now, of course...," he laughed as Janus gave him a playful shove. "Hey, I should look him up, see if he wants to come to my party on Friday."

Janus shook his head, forcing thoughts of Friday—and Logan—out of his mind. "You are incorrigible, Jack."

Jack grinned, "Why, thank you." They walked together in silence for a few minutes when Jack hummed, turning to Janus. "So you're seriously trying to tell me that you don't wanna grab that pretentious necktie of his and just—"

"Jack!" Janus interrupted, the tips of his ears turning pink. "I thought we were done talking about Logan!"

"You may have changed the subject, but I never agreed to stop pestering you about, ahem, Logan," Jack purred in a dreamy voice, raising his hands delicately under his chin and making flirty eyes.

Janus scoffed, shaking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets, walking faster. Jack followed, calling behind him as he rushed across the Quad, "Oh, and what will you call the kids? Will you take his name or will you both hyphenate?"

Logan stood in his kitchen, staring into a simmering pot of lentils, stirring absently. For the fifth time that afternoon, he reached in his pocket for Janus’ business card. Logan tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and placed it on the bit of foil he’d laid out on the counter as a spoon rest.

He once again turned the card over in his hands, admiring the thick, heavy cardstock and the way the black and yellow ink layered to create a texture on the card. The areas of the card colored in black ink had a tactile feel that Logan couldn’t quite identify, something more akin to leather than to paper. Several times throughout the day, he’d caught himself absently brushing his fingers over the surface, tracing the swirls of Janus’ name. He’d be able to pick out Janus’ card while blindfolded, using touch alone.

The bubbling sound of the lentils going from simmering to boiling drew his attention away from the small card and he lowered the heat, stirring, scraping the spoon along the bottom before the lentils stuck. Retrieving a lid from its spot in the cabinet, Logan covered the pot and set it on a trivet before returning his attention to the card he still clutched in his hand. Biting his upper lip, Logan pulled out his phone and dialed an old number, his thumbs moving through muscle memory. He needed advice.

Listening to the phone ring, Logan tapped the edge of Janus’ card against his mouth, only then noticing the card had an oaky, spicy scent. Janus’ cologne. He sucked in a breath and his throat went dry with the recognition just as he heard the other end pick up.

“Hello, this is Greg Wyatt.”

Logan grinned at the familiar sound of his voice and cleared his throat. “Now that’s how an Environmental Legislative Associate answers his phone.”

“Logan!” Greg laughed, “What, you mean?‘Congrats, you’ve got Greg’ isn’t a professional greeting?”

“Maybe back in our WAPIRG days,” Logan laughed lightly. He pocketed the card again, fingers lingering over the surface. “You are at the Capitol now. A little professionalism never hurt.”

Greg audibly scoffed. “A little professionalism? Fifty bucks says you’re still in a necktie.”

“It is only 4:30 in the afternoon here and I just got home.”

“Busted!” Greg laughed into the phone and Logan shook his head, chuckling. He turned, opening a cabinet and retrieving a knife, a small honing stone, and a chopping block. Logan tucked his phone between his shoulder and his ear and started to sharpen the knife.

“Oh!” Greg suddenly called out, “You know, I’m glad you called. You won’t believe whose office finally agreed to meet with us to talk about sponsoring the bill!”

“No…” Logan froze, blade stilled halfway across the surface of the stone. He quickly put down the knife and gripped the phone, pressing it to his ear.

“Yes!” Greg crowed. “Greaves' office is willing to talk to us about becoming the primary sponsor of the bill!"

"Greaves'!?" Logan fumbled the phone, catching it against his chest before lifting it back up to his ear. "I cannot believe it! When we started, his secretary would not even take our calls!"

"Yep, and I've got a meeting with the man himself next week!" Greg whooped into the phone and Logan shook his head in amazement, picking up the knife again to hone the other side of the blade. "And hey, Logan, don't think we all don't know we wouldn't be here without you. Your gap year work in the leg office is what got us in front of the head of the Environmental Resources sub-committee. You’ve left your mark here, man.”

"Ha! All I did was treat the Appointment Secretary like a human being."

"And visit her office every three days to lobby her so she'd be on our side."

Logan grunted dismissively. "You would have done precisely the same in my position."

"No, I wouldn't have had the tenacity to keep it up and we both know it. You don't know how to quit and it worked." Logan was quiet for several moments as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink, watching the soap bubbles slide down the drain.

"I am... quite pleased it worked." Logan dried his hands and opened the refrigerator, fishing around inside. "And I do appreciate the recognition, Greg... It was a long year." Logan found the half onion that he remembered had been left over from Sunday’s stir fry. Placing it on the cutting board flat side down, he started slicing long, thin strips and added them to the pot of lentils. Logan swallowed, “Greg…” He cut a few more slices. “I hope you know that I truly am happy for you… for both of you.”

Greg was quiet on the other line and Logan could just make out a squealing sound, then dishes clinking together. “Thank you. We… we both appreciate that.” There was a quiet slam and beeping. Dishwasher , Logan thought. Greg sighed over the phone.

"You know, Lo, I... when I said we should take a break while you'd be in DC last year, I was trying to not tie you down. I didn't want you to be stuck with the first man you..." Greg's voice trailed off. Logan was quiet, scraping the cutting board into the pot and stirring, watching the onions slowly turn translucent. Greg's voice told him he had more to say. "I... I never expected to...."

"Meet the love of your life?"

Greg let out his breath in a small puff, "Yeah."

Logan tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder, listening to the sound of Greg’s—and Elvin’s—sink over the line. He pulled a teaspoon from his utensil tray and scooped up a small amount of the simmering concoction before blowing on it and sipping at the edge of the spoon. He made a face and rooted through the spices in his cabinet.

“So... I’m fairly confident you didn’t call me to rag me for my phone etiquette. To what do I really owe the pleasure, Lo?”

Instantly Logan’s mind took him back to the scent of Janus’ card in his pocket. “Am I that obvious?” Greg chuckled in response. “Well, I was actually calling for a bit of… advice .” Logan gnawed at his lip, stirring the lentils briskly enough that they started to spill over the edge of the pot. He swore under his breath, grabbing a cloth from the sink to mop up the mess.

“You sound bothered, Lo.” Greg hummed over the phone. “Wait, you’re calling me for advice… Oh my gosh, Logan, you've met someone, haven't you?" His voice bubbled over the phone. Logan could hear Greg literally pulling up a chair, the legs scraping across the floor. "Tell me everything! "

Logan demurred, "Our Constitutional Law professor assigned pairs to work together on presentations. There isn't much to tell...." Greg was silent on the phone and Logan could envision his trademarked staring contest face. Logan sighed, a smile creeping across his face. "Yet ."

"‘Attaboy!" Greg laughed over the phone.

"Okay, we should not get ahead of ourselves here. Yes, I was assigned to work with someone... intriguing today." Logan thought about the way Janus’ eyes had seemed to pierce right through to his heart, and how his fingers had danced over the keys of his computer during class, and the way he immediately grilled the professor on his syllabus. ‘If we are to seriously consider the long-term ramifications of the Dred Scott decision, Professor, we cannot do that through the lens of the crusty old white lawyers who argued the case!’ And Logan thought about those top four undone buttons on Janus’ shirt. He sighed. “But he… he was hard to read. I couldn’t tell if he was not interested or simply… shy.”

“So, what’s your plan?” Greg prompted.

"After class, his friend showed up and invited me to a party on Friday... It, well, it felt like his wingman was setting us up, to be honest."

"Oooh, a date already on the first day of law school." Greg chuckled over the phone. Logan heard a kettle whistling in the background, followed by Greg’s voice in a muffled murmur and the kettle suddenly stopped its shrieking. Greg’s voice returned to its normal volume. “I knew some lucky guy was just gonna snatch you right up."

"Greg..." Logan sighed.

"Logan?" Greg replied, exaggerating both his tone and exhalation. Logan looked down at his hand, belatedly realizing he was holding Janus’ card again. "What are you afraid of, Logan?" He tried not to think about the first time Greg had asked him that question, a lifetime ago, back before he'd come out. "We're not all going to break your heart."

Greg was quiet a long time, apparently waiting him out, and Logan appreciated how he still knew him so well.

"You helped me find my heart, Greg," Logan finally murmured, a wistful smile pulling up his lips. "That has more than earned you a pass on what has proven to be a reparable fracture." Logan brought Janus’ card closer to his face again and inhaled, smile broadening.

"So..." Greg prompted. "Are you going to see where things might lead with this guy? Take the chance?"

Logan chuckled, "I suppose I could always invite him to my room under the guise of lending him a book and—”

"Don't even think about stealing my move!" Greg laughed into the phone, finally pulling a genuine belly laugh from Logan.

He walked over to the large calendar that covered the top half of his refrigerator and took down a blue pen. Smiling, he circled that upcoming Friday. "I guess you will just have to wait until I call you this weekend to find out.”

"Ha! You better. But, you know, if he's still at your place Saturday morning, no rush..." he cackled.

"Good night, Greg ."

Still chuckling, Greg audibly blew a kiss into the phone, "Good night, Logan. Go get him!"

The night of the party, Janus was sitting in a dark corner of Jack's living room, eyes drawn to the front door every time the doorbell rang. He forced his gaze back toward his drink. Was this his third? Yes, third.

"So is he here yet?" Jack asked, leaning against the wall alongside Janus’ seat.

"Yes, he's turned invisible and is grinding in my lap right now," Janus looked up at Jack, smirking at the collection of fresh hickies on his neck. "You appear to be having fun, at least."

Jack grinned, swiping Janus' drink and swallowing down half of it. "Yes, I am. And it turns out there were two freshmen I didn't have the pleasure of knowing last year, a grave oversight I will be certain to partially remedy tonight."

Janus rolled his eyes just as the doorbell rang again. The door opened and Janus quickly looked over before sighing, looking back at his drink. Jack nudged Janus' elbow off one arm rest and perched next to him, resting his arm over the back of his chair. "He'll show. The way he was looking at you..." Jack shook his head, letting out a low whistle, "Oh, yeah... he'll show up. Now," he said, clapping his hands and jumping to his feet. "I have one half of a set of twins to devour." Janus idly watched Jack return to the throng by the drinks table, tugging at the hand of some cute—but loud—undergrad. He rolled his eyes and threw back the rest of his own drink, the movement causing the room to spin a bit. Maybe that was his fourth drink after all? Checking the time on his phone, Janus pledged to stay for a half hour more and if tall, dark and flirty didn't show up by then, he'd just walk back home. Jack was clearly too busy—and drunk—to drive anyway.

Resting his head against the back of the chair, Janus closed his eyes, listening to the music and trying not to think about the disappointment this night had been. You forgot rule number one, Pater. Don't get your hopes up. They can't fall off the floor. He really didn't think his night could possibly get any worse.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, the music was lower and someone was pressing a bottle of water into his hand. "Here, Janus, drink this." Vision fuzzy, Janus unscrewed the cap, and drained half of it before he twisted the cap back on and rolled the bottle around in his hands, feeling the sides for leaks. "You didn't use a hypodermic needle to spike this, did you, Jack?"

"Fuck, no, I would never administer a substance to someone without their knowledge or consent. Is that something your ‘friend’ Jack would do?" Logan replied, smiling once Janus looked up at him. "Additionally, and, obviously,” Logan winked at him, “I am not Jack."

Janus squinted at him in the dim light, eyes suddenly widening. "Oh, shit, it's you.” He felt a smile slowly spread across his face. “You made it." Janus started to stand but felt the room spin. More of the alcohol had kicked in while he’d slept and now he wished he'd stopped at two. He leaned back in his seat.

"Precisely how much have you had to drink?" Logan asked, peering closely at his classmate.

Janus looked around for his empty glass and, finding it on the floor next to the chair, carefully leaned over to retrieve it, holding it up. "Four of these?" he paused then shrugged, a small smile splashing across his face. "Give or give?"

Logan leaned in, smelling the remnants in the glass, then stood up, gazing out at the remaining guests. "Where is your friend?"

"Off deflowering some undergrad, I guess," Logan frowned at him, "Oh, not literally... metaphorically?" Janus blinked, "He's fucking some guy." Logan noticed that Janus had garnered the rapt attention of another party-goer.

"So, do you live far?" he asked at last.

"Yes, but I never put out on a first date." Janus leaned his head against the chair. He felt his eyelids droop. The chair was very soft. "No, that's not right. Always." He nodded sagely.

"While that is useful information, we are not on a date, so I believe it is irrelevant for our circumstances at the moment," Logan shook him slightly, "It would be unwise to fall asleep in the middle of a party. May I walk you home? Can you tell me where you live?"

Janus nodded, "Yes, about..." he paused, frowning, feeling his head spin from the movement, "Twenty blocks down Broadway."

Wincing, Logan shook his head, "Broadway is rather dicey this time of the night." Logan crossed his arms, turning away from the party and giving all of his attention to Janus. "I live across the street. Would you like to crash at my place?"

Janus shrugged and settled deeper into the chair, "Sure, why not? Beats fucking in the elevator."

Gripping his hands and pulling him up out of the seat, Logan muttered, "Flattering offer, but you smell like you have been swimming in a pool of bourbon. You are going to drink some milk and go to sleep." Logan pulled one of Janus' arms over his shoulders and wrapped his own arm around his waist, walking him toward the door. As they passed the kitchen, the guy who'd been watching Janus stepped in front of them, blocking their way to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Logan narrowed his eyes, asking Janus, "Do you know this fine gentleman?" Janus swayed a bit, stared at the guy and shook his head. "That is what I thought." He directed his gaze at the guy. "That is not much business of yours. Now, stand aside, please."

"Hey, if you think I'm gonna let you walk out of here with the guy I—" he froze, mouth agape.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Was there an end to that sentence you would like to share with the class?" He stared, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "You would not happen to have any idea why he is this drunk after a few glasses of bourbon, would you?"

The creep said nothing but didn't get out of their way, either. Gritting his teeth, Logan started to maneuver Janus around him, trying to get to the door, when the creep shoved them both. Logan lost his grip on Janus and he fell. A couple who’d been dancing nearby shouted in surprise as Janus nearly fell into them.

Janus lay on the floor for a moment, stunned. But only for a moment. His arm suddenly snaked out, yanking hard on the creep's leg, pulling him down to the floor with him. The music paused and guests stopped dancing, staring at the three men. Still holding his leg, Janus twisted it up and backwards. "We're leaving. Stay down." Logan shook himself out of his shock and gripped Janus under his arms, pulling him up to his feet.

The creep jumped up as soon as Janus released him. Keeping one arm wrapped around Janus' waist, Logan turned his body to keep himself between his friend and the creep. Someone started pushing their way through the crowd that had gathered around them. “Hey, what’s going on?” Jack’s vaguely tipsy voice called out over the buzz of voices.

An auburn-haired and bare-chested man—Logan presumed this was the undergrad Janus had mentioned—followed closely behind. His eyes widened when he saw the man Janus had pinned to the floor now glaring at Logan and Janus. He stepped closer to the creep, “Hey, I know you....”

Logan glared at the shirtless man, pointing to the creep. “Well your schmucky friend here just drugged mine.”

“What!?” Jack stepped closer, looking more closely at the way Janus was leaning on Logan, how his eyes wandered over the conversation without really following it. He waved his hand in front of Janus’ face. “Jan? Jan, are you okay, man?”

“What the fuck? Did you drug me, too?” Jack’s sophomore friend had grabbed the creep's arm and was shouting in his face. “You sick motherfucker!”

“Hey, hey, Baby, no… No, Baby, it wasn’t like that…” the creep reached toward the man’s face, his croon turning into a whine as the man grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back.

“I’m not your ‘baby’, asshole. My name is Remus, and when I’m done with you, you’re gonna wish you’d never met me.”

Jack looked between Janus and Logan, and the powder keg called Remus. “Will you take care of him?” Jack asked Logan, staring into his eyes. Logan nodded, tightening his protective grip around Janus’ waist. The message behind Jack’s eyes was clear. It’s a small campus and I will find you if you hurt my friend. Jack ushered them to the door just as Remus slammed his fist into the guy’s stomach, then drove his knee up into his face. “Oh, shit— " Jack rushed over to Remus and the creep, shouting over his shoulder, "Go, get him out of here! Call me when you get him home!”

Logan looked back one more time as they slipped through the doorway, letting it close behind them. Jack had reached the pair and the creep was curled on the floor. Jack pulled Remus away just before he landed another kick to his ribs.

The door to Jack’s apartment slammed behind them and they were left in the sudden hush of the building’s hallway. The units were remarkably well-sound proofed so Logan could only hear muffled voices and, after a moment, the faint sound of dance music resuming. Taking a deep breath, Logan looked down at Janus’ face where his head lolled against his shoulder. He gently gripped his chin with his free hand. “Janus? Janus, can you hear me?”

Janus lifted his head and stared unsteadily at Logan’s face. His pupils were dilated and his gaze drifted a bit, but he nodded and smiled. “I sure can, Necktie,” he giggled, reaching for Logan’s constellation-patterned tie, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Hmmm… this is a new one.” He looked up at Logan again, blinking slowly. “Was that for me?” He leaned closer to Logan, "I like it...."

“Perhaps it would be best to discuss that in the morning when you are feeling better. May I take you home so you have somewhere safe to sleep?”

“You can take me anywhere you want, Baby…” Janus murmured in Logan's ear, wrapping his other arm around his waist.

Logan held his breath for a moment, shaking his head. “Let’s start with just getting you somewhere safe.” Tightening his grip around Janus’ waist, he brought his other hand up to steady Janus’ arm over his shoulders. “Can you walk?” he asked, starting to step forward toward the elevators. Janus took a half-steady step. “That's sufficient. Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay, Janus, we are nearly there. That’s my door at the end of the hall.” Logan gave Janus a little shake, trying to keep him awake. He’d grown quiet during the short elevator ride and the walk across the street. Logan nudged his chin, and Janus lifted his head, looking around them.

“Hmm… yes. Here we are….” His head started to droop back down before he raised it again, frowning with the effort. He nodded, the movement turning into a bit of a wobble. “Okay, okay, okay, okay…” his voice dropped into a quiet mumble.

Moving as quickly as Janus could manage, Logan walked him a little faster toward his door, pulling his keys out of his pocket with the opposite hand. Fumbling a bit, he unlocked the door one-handed and brought Janus inside. “Home sweet home,” Janus cheered in a low voice, waving his free arm, bumping it against the wall. He scowled at the offending surface.

Logan flicked on the lights, turning to lock the door behind them. He hooked his keys on their spot next to the switch and glanced down, frowning at their shoes for a moment before walking Janus over to his couch. He carefully lowered Janus into a seated position in the corner, letting the armrest and high seat back support him. Logan bent over Janus, peering closely in his eyes.

“Janus?” He waited for him to meet his eyes. Finally his eyes stopped wandering around the apartment and they locked on to Logan’s. He swayed slightly. “Janus, I am going to get you something to drink and some aspirin. Do you take aspirin?” Janus nodded, swaying a bit more. Logan gently pressed his shoulders back against the couch. “Stay here, I will be right back.” Janus smiled and hummed, but didn’t speak.

Logan toed off his shoes and picked them up, placing them on a tray by the door before opening the refrigerator in his tiny kitchen. Logan quickly gathered what he needed, doubling back after a moment to retrieve a handful of washcloths, wetting one with warm water. Janus called from the other room, “If you’re making drinks, I take mine neat.”

Logan turned the corner from the kitchen carrying a tray with a small bottle of milk, a glass, aspirin, the washcloths, and a notepad and pencil. “I shall make a note of that, thank you,” he deadpanned. He set down the tray on the coffee table, picking up the bottle of milk and sitting next to Janus on the couch, leaving a bit of space between them. “It’s shelf-stable milk from my earthquake kit. It will be room temperature. I hope you do not mind.”

Janus tilted his head, blinking at Logan, then shifted in his seat until their thighs touched. Logan’s breath hitched. He cleared his throat and moved a little further away, turning to face him. “I usually drink rice milk, but this will be better at absorbing any alcohol or toxins you haven’t already digested.” He broke the seal on the bottle, pouring it in front of Janus. If there was any part of him that was still aware of his surroundings, Logan guessed that he would be reluctant to accept an open beverage from someone he barely knew.

“Here, have a sip,” he murmured to Janus, pressing the half-filled glass into his hands. Logan wrapped his own hands around Janus’ when his grip faltered. Janus’ head bobbed more than nodded, but he drank the milk, lowering his hands and letting the glass rest on his lap between sips. His head started to tilt toward him and Logan carefully supported him, leaning him back against the couch again. Janus drank the last of the milk, eyes only half-open, spilling some on his face and neck. Logan grabbed the wet cloth and tried to swap the empty glass for it so Janus could wipe his face, but his hands were limp in his lap.

“Janus, I am going to wipe your chin and your neck. Is that alright?” Janus nodded vaguely and Logan gently blotted the spill. Janus let his eyes close completely and lay against the backrest. Logan sighed, gnawing at his lower lip. “Janus, can you hear me?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed in response. Logan let out a little breath, nodding slightly.

“Janus, I am going to get you a pillow and a blanket so you can sleep.” Logan stood, brow furrowed, staring down at him. “Janus, do you remember where you are?”

“‘M at your place. Goin’ t’ sleep,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “T’morrow necktie….”

Logan hummed, uncertain what Janus had intended to say. “I’ll be right back.” Logan went to his room and picked up one of his pillows and the extra blanket from his bed and returned to the living room.

He placed the pillow on the opposite end of the couch. “Janus, here. How about you lie down on the pillow?” He gently shook Janus and when his eyes cracked open, Logan guided him down to a more comfortable position.

“Hmmm… ‘night,” he murmured as he sank into the soft pillow and grew still. Logan watched him for a moment, holding his hand in front of his face, checking that he was still breathing. Momentarily satisfied, Logan took off Janus’ shoes and set them next to the couch. He unfolded the blanket and covered him. Then Logan sat on the floor next to the couch and took out his phone, sending a text to Jack.

Finally, he opened the tiny stopwatch mini-app on his phone. He laid his hand on Janus’ shoulder and counted how many times he breathed in over the course of a minute, marking a ‘12’ on the notepad, along with the time. Then he gently grasped Janus’ wrist and took his pulse, marking that as well.

Nodding slightly at the notepad, Logan started to stand. Janus suddenly shot up, grabbing at him, gripping his arm with a strength Logan was not expecting from his slim, delicate hands. “No, wait! Please don’t go!” he cried out.

“Okay, okay, Janus," Logan soothed, "I’m right here. What do you need?” Logan sat back down, gently loosening Janus’ painful grip from his arm. Janus just grabbed at his hands, trembling, eyes unfocused and searching.

“Don’t leave me, please... Please stay here,” Tears spilled down Janus’ face.

Logan pressed his lips together, Janus' pain squeezing his heart. He extracted one hand from his grip, grabbing a dry cloth from the tray next to them. He dabbed at Janus’ face. “I was merely going to go to sleep, Janus. You are not alone. I’ll just be in the next room.”

Janus shook his head, eyes squeezed shut and crying harder. He laid back against the pillow, still gripping Logan’s right hand. “No, no, please don’t go out there, Gabe, just stay here, please, please, Gabe, please… Just stay here with me….” Janus pulled Logan’s hand closer, pressing it against his face.

Logan stared at him, brow furrowed. “Janus? Janus, it’s me, Logan.” Janus just shook his head, whispering against Logan’s hand. “I think you were dreaming.”

“Please, Gabe, please just promise me. Promise me you won’t go out there.” Janus’ entire body shook with his sobs and his voice grew louder, begging, “You don't have to go, just stay here with me, please, please, please, please—”

Swallowing back his own sympathetic tears at Janus’ anguish, Logan finally put his hand on his forehead, whispering, “It’s okay, Janus, it’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

The trembling in Janus' body eased a bit. He curled around himself, kissed Logan’s palm, pressing his against his chest, murmuring, “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” he mumbled, repeating the phrase like a prayer.

Logan bit his lip, feeling powerless to help. He could feel Janus' heart racing, his whole body shaking. Tears still flowed down his cheeks.

Racking his brain, Logan remembered the song he used to play when he was still in high school to block out the yelling at home. He started singing quietly and slowly, his voice a bare whisper.

In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep,

Janus relaxed almost immediately. Eyes still closed, his shaking eased, and he turned his head toward Logan's voice.

Through the valley of fear, To a river so deep, I've been searching for something, Something taken out of my soul,

Logan wiped away his tears with his free hand, brushing back Janus’ hair where it had fallen into his eyes.

Something I'd never lose, Something somebody stole In the middle of the night

Janus grew still, his breathing finally no longer catching in chest. He let out a shuddering sigh, still holding Logan's hand tightly. Logan whispered to him, “It’s okay to sleep, Janus. You're safe. Your body needs rest. It will all be better in the morning.”

After a long while, Janus’ breathing grew steady and his face started to relax, his tears slowly stopping. Stretching, Logan could just barely reach a fresh washcloth, and he used it to dry the last of Janus’ tears. Thinking he was asleep, Logan gave his hand a small, experimental tug and Janus responded by gripping his hand tighter, turning and laying his head on Logan’s forearm.

Watching Janus finally resting peacefully, the pain washed away from his expression, Logan couldn’t bring himself to pull away in earnest and risk disturbing him. Sighing, he turned, leaning against the side of the couch, resting his head on the padded armrest. He resigned himself to waiting to sleep properly after Janus fell into a deep enough slumber to release his arm.

Logan fell asleep watching the gentle rise and fall of Janus’ chest as he slept. --- taglist: @the-dead-and-the-decaying @loceitweek2021 @demon9980

[ao3feed-hitoshi-shinsou]

Inevitable Tragedy

Inevitable Tragedy by Lunar Spice

The lights of the city looked so small from Hitoshi's vantage point.

He threw the end of his scarf out, mirroring Aizawa's, and both leapt through the air again.

He was grateful that the underground hero had taken him on as an intern, but anxiety bubbled throughout his body, keeping him on edge.

It was his first time chasing villains with his mentor.

Words: 2042, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Original Male Character(s)

Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shinsou Hitoshi

Additional Tags: Tags Contain Spoilers, Shinsou Hitoshi Needs a Hug, Shinsou Hitoshi is Bad at Feelings, Shinsou Hitoshi-centric, Shinsou Hitoshi Deserves Happiness, Sarcastic Shinsou Hitoshi, Dark Past, Quirk Discrimination, Traumatized Shinsou Hitoshi, Muzzled Shinsou Hitoshi, Suicidal Shinsou Hitoshi, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Training Shinsou Hitoshi, Mentor Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Hurt Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, So just normal Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Needs a Hug, Coma, Trapped, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paralysis, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Altered Mental States, Despair, Loneliness, Multiple Endings, They're all bad, Tragedy

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42414177

[caddy-whump-us]

First wing whump, now ear whump!

So this came to me when I was just sitting around with my usual cloth mask on. I’ve, honestly, quite liked the inspiration that the current wear-a-mask movement has given me.

This started to slide towards Handmaid’s Tale first-person narration for some reason. The background is that it’s roughly present day, but somehow some fantastical creatures do exist. Unfortunately, humans aren’t coexisting with them all that well. In this case, there’s this thing about having a “house elf,” because it takes permission and money, so it’s a status symbol (lmao my elves are always small and delicate and pretty, not tall and powerful and elegant; go figure). 

Cautions: institutionalized slavery/captivity, noncon bodymod (hair), implied/referenced noncon, gore, surgery, consensual bodymod (but bloody) 

---

They dressed us like peasant children in blousy tunics and smocks and trousers cut short and cuffed well up above the knee. We look like children to them, so they dress us like children and treat us like children. We're kept barefoot in the houses and are made to wear ill-fitting shoes when we go out. It's harder to run away like that.

There are rules: cover your ears, turn your eyes down, walk quietly, be invisible, cover your face.

We are bodies only--useful bodies, but only bodies meant to fetch and carry, to deliver messages, to run meaningless errands, to come when called, to lie down when told. We are not necessary, but we are useful and mostly useful to the houses that have us in their endless grasping for power and influence.

When they have visitors, they'll have us standing nearby just so we can be seen, such as we are ever seen, and then sent away. It's only proof that they've been granted, that they've been permitted to have one of us.

In some other world, maybe, I think they would dress us up like dolls and make us pretty and decorative.

There are ways to be set free, they said, and we knew what those were, but we had never seen any of us take those ways before.

They brought all of us from a circle of the houses to the kitchen of one that night. We had been told there was going to be a manumission ceremony. We were lined up on one side of the kitchen table. A chair stood with its back against the table on the other side.

We stood side by side and waited.

Eventually someone else came in with one of us. I didn't know him. There was talking for a while, among the heads of the houses. I didn't listen. We aren't supposed to listen unless we're told to listen. But then the one of us who came in late sat down in the chair. He took off his coif and then he took off his mask.

He leaned his head back against the table. This was the first time in so long that I had seen the whole face of one of us. I had almost forgotten what we looked like. We were all eyes and nothing else anymore. But there he was with his whole face uncovered and looking straight into the faces of the people leaning over him.

They put towels down under his head and put a cloth over his face so that one ear came through a hole there. And then they began to cut off the tip of his ear.

Someone began to hyperventilate. I realized it was me.

But he held still because he had agreed to it.

No, his ears would never have smooth rounded tops like the heads of the houses or anyone like them in the city. But they wouldn't be pointed anymore either. They wouldn't be beast ears or gremlin ears anymore.

I wanted to reach under my coif to touch my ears to make sure the points were still there. The one standing next to me grabbed my wrist and squeezed as the cutting went on to keep himself calm. It sounded like cutting gristle from meat. I wanted to be sick. Many of us wanted to be sick.

They finished one ear and stitched it up with blue thread. Then they turned his head and cut his other ear off round and stitched it up too. The towels were soaked in blood. They put the bits of flesh they had cut off onto a plate.

When he sat up, he was sweating but he was smiling. He looked at the two men who had just cut the high tips of his ears off and smiled at them. He looked at them and he smiled at them. His face was uncovered and his head was uncovered and he looked at them in the eyes. But he had given up what he was or had been before, so he could do these things now. They showed him the cut off flesh. He reached to touch his new ears but stopped himself.

He would still have the marks on his hands, though, and that would follow him.

We each have signs on our hands. Mine are on the second and third fingers of my right hand and the thumb of my left. They designate the records of our capture and the first house we were sent to. They keep those records in the city hall. Sometimes I thought that if we could all interlock our hands together, we would unlock the trap they had us in.

I've seen all kinds of marks. Some of us have marks on our wrists too, but I don't know what that means or if it's good or bad. We aren't allowed to speak, not even to acknowledge when we're given an order. If we're sent out to buy flowers or spices so that someone else can see us, we might see each other. We aren't allowed to speak, but we've made up signs we can make to each other in the market; small ones, so that no one will care. We can do "how are you?" and we can do "well" or "sad" or "hurt." Sometimes we can just talk with our eyes.

They put the marks in with a tattoo machine but I don't remember if it hurt. It must have. By the time they put me under that chattering needle I was still so dazed from the raid on our camp and the rattling transport to the city and from not sleeping in days that I don't even remember.

I remember them tying my hair up into hanks and sheaves before they cut it off and then they carried it away. The women like it for wigs because their hair is never that pale silver-gold that ours is and we're not allowed to have long hair anyway.

We have to cover our heads and ears anyway. They take away our ears that way so we look like children to them, not what we really are.

Most of us wear black or white coifs, sometimes with a bit of a brim, to hide our ears. We like to keep the strings untied. Maybe that counts as rebellion.

We put on the coifs when we get dressed, the same time we put on the masks, and we leave them on until we're allowed to go to bed. We tie the masks behind our ears and we cover our ears with the coifs.

The heads of the houses like masks with a seam up the middle so they fit tight under our chins and sit high over our noses. It works like a muzzle under our chins that way. And they're fitted enough that anyone could see if we're eating something in secret or whispering.

It's funny that we wear masks to cover our mouths and noses while the ladies will wear masks and dark glasses and hats with wide brims that only cover over their eyes. We're each half a face.

We're only ever boys because "boys don't breed halfsies."

We were escorted back to our houses. The master of my house said that the lady of the house was out of the city and would be for a few days. He needed me for a while that night. He made me uncover my face and my head the whole time because he knew it would be more shameful that way. He bit my ears too. But he let me sleep on the carpet next to his bed for a time until I could creep away to my own place.

I didn't know him. The one who gave up his ears. But even though he gave up his ears, he won't be allowed to leave the city. He won't be allowed to have children because they'd be halfsies. He won't be allowed to do a lot of things. But he won't be like us anymore. Maybe he can find work as a paid servant. Maybe he'll be used for information by the generals. Maybe he'll end up in a whorehouse. I've heard about others who gave up their ears and ended up in places like that. Or dead. But many of us end up dead one way or another.

It just proves that he wants to be like them, to be human. And as proud as they might be that he does, he won't be human to them. Not really. He won't be a halfsie but he won't really be whole either and he won't be with us anymore.

They made us watch, though. They had told us this was a way to be free.

After it was all over, he turned and looked at us and we realized that we could not longer look him in the eyes. We all looked down. An hour before, we had all been equals under the command of the heads of the houses. But no more.

I heard a strange sound then, but I didn't dare to look up. I realized, then, that he was laughing.