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brisquad-unit-4402 · 1 year

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Can i request a part 2 of lost in time with luxiem where Reader do something to reunite with their s/o. I don't see reader not doing anything? You don't have to do this.

lost in time with luxiem, pt. 2

↢ part 1 here.

hello happy valentines everyone i hope you’ve shown your love to the people you care about including nonromantic ones. if you have a partner go get them flowers. even if they’re a man. especially if they’re a man. trust me on this one

it’s canon in this series now. while luxiem was off being all emo and whatever reader was actually pulling their weight. what a genderboss

tags: comfort no hurt, ok well there’s a little bit of hurt but it’s fluffy, angst with a happy ending, gender neutral reader

⚠️ drinking in luca’s entry

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🖋 Ike Eveland

Ike lives in periods of forgetfulness and remembrance, pooled together like blended watercolors. He lives to forget where he lives. His memories of the past scramble with the present as he loses himself in his writing, and at the worst of times he has to tell himself the voice of Reader is mental. They aren’t here. They could never be here.

Time passed. Some of his short stories were being published in magazines. One of the magazine editors, he was told, loved Ike’s image. “A mysterious, moody dark horse that reflects his themes of solitude,” they called him. He had to give it to them; their pitch for the image of the novelist Ike Eveland was tantalizing, but just as unreachable as Tantalus himself.

After all, he blinks and for a moment he can see the flowering fields of his homeland, the streets in sepia, candy colors on his wall and the aurora borealis heralding his origin. The rolling sky, and from the corner of his eyesight the edge of your hand pointing out a cloud. A resting body bundled in blankets like snow. Sun rays on a face turned golden, they’re simply so radiant everything they touch becomes priceless.

Ike catches himself calling your name more than he’d like to admit.

But he carries on, unfortunate as he may be. He takes care of himself, because if he’s going to hear your voice no matter where he goes, the least he can do is pretend you’d be disappointed if he wasn’t getting enough sleep, food, water…

He returns to his desk the second he finishes a late-night snack, and freezes the second he sees an envelope square in the middle of his desk. In the center of the envelope he reads his name. Underneath it is yours.

His desperateness is seconded only by his caution. He takes his time opening the letter with as little damage as possible but can’t read fast enough.

To beloved Ike Eveland,

This is Reader. I wish I had the room to tell you everything in this letter, but I simply can’t. I’ll keep it as short as possible. I learned what caused you to blink out of existence. There’s a force of nature- really, a freak of nature that causes the force. I haven’t been able to identify it. What little I can see of it is searing.

This isn’t about me, though. I found a way to manipulate the freak-force, I think. Keep this letter, but make sure the envelope I sent you is in usable condition. Remove my letter from the envelope. It’s hexed. Now write me another letter. I should be able to receive it. Tell me everything you can fit about where you are. Address, country. What your home looks like. I need a location and visualization. Then when you’re done place your letter within the envelope. The seal should still work as if it had never been used before. Seal it tightly. Then fall asleep, as soon as you can. Don’t move the envelope anywhere other than where you found it. I suggest sending your letter right before you go to bed. Dreams are the freak-force’s transportation, and it’ll give us the best chance possible.

I don’t know how long I have nor how long this will take but it’s all I have. I don’t think I could bear it if you never came home.I’ll fill the rest of the page with this: I love you eternally. If this doesn’t work then I pray you know I will always think of you no matter our distance. Please be safe. I need you safe.

With diligence and love, your Reader.

Ike stops everything he planned on doing, grabs a sheet of blank paper, and writes. He has to get up a few times to check his location for sure (he’s a shut-in, and only now is he realizing it may bite him in the butt) but before long the paper is covered in all he knows about the gray world outside of his letter.

When he’s done, he holds the envelope in his hands and inspects it carefully. It’s normal at first glance, but now that he focuses on it, he notices small circular grooves in the paper, similar to the grain on a regular parchment. There is a slight color change from one corner to the other, cream to eggshell. And sure enough, the glue on the edge of the envelope is perfectly intact.

It’s a late hour already. Ike finishes getting ready for bed before he folds his letter, gingerly places it within the hexed envelope, and seals it. He sets it in the center of his desk, just as how he found it, and hurries off to bed. Whatever you’re planning, the last thing he wants to do is be the reason it fails.

Ike falls asleep before the anticipation threatens to keep him awake.

Ike wakes slowly, and his vision returns even slower. The world blurs together like he opened his eyes underwater.

Someone calls his name. “Ike!”

And just like that he surfaces. He fights to regain his vision, and when he meets your eyes it’s like a breath of air after drowning.

You call out his name again. “Ike, are you awake?”

Your voice is an oasis in a desert, and it attaches to a heavenly face when his eyesight clears. You lean over his body as he stirs, and the sun is covered by your head. An arc of light accompanies your visage.

“Reader,” he says, so slow and quiet he can barely believe it. “You’re beautiful.”

The kiss you share makes up for lost time. Your hands support his head, so gentle as not to hurt him but keep him steady against your lips as he lays. Even when it turns passionate, he’s still so tender with you. You treat him as a diamond: one of the strongest of his kind, yet you still hold him like a precious treasure even when you part.

“How did you find me?” Ike asks, and sits up. He’s laying in a field dotted with wildflowers and trees, and you sit next to him. The sun crosses against your skin.

You grant him a pained smile. “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think I ever want to be sure. There’s a lot of things in this universe us humans don’t have the ability to process correctly.” You turn around and raise your shirt.

Underneath the fabric on your back are tiny markings that make up an entire illustration. When Ike focuses on the details he can identify wave patterns, astrological signs, and what looks like tentacles weaving through your skin in black ink that shimmers deep teal in the sunlight, completely unlike any tattoo he’s ever seen before.

Looking at the illustration as a whole is maddening. Ike trails a finger lightly against the patterns on your spine, a jumble of tendrils and tentacles reaching along the bone.

You continue as Ike takes in the illustration on your body. “That freak of nature I was talking about in my letter? It marked me. I think this means I’ll be one of its vessels when it awakens, but I doubt it will during my lifetime. It’s sentient, but unaware. Sleeping, I think. I don’t remember a lot about how I came into contact with it, but it connects different worlds and times together in its dreams.” You lower your shirt and look back into Ike’s eyes, and he notices that even your own eyes have a shimmery teal hue to them now. “I spent as much time as I could learning how it worked, and before I knew it one day I woke up with that tattoo seared into my back and so much knowledge about how it works, it makes my head spin if I think about it too long. When I started to get tired that night, I simply just knew I should write you a letter, and on my bed was an envelope I’d never seen before.”

“That was hexed, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly. I think in the freak’s dreams, it manifested you out of our current time, the one we’re in right now. So the letter helped me manifest you right back.” You tapped your head. “You did what I asked. I never received your letter back, but something in my brain generated an address, and a time, and what it was like to be you in your new time. I focused in on it as hard as I could, and, well.” You looked out to the field. It was far away from the town, but Ike recognized it as his home. A gentle breeze swept through the air. “Here we are.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Ike’s hand brushed against your own, and you intertwined his fingers with yours. “You’re amazing, Reader.”

“I doubt it. A dive into some unknowable force will do that to you, no matter who you are, and I’m afraid I get nightmares now. Horrible ones I can’t even recall.”

“Then you’re amazing and courageous. It must’ve taken a lot of strength to even withstand whatever it was, and the fact that you’re here just proves it.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m honored to say I love you. I’m honored to have even met you.”

“I love you too,” you say. “Eternally, no matter what may become of me. Now, let’s get you home.”

“We can stay here.” The sun rests along Ike’s face, and the shadows of trees makes the light look like sprinkles along his cheeks. “I just want to appreciate that I’m here. With you.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “With you, that’s all,” he repeats. His head rests upon yours, and for the first time in the months he’s been torn away from you Ike is at peace.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

The day after Luca saves that woman from the thugs, he goes to the club again.

Unfortunately she’s just as much of a regular as he is, and he sees the top of her head on the dance floor while he gets his drinks in. She waves him over. He averts his eyes.

The woman is headstrong, though, and when he ignores her she moves across the bodies and plops herself on the barstool next to him. She sits with her arms on the bar and looks out to the party like she owns the world.

“Some heroic behavior, ignoring a fair maiden like that,” she snarks. She calls to the bartender. “Two strawberry margaritas for my friend and I! On my tab.”

“I don’t drink margaritas,” Luca says.

“You do now.” The woman isn’t as plastered as she was that night, but seems intent on changing that, and when the bartender slides them their drinks she raises it. “To whatever you’re searching for.”

He obliges. The woman gulps down as much as she can in one breath while Luca takes a tentative sip. The lime and salt startle him. It’s fresher than his usual beers, and far tastier. He drinks more.

“So what are you searching for?” She asks.

“I don’t know what your deal is.”

“You know what I mean.” Everything about her gives Luca the impression he should just just dismiss her whole spiel as drunk ramblings but she’s too sober for that, and even though he tries to ignore it the answer is clear as day.

But she keeps talking, completely ignoring the vibe Luca keeps giving out. “You are sooo emo. Like, what’s the point of going to a club if you’re just going to sit and drink beer of all things. Tastes like piss! You’re young. Have fun with yourself. Go dance, get a marg.”

“I’m not all that into dancing.”

“Oh, so you like watching. Gotcha. Perv.”

Luca puffs up in protest. “I am not a perv!”

“Yaaaay, a reaction!” The woman throws up her hands in a cheer. “So you got broken up with, huh?”

“I did not.” He tries to state it like it’s nothing, but his voice patters out, and he’s sure the woman can’t hear over the music. He’s certain nothing was the matter in his relationship, but he’s taking the separation hard. He wonders if you got over him. He hopes not. Clearly he hasn’t gotten over you.

Luca goes in on the margarita. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over you.

“You look out at the floor all longingly but whenever someone hits on you, you chicken out. That’s okay. You’ll find someone new soon enough. Plenty of fish in the sea. Any time now your balls will drop and you’ll order a drink for some sap on the floor,” the woman says. “You always miss ‘em until you remember the sex wasn’t all that.”

“It isn’t about that,” Luca growls. His temper rises to heat. “It’s about-”

He cuts himself off. The woman implores him to keep talking, but he shuts up before he can let the whole time-travel thing slip. Margaritas were made with tequila, weren’t they? He’s screwed.

In a moment of weakness Luca looks for anything to serve as a subject change. He realizes that in one hand the woman holds a piece of paper smaller than her hand. “What’s that?”

“A cute guy’s number,” she deadpans. When she doesn’t get a laugh, she relents. “Kidding. You remember the night you…”

She trails off. She has a glassy look in her eye, and the first time that night the woman actually seems uncomfortable.

Maybe that’s not the word, Luca thinks. ‘Pensive’ might be a better fit.

“...When we met,” she decides on. “And I took a taxi. I barely remember anything but when the taxi arrived to my place, there was this freaky driver. They gave me this card and told me to give it to one Luca Kaneshiro.”

She produces the business card on the surface of the bar, and when he reads the name emblazoned his blood goes cold.

In a blink of an eye, Luca grabs the woman’s head and drags her ear to to his mouth. He whispers under the howling music. “You’re going to answer my questions honestly or else.”

“That’s hot,” the woman whispers back.

“What did the driver look like?”

“Total weirdo. When I entered the car it was just a normal guy. Can’t remember the face, it blurs together. I took a nap and when I got to my place they had this lion mask on.”

“The name on this card. What does it mean to you?”

“Nothing? I just thought it was a lawyer. Or a cult.”

Luca turns her head to look straight at him. Her cheeks are cupped between his hands. “Their name is Reader.”

He searches for a reaction, but unfortunately she keeps the same expression even when he says the name aloud. “I know I said I wasn’t interested, but if you keep this up I’m going to get excited.”

Luca lets go and fishes out a bill from his wallet. He figures it’s enough for the margarita. A tiny part of him wishes he had the time to take in more of the drink, but that business card snapped enough sense into him to shake off some of the buzz. “You’re useless.”

He snatches the card from the bar. She sputters. “Hey! That’s not for you!”

“It is, actually.” He taps the Kaneshiro name emblazoned on the card. “These are my boys.”

“You’re Luca?” The woman watches him as he stands up. “Cool name! For an asshole! You’re an asshole, Luca!”

“Thank you for the information. I wish you well.”

“And you’re righteous, too? God, I know how to pick ‘em. Some fucking hero!” She turns around in her stool. “Fine, okay, just brush me off. Some fucking hero.”

She knows how to get under Luca’s skin, but he stares at the card as he leaves the club, transfixed. In neat gold font is Reader Kaneshiro, front and center.

He starts off the route home, already planning out what to do with this, when a taxi pulls up and parks next to him. The window lowers. Luca doesn’t make eye contact, because how you do you see through someone wearing a lion mask?

It’s simple: you don’t. Luca designed these masks for his mafia to use expressly for that purpose.

“Get in, Boss.” The car lock clicks open. “The underboss wants to see you.”

Like a well-oiled machine Luca opens the door.

“How are you here?” Luca asks.

“Science mumbo-jumbo,” the grunt says. As soon as Luca straps himself in he floors it. The grunt curves down the road into some back streets. “But for what it’s worth, it’s good to see you in the flesh again, Boss.”

The taxi stops in front of an arcade. The grunt opens the door for Luca, and he guides the Boss through the halls. As they walk, Luca realizes the entire building is clear of machines and utterly abandoned, save for more goons in lion masks. They stand before him in reverence, even more so than when he was in control of his past. He overhears one whisper to another, “Oh, snap.”

His driver leads him to the back of the building and to a door labeled Employees Only.

“The underboss is waiting for you in there,” he said. “Go in by yourself. And be nice to them, will you, Boss? They’ve waited long enough already.”

Luca nods, and the grunt departs as Luca pushes open the door.

On the other side, a figure in silvery vintage clothes awaits. You sit on a counter, looking as uninterested as ever, until you catch a look of the face that enters and time stops.

You pounce off the counter and into Luca’s arms the second you see him. “Boss! Luca!”

You feel you feet lift off the ground as Luca returns the hug, so tight you can barely breathe, but the pressure is a gift. You laugh as he practically spins in a circle and swings you along with him. “Luca, I can barely believe it! I mean, all the signs pointed to yes, but it’s you!”

“I missed you!” He places you down so he can land a kiss against your smile. “I missed you so, so much!” He punctuates his words with even more kisses across every inch of your face. One on your forehead, one on your nose, one on your cheek, and so many more you lose count until another on your lips. “Reader, how is this possible? You’re sixty years in the past!”

“Sit down. There’s a lot to explain, but I’ll try to keep it simple.” When he does, you place yourself in his lap and wrap your arms around his body. You’ve spent so much time trying to find him, the skinship acts as a constant reminder of your success. “When you disappeared, I became the defacto leader as the underboss, and prevented inheriting your title of leader as much as I could while our boys investigated. Then when rumors started flying around that you jumped through time, we just couldn’t buy it. So we captured one of the leading voices in quantum physics. He’s a revolutionary.”

“You captured a revolutionary scientist?”

“Yeah. We went to Deezneyworld.” You produced a photo out of your pocket. You, a chunk of macho subordinates, and one very out-of-place scientist all posed at the gates of the Kaneshiro family’s money laundering front, an amusement park. Everyone wore happy smiles and lion-ear headbands from the gift shops, including the scientist. “He’s a brother to us now. But anyways, his research was paramount to learning where you went, and how to recreate the phenomenon. It’s really nerdy. Gets confusing. But once he confirmed his theories, I deployed myself and a small squad of scouts into the future, and turned the city upside down looking for you.

“We figured you might’ve run off to the red-light district or some club scenes, where pretty much any mafia gets their start. Figured you’d start schmoozing with a bunch of drunks. Not so sure about that, but then we saw on the news last night about some brutal mugging gone wrong on the side of the muggers, and one of the cubs heard something from a drunkard about a hero in an vintage pinstripe suit and fur coat that saved her. The cub sent her off on her way to find Luca Kaneshiro, and some others started staking out the club she came from.” You smirk in satisfaction, and press a kiss to his jawline. “Totally unconventional mission statement, but I did pretty good for an underboss, huh?”

“I love you so much,” Luca says. “You’re the best partner in crime I could ask for.”

“It’s a privilege working with you, Luca. I’d do it again and again if it means we run the world together, never separate.” You bury your face into the crook of his neck. His fur coat and blond hair tickles your face. Oh, you missed this feeling. Luca is so warm, and now that you’re in his arms once again it’s like a long winter returning to spring after months of no sun. “I love you too.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, yet Mysta works himself into circles. How else could he manage? He knows he will never have all the answers in the world. It’s a foolish pursuit to make knowledge a trade and all you have. It makes you jaded and sour, without any wonder for the world itself. Even as a detective on the case for the truth, he keeps things out of his reach and likes it that way. Leave yourself unanswered questions, after all, and you’ll always have something indefinite to inspire you.

He believed this wholeheartedly, and when he’s not on the clock at his private investigation office he tried to practice what he spent years preaching. His efforts have failed. Even during business hours, if he just so happens to blink a certain way it reminds Mysta of how the ground melted into a spiral before him and swallowed him whole, only to spit him out in the future without a single thread connecting back to his home.

It just doesn’t make any sense. On days when he’s itching for a distraction he even reads and watches fantasy and sci-fi stories, just to see how the characters manage the time they find themselves in. Then he converts their logic to his predicament, and expects it all to change back as it once was- but it never does, and Mysta can never let go of his reason in an unreasonable situation.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, yet Mysta always picks his cold case back up. I missed something, he assures himself, without a shred of evidence to affirm the suspicion. He retraces the steps and sniffs out the clues once again, with a different perspective than the one he had last.

None of them work out. A man can have any perspective at all, but in the end, Detective Mysta Rias was thrown out of his world and into a new one sixty years in the future. Reason alone cannot explain it, nor clarify, nor aid. The absurd is absurd. You cannot think outside the box when the box is within a cube. His head hurts just thinking of that analogy.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, yet when Mysta tries to remember the events of that day nothing grants him peace of mind. All his thoughts fall into a lump of tangled spaghetti, and he’s starting to understand Einstein’s words.

It was normal in the way that he defined normal. He woke up Friday morning with his partner, Reader, right beside him in bed like normal. Went to work at his detective agency in the late morning while Reader stayed behind on their day off and planned to do some errands like normal. No major field work, only papers to be filed and officers to call, like normal, and he clocked out at night, just like normal.

The next part is where it starts to get weird. While walking home from the agency, he saw a man in a gaudy fur coat steal a purse, and gave chase. This is one of those things that others would call “exciting,” but considering his line of work it’s just another day- and he dreads to say this- like normal. By the time he cornered the thief, Mysta’s blue eyes furrowed under his brow right before widening as his feet lifted off the ground and sent him into a rip in the air like a galaxy.

Then he was in 2022, which is decidedly not normal. He’s revisited this moment thousands of times. The thief went unidentified with the future’s resources, and the alleyway he thinks he visited right before his time travel stint provided no clues. He’s no astronomer, and even if he was, he didn’t get a good enough look at the galaxy unfolding before he fell into the future. Mysta detests this. There just has to be something he’s missing from that day, but without the tools to recreate it nor investigate professionally, he’s a sitting duck.

Except for the fact that for the first time in his life, he has a question that needs to be answered at all costs, and he hates being a sitting duck when he’s itching to figure it out. It’s a cycle that snowballs.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, yet Mysta always expects a face he’ll never see in this time whenever someone knocks at the door. It’s usually a mailman or a deliveryperson, but the want is still there.

It would be so much easier if it was Reader on the other side, and they admitted that they forgot their keys and locked themselves out. That was uncommon, but not unheard of ever since you moved in together. Or Reader at the door ready to pick him up for a date, as you did before then. Or even earlier than that, Reader at the door with a bouquet and a determined blush, like that evening when workplace crushes turned into a relationship.

Mysta is so lost in what could be that he forgets what is, until the person on the other side of the door knocks again. The dream is on pause, and grumpily, he opens the door.

Huh. Reader is on the other side. That’s a surprise.

Mysta blinks, stone-faced. Then again, and once more to set it it that, no, this isn’t a cruel delusion. That’s his partner, in the flesh, right before his very eyes, after so much time pursuing this moment.

Mysta throws himself at you in a tight embrace. You nearly lose your balance when his arms clutch around you. He doesn’t say a word, and you can’t see his face while you’re pressed up against his chest, but he holds you with such force that his desperation spreads to you. It’s been a long investigation, trying to locate his whereabouts across your home sixty years ago to a future you never should’ve entered, and all the relief pours out of you as you return his embrace. Mysta’s arms are your resting place.

You curl around and whisper in his ear. “Let’s get inside. I want to tell you everything.”

It’s almost like nothing has changed. You don’t waste time on pleasantries, because the stretch of time you spent separated from your partner was like living through a wreck. You and Mysta do things in your own language, in your own way, and it’s always been a source of pride that you’ve always been on the same page as him without having to overcomplicate things.

Mysta doesn’t remove himself from you as you sit on the couch. Instead, he shifts himself to one side and holds your arm while you get situated, then places himself behind you on the couch. His lap is your pillow. “I’m afraid that if I stop touching you then we’ll be separated again,” he admits. “I don’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t.” While one of his hands traces patterns along your shoulder, you take the other and kiss the back of his palm. Mysta’s heart flutters alive, and the feeling is so foreign to him over these last few months, he wonders if he’s experiencing his last moments.

“Your missing persons case was a weird one. Law enforcement was at a loss, and so was I,” you say. You fall into the same cadence you use in the detective agency on debriefing cases. “Reports stated you left the office safely, but never came home. I tracked our usual route and the side trips you usually take, to no avail, and when Occam’s razor failed- the simplest explanation is the correct explanation- it was then I started thinking outside of the box.

“I made tons of theories, and canceled out just as many. One night, I was so at a loss of ideas that I just started solving other missing persons cases, just to see if anything could apply to yours. That’s how I found out about the disappearance of Luca Kaneshiro.”

“The mob boss?”

“The very one. When he went missing, he was last seen on a street you were also recorded at. He was reported missing days after you, you see, and when I reinvestigated the area was crawling with his goons. After staking out the area I made an alliance with them, minimal resistance.”

“Makes sense. The Kaneshiro mafia is well-known for being docile even to law enforcement until you poke the sleeping bear,” Mysta recounts. “I’m not surprised you managed to talk to them, much less ally with them.”

“They made the connection before I told them. A mafia boss and a detective disappear into an alleyway, never to be seen again? Anyone would think that’s suspicious. We compared notes. While Mysta Rias was presumed missing, the mafia figured Luca Kaneshiro was abducted. Get this. In a matter of days when I reached out to my Kaneshiro contact again, they had a breakthrough. Time-fuckin’-travel. They recruited a quantum physicist into their ranks and everything to prove it.”

“I can’t imagine.” Mysta attempted to be sarcastic, but he was still too in awe that his partner was right where they belonged in his lap to get a full deadpan out.

“So now that I was investigating both the Rias and Kaneshiro cases, the underboss started putting together a squad to search for their big boss. I provided them insight on where their boss might’ve gone across time. In return, they gave me a lift to all this-” you gestured to Mysta’s little apartment and the city outside of it, a world too big to summarize in a word- “-And the assurance that you and I would return to our original timeline with the underboss’s squad once they found Luca Kaneshiro.”

“You trust them?”

“Better than I trust half the unchecked cops we work with. You said it yourself, baby, they’re docile. Luca Kaneshiro believed in protecting the weak with kindness, and it seems he’s trained his family well. I’ve given them nothing but faith, and they’ve given me theirs. They wouldn’t have pinpointed their boss without my deduction, after all.” While you rested your head in Mysta’s lap, he glanced down at you as you spoke. Even as he responded to your debriefing, amazement was still struck on his face, though it toned down since the moment you reunited.

You’re reminded that even now, you both moved so naturally into your daily discussions of detective work that you haven’t processed properly that you and Mysta are finally in the same room again.

With fondness, you reach out and tap the tip of his nose. His eyes follow your finger like a puppy, and when you crack a smile at his reaction, his face falls into blushing bashfulness. “Happy to report that finding you and getting you back was all my doing, though,” you say. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’re so hot for that,” Mysta says. Then he covers a hand over his mouth and looks away, as if that’d erase his shyness. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, I’m in love with you, it’s just been so long since I’ve seen you, that’s all. I’m not sure how to handle this.”

“We’ll figure out where to go from here together. We have a way out, after all. Let’s just take the time to stay where we are comfortably.” You roll your head back and shift in Mysta’s lap. His attention returns to you. “Hey, Mysta. I love you too. You know you can kiss me.”

“You’d let me? Even though it’s been so long?”

“Especially because it’s been so long.”

The last thing you see is the comfort in his smile before he bends over and presses his lips upside-down against yours. Maybe not normalcy… but it’s the beginnings of the return, in a language only you and Mysta understand.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

“Shu. Don’t wake up. But be lucid, now, I need you to listen to me.”

“Reader…”

“It’s me. Come on, Shu. You’re dreaming.”

“My dreams aren’t usually this meta.”

“Stay grounded. I’m astral projecting to you right now.”

“That was always the one thing I taught you that you could perform…”

“It took a lot of effort but it’s coming in handy now. Oh, that doesn’t matter. You look awful. Don’t give me that look. Well, you look okay enough here but once you wake up, figure it out. You’re doing this all wrong and hurting yourself because of it.”

“My rituals…?”

“Yes! It pains me to see you overexert yourself when you don’t have to!”

“It’s what I need to do to summon you.”

“No, it’s not- oh, Shu, sweet thing, don’t tell me. You’ve been intentionally reaching across space?”

“I have to. It’s for you.”

“Yes, yes, I’m very flattered, but there’s an easier way to do this. One that doesn’t involve ripping a space vacuum in our apartment. It’s time only that separates us, Shu. I’m… somewhere. I’m not sure. I don’t know metaphysics like you do. But I know the difference is our timelines, not locations. I’m able to do some astral projection, after all, that should account for something.”

“And you’re a novice. How long have you been trying to contact me?”

“Ever since I warped away.”

“That would be months, then. There’s no way you would be able to transmit a projection across universes like that so quickly.”

“It makes sense. Listen to me- good, I can touch you. Let me hold you. Get yourself some rest. Real rest, none of these short barely-functioning naps, I mean an entire night. Can you do that for me?”

“But I need to keep working.”

“And your work will get you nowhere if you’re not in top condition. I need you in top condition. Okay? And you figured it out. You’re putting in too much effort to find the right answer, and it’s going to suffocate you one day, literally. It doesn’t have to be that way. When you wake up, write every single thing down. Don’t give yourself a chance to forget.”

“I need to reach across time alone. I don’t need to consider space.”

“Good boy.”

“Are you messing with me?”

“Maybe. But the time thing was real. I wouldn’t joke about that when I can see you exhausting yourself. It breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“But you’ve got to be one of the strongest people in the world to endure it. It’s just that you don’t have to endure it. Come on, rest with me.”

“You’re soft. Can we stay like this?”

“Of course. Just get comfortable, I’m hoping it’ll force you to sleep longer. Oh, you sweet thing, oh. My sweet Shu.”

“Can you sing to me?”

“My singing isn’t all that.”

“It’s calming. I’ve heard you hum before.”

“If that’s really what’ll help you rest.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Shhh, I know you do. You can barely keep your eyes open even now. Keep them closed, sweet thing, I’ve got you.

“Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars…”

Shu wakes up the next day with music coursing through his head, the ghost of a dream. At the thought of your face he finds the nearest pen he sees and writes your advice on his arm. Don’t rip apart space. Just time is fine.

He wonders if you can see him as he grabs a scrapbook off a shelf. Its contents are treasured, but a chunk of the photos inside are missing. The book itself chronicles his relationship with you. The big moments are safe, but the little memories that color the story in daily photos were removed from their pages, and he thumbs through the pages where there isn’t a single photo that stares back at him.

His pace slows when he realized he can’t remember any of the photos that use to rest on one page. Every day for the past few months, he would draft a new ritual to summon you, and in return for you summoning he’d sacrifice a photo, representing a moment in time he could never truly get back. Miracles aren’t cheap, after all.

The pages flip upon themselves, and when he finds a photo still in pace he slips it out from the protector with as little thought as possible. But as little as he tries, his mind still connects the dots. This one doesn’t have faces, but he can recognize his arm in the background. You took a candid picture one wintry evening when you and Shu decided on making cookies. The photo focused on one sugar cookie covered in royal icing that was so ugly you couldn’t help but laugh, and tried to take a serious, artsy picture with the ugly blob of frosting as the focal point. It just so happened that you could also see Shu in the corner, struggling to frost one of his own cookies.

The moment comes to Shu on instinct the second he sees it, no matter how hard he tries to resist. The sound of your laughter is attached to the photo, and he hates the idea that soon he’d forget exactly how your giggles rose and fell, the way you fought to compose yourself.

Miracles aren’t cheap, and he hopes it’s enough this time. After all, you came to him in his dreams, and he’s sure it’s not his consciousness deluding itself.

Time manipulation is one of the most difficult subjects of magic, and viewing other timelines is simpler but still not an easy task. Retrieving objects- or people, in your case- in between those two subjects, and his initial rituals always connected retrieval across time along with the distortion of space. The subject of space was a lot simpler to grasp- after all, there have been spellcasters that can teleport themselves with ease- but still nothing to sneeze at. When spatial retrieval combined with temporal, it was simply too much.

These past few months, Shu tried to brute-force it by honing his abilities with practice, but today he takes a glance at the words on his arm. Your advice.

Shu repeats the steps he’s come to memorize. Jasmine and palo santo incense fills the room as he draws a new magic circle. He drafted the circles of his other attempts with a combination of temporal and spacial elements. This one is minimal in comparison, and already his shoulders feel lighter knowing he doesn’t have to mess around with the oxygen in the witch hut getting sucked out by a rift in space.

By the time the incense cleanses his hut, he places the three components- one of your favorite accessories, a strand of your hair, and the photo- within their spirals.

As he sets the photo down he does so knowing it’s the last he’ll ever see of it. “Please work,” he whispers, and that’s the last regulated thought he has.

Shu stands in the center of the circle, and when he speaks the incantation his intention is set.

The chalk circle bursts aflame in magenta, and he knows tendrils of fire spurt out from his back as he continues. He doesn’t allow his mind to wander as sorcery flows through his bloodstream and through the fire. The circle becomes a wall that cuts him off from the material, and the heat is intense, blurring through the air and making mosaics of his environment. He doesn’t feel a thing.

Really, it’s like second nature.

The incantation goes forth. Burning ashes flicker off of the flames that take up all his vision. Magenta curls around his arms now and wraps around his body. Shu stands his ground. He continues to stand his ground, adamant in the flame, even when the last utterance of the incantation is spoken and the magenta world goes white.

He’s not quite sure if he faints.

But when he does regain his consciousness, he stares up at the apartment ceiling, not the witch’s hut he’s spent his lonesome in. Smoldering smoke and ash assails his nostrils. His ears are ringing, and even as he blinks he can see the white light flooding in from the corners of his vision. He lays on the ground. His body feels heavy.

“Shu.” The weight shifts, and his head rises so gentle. The light clears.

Shu’s chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath. He’s too entranced to speak out loud, so he does so under his lost breath. “You’re back.”

When you fell back into place it was right where Shu stood, and after the ritual, where he lay on the floor. You sat upon his lap, one leg on either side, and your hand held his head so it wouldn’t drop to the hard ground.

Shu holds his arms out to reach for you, and you help him sit up properly. He places himself around you and his lips take in yours.

His hands are an exploration, and he goes in hungrily but tentative. With each fistful of fabric and brush of skin, it’s another affirmation that you’re real, and in his arms no less, and all his efforts were recognized. When his hands rest against your thighs you hold him tighter, a confirmation. Where he holds back, you go all in; it’s been so long since you’ve been able to feel anyone else, and when the first thing you come back to is Shu, keeping him close is second nature.

Even when he parts to regain his breath he still supports you. Shu stands, and before you know it he sweeps you up in his arms as well. He’s muscular, and his voice is still so quiet, like he’s in a place of worship.

“Let me hold you,” he says, and you cling to his neck. He smells like jasmine and palo santo. He carries you to your bedroom, and sets you down carefully, like a delicate keepsake.

“I’m glad I talked to you.”

“I don’t think I would’ve figured out the answer without you.”

“Even though it was so simple?”

“I never would’ve made the connection.” Shu pecks your lips, and somehow it’s even more emotional than the first for the moment it lingers. “I never would’ve rested.”

“You need to.” You hold Shu’s face between your hands. His cheeks squish against your fingers and it feels like heaven, but the dark circles under his eyes are not lost on you. “You’re better than when I saw you in your dreams, but I’m still concerned.”

He laughs. “Only you could be literally lost in time and still find time to worry over me.”

“Of course I would. I care about you. I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you.” Shu lays back on the mattress, and the only thing connecting you both is his pinky finger, crossed between yours. “Are you tired?”

“A little.”

“I’m making up for lost time. I haven’t been able to get a good night’s sleep since you disappeared.”

“I know.”

You tuck Shu in while his fingers rest intertwined with yours, and he squeezes before closing his eyes. He’s serene, and it stuns you just how composed he is for a sorcerer that just retrieved his lover from across time itself. If it weren’t for how exhausted he looked through pale skin and heavy bags, then you would think him untouchable, an invulnerable man.

You caress his colorful hair and the side of his face. He must be one of the most beautiful men alive, and his dedication is no different. Vulnerability is his strength.

You muster the love Shu inspires and sing.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Vox Akuma

Vox finds out he landed in the United Kingdom, across the world from where his castle once stood. It’s been months since he reincarnated, but he hasn’t even started rebuilding an empire yet. It’s natural for a demon to vie for control, and he thirsts for it, but whenever he starts to seriously consider it, the memories of Akuma Castle return all over again, salt in the wound. Then he thinks of how he watched you bleed right in front of him, and how he wasted your intervention, and he has to sit while his heart screams in phantom pain.

He walks the allies at night and abuses his voice for ease. The strangers that pass by dressed in expensive clothes give him their wristwatches like he’s an old friend, and when they regain their senses he’s already gone. The ones that get too nosy are on the receiving end of his nastiest voice, and if he had any more of a bleeding heart he’d feel bad about how they would never forget the way his tone simply shatters even the strongest resolve.

It’s a pitiful existence. He should be living a life of glamour surrounded by humans that follow his every command and all the wealth the world can offer, but here he is, simply getting by like a street rat.

But the pain is too fresh. His heart aches. Phantom pains.

Vox revisits the subway he landed in on occasional nights. It’s a compulsion. Sometimes Akuma Castle’s final moments flood back, but more often he sits at the bench with a blank look on his face, waiting for something to happen.

Tonight is one of the latter. Vox leans back against the wall and stares at the tiled ground. It’s late enough that this train shouldn’t be running until dawn, but the time is uncertain. After all, he’s underground, and the closest thing to the moon down here is a flickering fluorescent light.

He exhales. He can never forget the moment you passed on. A wise advisor, a formidable warrior, and beautiful lover all gone in such a moment, simply because he didn’t strike true into the bleeding man that was his undoing, the reason you had to save him, the price of your life, phantom pains…

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears footsteps echo through the empty station and enter the corner of his vision.

“What do you want?” Vox grumbles, not willing to give the stranger the satisfaction of looking at his face.

The stranger gets down on a knee in reverence, and Vox’s curiosity gets the better of him. He watches them lower their head, and when he recognizes them his eyes widen.

Reader, gorgeous as the day they met, untouched by war nor blood, speaks clearer than water. “Milord. I see now that “the Voice Demon” is no mere nickname.”

Vox is struck into silence and doesn’t dare move, like a deer in the headlights.

You raise yourself. You cock your head. “Milord Vox? Is everything alright?”

“I- I must be dreaming,” Vox says. He sweeps his hand over his open mouth. “You died.”

“I did. In the heat of battle, beside the one I love and the family I swore myself to protect.”

“Then how are you here? You should’ve passed on into your afterlife- no, don’t tell me. You’re not at peace, are you? You’re not at peace, and it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t wound yourself, Milord. Every moment I spend on the battlefield it’s with conviction that I may die for my own beliefs, not by command of careless officer. You would know that best, darling Lord.” You sit next to him and stretch out your hand. “Touch me if you think I am but an apparition, and look into my eyes for the answer.”

Vox doesn’t have the strength nor understanding to move, but he meets your eyes. The pupils are thin, nearly catlike, and things fall into place when a flicker of orange breaks through the color. They’re virtually human, but lava seeps through the color and tints them infernal.

“You’re a demon,” he blurted out.

You nod. “When I died, I was selected out of purgatory and sent to Hell for my wisdom and strength in life. The demons that greeted me- your people- presented me with a choice: enter my proper afterlife as I imagined it would be when I lived, or continue immortally with infernal blood coursing through me. The choice to carry on the demonic legacy of balance in this world with the skills I fostered through my human life.

“I have to speak in truth, Milord. I was too surprised my presence in Hell was requested to understand the choice entirely. The demons granted me the time to make my decision, and to that I am grateful for their hospitality. I spent time meditating on each outcome. Peace and rest, or an unending adventure so I may die time and time again, each with the same conviction as I held when my mortal life ended.”

Vox reaches out and feels the palm of your hand. His fingers are slight, and you allow him to press down on the hand, take in the warmth of your skin, and brush against your calluses before he fully clasps his around yours. You notice the tremble in his lip, and how he tries to bite the inside of it. He’s about to cry.

“Oh, Milord Vox, my darling.” You press your lips to the back of his palm, then squeeze his hand. “It’s a lot of information, but understand this. I did not become a demon as debt or mindless loyalty. I did so of my own volition, for my own identity, under my own name. Even then, I am exceedingly honored to continue alongside you in our infernal lives. I see I truly was blessed to walk this Earth following you, and that blessing follows me as I have followed you.”

Vox’s voice is as wet as his eyes. Rarely does he express his vulnerability, but when he does, it’s with utmost trust. “How could I ever be your blessing when you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”

“Milord, come here.” You outstretch your arms, and Vox collapses into you. He buries his head into your chest, and sniffles as you stroke his hair. “My darling Lord. We found where we need to be, and each other once more. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“None of this ‘Milord’ title anymore,” Vox says. His words are muffled against the fabric of your shirt and the tears in his eyes. He struggles to catch his breath, so you rub circles along his back in your embrace. Vox swallows down a hiccup as you whisper and shush comforts. He continues speaking as he clutches you. “Call me Vox. I love you too much to pretend we’re not equals.”

You brush aside a lock of hair and kiss his forehead. “My darling Vox, then. It would be my pleasure to be yours in immortality. Now and forever, and with every bone in my body, I pledge myself to you. I love you.”

“No pledges, either, Reader.” Vox rubs at his eyes. His voice still wavers, but it’s more controlled now. “I mean it. We’re more than master and servant could ever be.”

“That… is new.” Your eyes cast downward, even as Vox is still in your arms. “But not unwelcome. I’m just surprised you think of me so highly.”

“The best thing that’s happened to me,” he repeats. “Truly, the best thing. We’re demons. I’ll have you know you have my utmost loyalty just as much as you pledged yours to me in our lives before this current time.”

“I see. Is there a ritual, then? Or a ceremony, as the time before my death?”

“No rituals, no ceremonies.” Vox loosens from the hug. He presses a gentle fist against your chest, where your heart beats. “We don’t use titles. We just act on it. We show what we feel.”

“I fear I have a lot to learn about ‘acting on it,’” you admit.

“We have all the time in the world for you to learn.” He dives back into your embrace, but now his lips are flush to your ear, and he whispers a secret only you can hear. “Think about it this way: in the past you were mine to control. You still are.” Vox’s voice grows deeper. The rumble sends shivers down your spine. “But now, I’m yours.”

“Y-you must not toy with me like that, Vox…”

“It’s the truth. I’m a wreck without you.”

“Then I’m flattered to be the one to keep you together, my darling.”

Vox lays a kiss right below your ear, and when he parts away you take a chance. Your hands clutch around his jawline and shoulder as you aim for his lips. Hellfire awaits you. You’ve always detected the heat that courses through Vox every time you touch him, but it all falls into place with the infernal life behind your kiss as well.

No secrets are left uncovered. Vox leans into you, a testament to his dedication. His tears dried long ago, and as you kiss him, you swear to no one but yourself; as many times as he cries, you always want to be the one to help him smile again. He would do the same for you, no doubt. He always has.

Equals, you think. Vox’s hands clutch around your neck as the kiss continues. You’re someone he can depend on. I would go anywhere beside him.

There’s no other world you’d rather be.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

271 notes · View notes

brisquad-unit-4402 · 1 year

Note

Hello, if you write angst, may I request a any character you want x reader, where in the process of time travel, they lost reader.

If you don't write angst, may I request a any character you want x short reader, with anything you want.

lost in time with luxiem

part 2 here ↣

mmmyess YESSSS i do write angst! it’s been a while since i wrote some but i’m glad i got to practice my hurt skills :D long post incoming but i really enjoyed writing these. especially the gory scenes. man. i really am a briskadet aren’t i

tags: established relationship, hurt no comfort, gender neutral reader

⚠️ drinking + gore in luca’s entry

⚠️ drinking in mysta’s entry

⚠️ suffocation + fainting in shu’s entry

⚠️ gore + panic attack in vox’s entry

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you’re ripped out of your universe and sent to a completely new world, it’s only natural to react like that...

🖋 Ike Eveland

His usual solution is to throw himself into his work. The must tumultuous of times create the best stories, pressure turns carbon into diamonds, and writing down the pain make it so much easier to let go of when he scraps the draft.

Ike commits pen to paper, as is second nature. He holes himself up in his office. Sleep comes to him randomly. He can never predict when, but he sleeps deeply, and when he wakes up it’s right back to his nightmare. Food becomes a second thought to written word, then third, then fourth, until it’s forgotten completely.

It’s addicting, is what it is. He needs to write. The situation he finds himself in, peeled away from everything he knows, is so wildly impossible that maybe, maybe, impossible thinking will return him to where he once was. If he wishes so much to return to the one he loves, creates a world within his pages that mirrors his own, then maybe the stars above or the spirit of the universe or some cruel higher power will hear him and return him to where he came from.

The world he finds himself in is angular, blocky. Its features are so foreign to the intricate architecture of his homeland. Where there once was grass is now endless gray and metal and stone, pavement under his footsteps, so he stays inside now. The office, just as geometric as the outdoors, is blank and the paper serves as the color he’s neglected to spread within his room.

Because, after all, he’s not going to remain here. Of course, he can’t remain here.

There’s so much he wants to do in his original world. He’s no revolutionary author, but his works are getting recognition after years and years of publishing. He just used the money to move into a proper home of his own, and it’s no mansion but it’s more than comfortable, and the window in his bedroom is at the perfect angle to gently wake him with soft sunlight every morning.

And after all, there’s an angelic face sleeping next to him every time he rises.

He writes tales of a princess trapped in her own castle, with no way to communicate with her subjects. After that, a novel about a hermit who returns to society, and how decades of living alone impacts his daily public life. Whenever he runs out of ideas, he works on a collection of short stories from the perspective of various people locked within a strange, enclosed new environment.

The poetry is new. Novels are paintings, but poetry is sculpture, and he struggles to find the right words in the right order, but whenever he writes the last line it always tells stories of loneliness.

Each draft takes place along flowering fields and rolling skies, clouds that adorn tall trees. Houses painted in candy colors. Streets in sepia. Snow that falls gently like blankets, and sun rays that greet mountain peaks. The aurora borealis heralds the climax of each protagonist’s journey.

Ike’s pen runs out of ink on what he would estimate is the seventh night. He curses, and his throat is so out of use, the sound is barely decipherable. He reaches to his drawer of office supplies, only to grab nothing. There is no drawer. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

Ike clears his throat, and raises his voice. “Reader? Be a dear and get me some more ink, please?”

Ike waits.

“Reader?”

There’s no response.

“Reader, my darling.”

There is no Reader. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

It’s strange that he does, he notes. Why, he’s written so many stories as his own escapism, but he can’t even remember that he left his darling Reader.

His darling Reader, all alone, the only person in their shared home. They make meal servings for one, now, and wakes up later now without another in their bed. They have access to the study and the shelves upon shelves of home-bound books, the first edition before publication, but there is no novelist at the desk, no handwriting, no one to hold a mug and offer his gratitude. No one to sit behind as they read his latest work and offer their thoughts and notice his plot holes and typos and errors, no one to hold his pen back and insist, It’s late, let’s go to sleep, and carry him out of his chair and tuck him into bed themselves, and run their hands through his hair until his eyes close and his breathing softens and he wakes up to warm soft sunlight on an angelic face.

“Reader.” Ike says it again, but this time he knows there’s no one to respond to it. His voice breaks halfway through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

At the end of the day Luca Kaneshiro is a social creature. Moreover, he’s a social creature that just got cut off from his friends, family, mafia, and lover all in one fell swoop.

It’s that appreciation for others that drives Luca to walk the streets, acting like he still owns the world despite the completely different reality he finds himself in. He’s a man that’s spent his life around family, both blood and hired. New people to meet and friends to catch up with. A sweet thing he could hold and love openly, one that he would do anything for. Believe it, he means anything; that’s a promise only a mafia boss could keep and truly mean.

There’s no replacement for them in this time, but he can’t let go of it. He doesn’t actively drink in his original time but in 2022, there’s a party every night, and he wakes up every morning with a hangover. Luca admits it. He’s a nobody, a friendless loser here, but at least every night coupled with the booze and the bodies all dyed under the colorful lights he can forget. Pretend those faces are the ones he’s come to know underneath lion masks.

The first night was the hardest. He entered the club to color his mindlessly lonely days, because at least he could have a meltdown properly with drinks than the husk he is during the day. A young woman taught him to dance, and he traded dance partners with the rest of her friends until most of them went to get drinks, and the best dancer of them all cozied up to his arm.

By the time they returned with cocktails Luca was already long gone on the way back home, his coat wrapped around his body. He felt dirty. Everything about that night was supposed to make him feel like his legacy was still alive but when it wasn’t you feeling him up, he could feel his stomach turn.

Sure enough, the next morning he retched out the remains of alcohol and women, and swore he’d never go clubbing again until he returned to his timeline with you by his side… until the loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, and that very evening he was back to pretending that the people in the club were his.

People flirt with him often, and he’s surprised he hasn’t bolted from one yet. Instead he politely excuses himself and ditches the club with a hollow feeling in his chest.

Luca wakes up every afternoon- noon or later, depending on how wild the night before was- alone in a bed meant for two people. His apartment is nice, but it’s devoid of personality. Glass encompasses one side of the wall, granting him a view of the skyline, and every piece of furniture is clean white. It’s almost hilarious how much it resembles one of his penthouses in Melbourne, but without any of the charm that branded a Kaneshiro home.

He misses it so much. His active schedule has gone to the wayside, and instead he can spend hours at a time laying in bed. It’s a destructive cycle. Party at night to keep up the pretend life, then wallow during the day about how the life is gone. How unfair, he thinks bitterly. I never asked for this. I don’t even know how I got here. Why me?

The dreary thoughts never ebb while the sun’s out, and once night falls he can’t bear to spend another moment with them. Everything is a distraction now. He can’t bring himself to imagine the mafia surrounding him at the clubs anymore. It sends him into veiled turmoil.

That’s a future worry for future Luca, though.

He walks home one night in better condition than usual. The night is blank and silent, only to be interrupted by a stifled cry.

He turns to the source of the noise. Two people stand by a closed store. One of them is a older man, and the other is a young woman. Luca recognizes her as a girl from the club he just left, mostly because she barely looked old enough to enter. Her face is flush with alcohol, and the man practically drags her along closer to the door with a hand over her mouth.

Luca’s eyes meet the woman’s. They’re nearly closed, but widen when she realizes there’s a bystander, and then she’s gone. The man led her into an alleyway out of sight.

Sobriety regained, he dashes to the alley, and feels for the hidden pocket on the inside of his coat. It was one of the first things he reached for when he fell into the future, and he thanked his lucky stars he still had a pistol and rounds of ammo on him.

He takes the safety off but keeps it concealed, and turns into the alley. Two other men lurked deeper into the row, while the first shrugged the woman’s body off to the ground. She was barely conscious.

One of the creeps cocked his head. “The fuck’re you looking at?”

Another raises an arm but Luca fires before the loser aimed his weapon properly. The bullet shatters the wrist, and the gun spills out of his grasp along with blood. He clutches the mangled appendage and cries out. “Bastard shot my fucking hand!”

The second man raises his gun as well but Luca’s already aiming for his arms and fires, disabling him long enough to move closer into the alley.

The final guy brings out a knife, but Luca’s built for this. He shoves him off, then grabs his arm with one hand and forces the knife away in the other. There’s a cold look in Luca’s eye, he hasn’t said a thing. He pushes the arm the wrong direction, and feels muscle trembling to stay upright. The creep curses again, an empty threat Luca doesn’t care to hear, and the knife clatters to the floor. Luca stomps on the handle with his sole, preventing it from moving any further.

Luca keeps his grip on the arm, and feels the other guy’s joints give out. An ugly thought wants him to go further. So he indulges even after he hears the snap of broken bone, and when he’s done twisting the limb he yanks it out. The scream of dislocation is like music.

He feels monstrous, but the most alive he’s been in weeks, an animal let out of its cage with the scent of blood in the air. He notices the one with bullets in either arm struggle for one of the guns, so in one clean movement Luca pins him down, blows an elbow joint out with his own gun, and drags the disfigured arm out along the jagged pavement as his weight rises. Hopefully he’ll get it amputated.

The first one he shot, the one with one less hand than he started with, helplessly struggles for the gun he dropped with his good arm, so Luca drives the leftover knife through the flesh and into the ground. He lets the bloodthirst win as the blade curves into the muscle like a hook, twists, and snatches it out.

He covers the knife in a handkerchief, then retrieves the guns, and crouches eye-level to their drunken target. Her head is lolled to the side, but unharmed.

“I’m gonna bring you back outside the club,” Luca says. “Get some staff to watch you and call a taxi.”

He helps her up. She’s conscious enough to walk, but her body is limp, and she relies on him to guide her. The blank silent night returns as they return.

The woman slurs something out, and when Luca looks to her in confusion she repeats herself. “You’re the guy that’s always there…? At the club.”

“Yeah.” Luca keeps his face steady. “Yeah, I am.”

“You always have people around you.” She giggles. At least she seems to be a happy drunk. “Normal people don’t gun. Have guns.” She throws her free arm into the air and makes a finger gun. “Pew, pew…”

He doesn’t answer that. “What’s your name?”

She tells him. “Don’t remember it. You’re too sad for me.”

“I just saved you.”

“And thanks but you’re so… fake!” Luca should be insulted, but he’s so taken aback he doesn’t say a word. The woman is amused by it though. She continues. “Like, okay, you’re cool, I’d hang, but you’re avoiding something, aren’t you? And I’m not talking about the, the pew, guns…”

She used up so much energy talking that she doesn’t notice a crack in the sidewalk and trips. Luca catches her.

“Hero, much?” She laughs. “You’re such a hero, you’re waiting around for something. What, want me to trip again? Go find it if you care so much about it.”

The woman babbles on as they return to the club. Barely five minutes after, a taxi pulls up to the curb.

“Bye, hero!” She chirps. “Stop being so sad all the time!” Luca gives her a small wave and she’s off.

He re-embarks on his walk home, and her drunken ramblings follow him the way back. He’d save her again without question, but her words pissed him off.

She’s right, you know, he thinks. But of course she is, and of course it’s not as easy as a drunk woman makes it out to be. Longing for something is one thing. Longing for a time long gone is another.

Luca looks back at the club, so small in the distance. Already he can feel the isolation taking hold, and it’s only going to get worse the more time he spends in his apartment, but it’s not like he has the energy for anything else.

He brushes his hand against his coat. A splatter of blood stains the fur, not so much to be noticeable in the night but daylight is a whole other story. Some hero he is. He’s never been as brutal in a fight as he was today, and the way he didn’t feel a thing, how easy it was for the ugly and dark and depressed to control his weapons… it scares him.

That’s all he is. Afraid. Is this really who he is without anyone by his side? Maybe it was a good thing he was cast out of his original time. Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near you. You’re too good for human trash that drinks until he can’t straighten out his thoughts anymore and revels in inflicting pain. Monsters don’t deserve kindness like yours, after all.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

There is logic in everything. Everything happens for a reason; every action has an equal and opposite reaction; energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. This is what the detective Mysta Rias knows.

But people don’t just disappear like that. The city he finds himself in is tall and sweeping just like his home, but the lights are brighter and the people are stranger. He catches the year 2022 on a billboard advertisement and balks. This is what the detective Mysta Rias doesn’t know, and he’d admit he doesn’t know in a snap. There’s simply no reasonable way he sprung over sixty years in the future just like that.

It’s been a while since he was transported into the future with no warning. After week two, he resigned himself to living long-term in the twenty-first century. About a month in, he started a private investigation service to scrounge up money and make sure his deductive abilities stayed sharp. He met some lovely people, but at the end of the day, this isn’t his time.

What goes up must come down, and what gets magically transported out of his intended timeline must return. You can’t toss an apple on Earth and expect it to float into space. Mysta acknowledges how silly it must be to apply physics to a time portal, but it’s the only thing he can cling onto. The Doctrine of Uniformity states the present is the key to the past, and surely the present must be the key to the future as well.

During his first week in the future he already searched for his information when he was in his original time. His house was destroyed decades ago to make space for a school. The home phone went to a storefront in Glasgow. So he retraces the steps. Surely there needs to be a gap where the original homeowners sign off on a deal with new owners, and that’s where he can identify the whereabouts of him and his partner.

Hours of research and calling later, either any mention of Mysta Rias and Reader were wiped off the face of the earth, or they were never on this earth in the first place.

Mysta tries not to let it get to him. After all, even if the original hypothesis is inaccurate, it narrows down the possibilities. Just keep going.

Staking out his old haunts proved to be fruitless as well. His favorite restaurant is gone, as expected, but so is the library downtown that his city insisted on preserving for decades.

Later that evening Mysta grabs a cocktail glass of orange juice, pours vodka into the glass, and places the screwdriver on the coaster of his desk as he looks deeper into the people of this world. Clearly there’s no records of Mysta Rias nor the person he spent his life with, but he recognizes the Queen of England even in her old age, and Paddington Bear is still a thing, so surely there must be other similarities between his UK and the one he landed in.

The first thing he searches for is his mother’s name, and he’s not exactly surprised when no search results come up. His associates are nowhere to be found either. The closest he gets to finding one of his old friends is an online obituary for someone he doesn’t recognize and an archive of a newspaper comic strip.

Your family is nowhere to be seen either. A few awkward calls later, he’s confirmed the phone numbers of family and friends as well as his old detective agency are being used by completely different people. He wishes he had some kind of photo from the past. While browsing around online he learned about reverse image searching. Maybe he could see if there were any social media posts or timeless landscapes that could trace back to his origin. Being able to see your face would be a good motivation too.

Mysta pauses. Man, he misses your face. He’s been so focused on getting back to the right time that he hasn’t even acknowledged the pit of loneliness he’s been fighting off. Emotion makes reason messy, after all. The screwdriver isn’t helping either. If only Reader was here, he muses. They always watch over me when I’m drinking. Fuck, his head’s spinning. How much vodka is in this thing? He’s poured another glass, at least one more, his recollections are getting blurry.

He blinks out of his thoughts before they can begin to spiral. Even if he didn’t measure out proper shots there’s no way he’s getting drunk on a screwdriver, and during a work night no less.

The detective hones in on his legal pad and the scrawl of notes on it. He crosses out another failed method. There has to be something out there that can explain it. He chants it under his breath, because after all, he’s a detective. What is a detective without his reasoning?

Whenever he’s struggling on a case, it always helps to have fresh eyes look over his thought process. It’s always you. But he’s alone now without his partner, and he fears he’s working himself into a rut. Ugh, who is he kidding. He begrudgingly drains the rest of the screwdriver. The rut’s already here, and it always has been. The drink’s making it worse but it’s about time he acknowledges it.

He’s sick of this feeling, so isolated out from everything he knows and the future that’s left him behind, and it’s almost like he can hear your voice melting into the silence of his bleak office. But the words that you’d say evade him. You’re irreplaceable even in his imagination, and it mocks him. His focus has abandoned him, and he’s been spiraling for a while now, it’s just that his mask is starting to crumple now, and he’s already starting to regret letting it slip.

“There has to be something,” he utters, and his voice is already lifting from the alcohol. It’s high and pathetic. Mysta slaps his hands over his face and lets them drag down, as if that would fix everything, and picks up his pencil again. “There has to be a reason.”

The pencil doesn’t move. Mysta repeats himself, reason is a mantra he’s lived by, but doubt drowns him. There’s no reason in time travel, after all, but he says it again, expecting something to change. He’s running out of platitudes. But he clings to it, clings to reason, because without it he’s nothing, and stripped of his home and love, it’s all he has left. Denial of absurdity is the only thing he can do. He can’t afford to wrap his head around it, because that means he accepts this nonsensical problem, so he lives without believing it at all.

He pours himself vodka without juice and drinks.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

The Yamino household was no stranger to holding the supernatural within itself. For as long as Shu can remember, there’s always been scrolls hung up on the walls in thumbtacks rather than frames for easy access, rows of herbs left out to dry for spellcraft, even the living room regularly had its furniture pushed to the side to make space for a magic circle.

That was what made morphing his own home into a witch’s hut a smoother transition than he expected from the apartment unit he shared with you. The glamour made it easier to work, and besides, looking at your favorite things and the home you created together hurt too much. Either way, you were going to come back. There wasn’t a single question about it.

Shu drags a clump of chalk along the stony floor. The outline of the circle is already complete, featuring countless shapes crafted for the exact target, and all that was left to do was to etch runes into it. The chalk digs into the floor with intention.

“It’s going to work.” He rubs a stray line of chalk away, and checks his handiwork. The angular shapes inside of the circle are in position for a standard summoning. Runes form coordinates along the outline.

He doesn’t even let himself feel proud for the summoning circle before he dashes off into your room. Moments later he returns with three items: your favorite accessory, your hairbrush, and a framed picture.

There are three winding spirals drawn equal distances apart from one another in the circle. He gently placed your accessory in the center of one, before pulling out a strand of hair from your brush and into the second spiral. One represents sentimental attachments, and the other is something physical for the forces that be to identify a target.

Shu takes great care as he removes the backing of the frame and turns the photo in his hand. He sees himself first. He’s barely holding a giant teddy bear in his arms, and the plush head poked his face, threatening to make the sunglasses on the top of his head fall. On his other side, his beloved partner held the phone in one hand and his shoulder in the other. You timed the phone to take a picture just in time as you pecked his cheek and the beginnings of his blush started to set in. When you printed out the picture, you insisted on captioning it with a thin marker. “5/11/2022: Went to an amusement park and Shu won me a bear. He got a prize too!”

The memory is warm but Shu’s face is still grim. He sets the picture down on the final spiral. Any sorcerer worth their salt knows that you reap what you sow and miracles don’t come from thin air, and if you want that miracle, you’d better be willing to sacrifice something with emotional value.

The picture captured his surprise and your affection from that day, and stares up at him as he stands. It’s been weeks since you were cast out of this reality. Even as a practitioner of the occult, Shu had no idea where the spontaneous portal came from, but it stole you away in front of his eyes. He was lucky he had the instinct to cast identification spells just as soon as you disappeared. They classified the portal as a time travel rift, and allowed him to reverse-engineer a summoning circle to locate and retrieve you. That picture, one of the most recent, was one of his favorites. It marked a shift in his relationship to you that was a long time coming, which is why it was so treasured. He would miss it, but, well, miracles aren’t cheap. He’d make new memories soon when you’re back in his arms in the timeline you’re meant to be in.

Shu lights a stick of incense, and rising smoke couples with the scent of jasmine and palo santo. He allows it to trail around the witch’s hut glamour and cleanse the room, a clean slate for his sorcery. Curses are his specialty, but he’s no stranger to ritual casting. He steps into the circle, and begins his incantation.

Shu’s flames alight after the first verse, a series of commands and words crafted carefully in accordance with the mystical. Shikigami circle around him as he gets to the second, manifestation of his ability. The room feels like it’s floating. Static prickles in the air as it warps, the smoke mixing with the buzz, and for a moment the glamour blurs. It’s the spirit of the circle shifting the world around it as it was programmed to do.

The chalk along the floor brightens, shining luminescent with his words in white to lavender to bright, burning violet. A bead of sweat dribbles down Shu’s neck. It’s getting harder to breathe. If the world intends on taking Reader away from me, he thinks, then I’ll shred the very fabric of space-time itself to bring them back.

His fury is quiet, but concealed under how the air compresses around him. It’s a strange sensation, and if the Yamino name didn’t have generations of magic practitioners before him, the way that the atmosphere around him morphs would take him by surprise and ruin his ritual.

Shu remains steadfast, though, and holds his breath through gritted teeth as the oxygen itself fights to separate itself from the circle. Even his flames flicker at the absence of fuel, and the heat transfers from the halo around his head and into his lungs as the air pressure increases tenfold, and tenfold of that.

The third verse of the incantation is a fight to speak clearly, especially as the movements require him to fight hard against the resistance of literally rending space-time apart in his living room. For a moment he thinks of Atlas, the titan sentenced to hold the world itself. Then he tells himself to get off his high horse, fight the urge to let go of his breath, and finishes the verse half-ready to choke.

As he does the circle of chalk bursts into flames that lap at his feet, now floating in midair, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know the fire spouting from his body resembles pillars more than anything. Doesn’t matter. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but he swears there’s a crack levitating in nothing right in front of him. The fire around him pulses away from the crack and the air gets even tighter, teasing him with the vacuity of the universe he provoked.

The sorcerer thinks of the final verse less of words and more of sounds, anything to make it seem less like all the world’s weight is suffocating him. The crack in space is real. It stares at him unblinkingly.

Even when his eyes are open he’s seeing double, even in the silence he can’t hear himself utter the incantation. His chest is screaming and burning, a red-hot sensation unfamiliar to his purple heat, like claws raking through his lungs and threatening to shred him into ribbons from the inside. The pressure is too much to bear.

The body is practically frozen in place as the vast emptiness of the crack slowly widens into a hole- a portal- and absorbs all the life from the room, and constricts him to where he stands. The claws inside start to pry and drag along his organs running dry without oxygen, and it’s a completely different sensation than incineration, it’s dead and deep, and slow. Shu’s eyes widen and strain, before blinking once, twice, and feeling the world turn upside down as everything goes black. He faints.

The sorcerer gasps alive minutes later, before entering a sharp coughing fit. The burning in his lungs has subsided, but the coughs are raspy and gritty.

Shu clutches a hand over his heart as the memories of the ritual flood back, some areas spottier than others. The last thing he remembers is the way that the portal widened and the watercolor webbing inside of it, freckled starlight between the pure pitch, and clouds of color dyeing the fabric of space-time.

He rolls over weakly. He doesn’t have the energy to stand up. Instead he drags a tired hand over the remains of the magic circle, now a smoldering drawing in the center of his living room. Looks like the witch’s hut glamor faded. Not only that, but the chalk has turned to residual ash, easily brushed away by his fingers.

He inspects the rest of his surroundings as best as he can in his faint bleariness. The incense has gone out long ago, the room is in utter disarray, and barely a speck of dust is left on the spirals where his components were spent. They’re gone.

Shu tries to call your name but before he can get a sound out he’s already choking on his words. He fights to stand upright and clear his throat. He doesn’t know why he tried calling out to you. He should’ve known it was a failure. It’s just that he’s gone so long without you, without answers, without a single successful summoning, but this was the first time he saw the crack in space.

Something’s going right. His body feels like it got caught in a land mine, but he’s on the warpath now, and he’s got his sights set on a new ritual draft, something that will certainly bring you back next time.

Shu hacks out a plume of ashy smoke and violet sparks. He’ll return to the drawing board soon, but he’s overexerted himself like nothing else.

Despite how much his body feels like a crumpled ball of paper, he writhes to a pen and paper knocked to the ground from his ritual. He’ll summon you yet. Hopefully his next ritual won’t result in drowning on land, but he’s not too optimistic. He’s not going to stop until you’re back in his arms or his body gives out entirely, but he can’t kid himself forever. He’s going to burn himself out one day if he keeps this up, either metaphorically or literally.

He writes down new observations from this ritual. It still doesn’t change a thing. He’s going to break himself if it means returning you to where you belong.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

The Voice Demon snaps awake with fire in his eyes and a growl from his throat. He’s been in stasis for what feels like eons but the memory of searing flames and cold wet blood and the razing of Akuma Castle is fresh. His heart aches. A look down and he identifies why: his red shirt is even redder along the center of his chest, and darkness blooms through the fabric in an unsightly stain. He stares underneath the fabric and sure enough, his torso is covered in slashes, though they fade in supernatural speed. This is demonic reincarnation, as expected, the same mind in a new body, the old transfiguring into the new. His blood boils as he watches the lesser lacerations fade into pale skin. The clotted blood reforms, places itself into his open wound, and the skin reseals itself. A fresh patch, an untouched body, a man seemingly unharmed.

It’s nothing compared to the first man fallen in his clan. Shot dead in the temple, an arrow protruding from his brain, pink and red staining the other end of the arrowhead. The young scholar that took up a bow to defend in the castle’s time of need, only for a catapult to sling a boulder directly to their perch, and send them falling to their demise. A woman, well-known by her Kindred for being a second mother to all, and how she went up in flames when the opposing army set fire to her refuge shelter.

Vox was no stranger to combat, and no coward that would allow his clan to fall for his sake while he stood by. He took to the battlefield, sword in hand, accompanied by his most trusted advisor and most capable warrior.

“Be safe,” was all you said before you armed yourself with your treasured naginata, grabbed him for a life-or-death kiss, and launched into the fray beside your lord.

You worked in tandem with Lord Akuma. His sword slid bodies for you to stab through, confirming they would never rise again. But you were only two of 522, and Tokugawa’s troops made short work of the defenseless, the inexperienced, the unprepared.

Blood pooled along your naginata blade, but when you could catch a glimpse of the metal, it reflected the burning of Akuma Castle behind you. You dodged one blade and blocked another, then skewered the man for his sloppy mistake.

Vox fought his own battles, now, as the shogun commanded his troops to target the lord of the castle. His sword caught on the bone of a soldier before slicing another. He snapped his wrist, shaking the two off his weapon, before raising it into a defensive position in time with another attacker.

You spun the naginata in your hands and fell back to reposition. The maneuver forced your enemies to approach, just in time for you to attack first. They dwindled in number. You were no longer the priority. You held your own against another warrior, decorated in medals and a wakizashi in their hands, more seasoned than the last unit you fought against.

The duel was a mind game, littered with fake-outs and feints, neither you or the warrior landing a blow. Their movements were calculated, without an obvious weakness, so you focused on observation. Their slashes were quick and left little room for a counterattack. They stayed in your face so your naginata can’t outrange them. They were mobile, moving low and high, their body contorting unpredictably against the backdrop of your burning home and-

And Lord Vox…!

You screamed his name. One of the bodies, one you recognized, still moving. Bloodied, barely alive, but quiet, behind your lord, raising his blade.

“Behind you! VOX!” You cried out so loud your throat went hoarse, only for blood to pour out of your mouth.

In your attempt to warn your lord, the warrior noticed an opening, and drove their wakizashi through your neck.

Vox spun on his heel at your command and drove his sword clean through the ambusher, only to watch as you fell to the mud. “Reader!”

He howled as a knife drove through his arm, the first good hit against him. You didn’t move. Another katana next. The gash on his leg disabled his movement. The fire against his blade flashed. Your body laid in a pool of your own blood. Tokugawa stood before him and pulled his own weapon back, aiming for the heart. You were dead, and he was no fool, but the sword plunged forward…

Vox stands. The ground below him, concrete. Across from him is a tiled wall and railroad tracks. He turns on his heel, fury in his eyes, ready to tear apart this subway station. “Woah, dude,” the man next to him says jokingly. His beard is turning gray and he’s covered in a worn winter jacket, and stays seated on the ground.

“Piss off,” Vox snarls.

The man is as unbothered as ever, but seems concerned. “No thank you. Er, you good?”

“Good? Why, yes, I’m the very picture of ‘good’.” Vox lowers himself to the man’s eyes. He slams a fist against the wall, next to his head, as his words alight with poison and ember through gritted teeth. His voice burns demonic. “I said, get out of my sight like the vermin you are and PISS. OFF.”

The man’s face, once so calm and and sympathetic, forms into a visage of fear. He trembles like a deer in headlights before pushing Vox out of the way and bolting further into the subway.

The subway platform Vox finds himself in is dismal and lonely. It’s dark, with some broken fluorescent lighting, and debris along the ground. The signs suggest the next train isn’t arriving anytime soon.

So Vox wracks his hands over his face, contorted in rage, and screams. When he runs out of breath he inhales and cries out again, ugliness crawling out of his throat, and when he closes his eyes he imagines the ugliness as blood, the splatters that coated your lips as you fell. The wakizashi sword through your neck.

He can’t form words, but the heartbreak is primal. It echoes through the empty station, and when his voice shatters into a sob the acoustics remind him of his mourning. His broken heart tightens, tries to reform itself around the blood of his chest, and only gives him palpitations that lodge in his chest.

Panic becomes him. What else could he be? Vox’s legacy is besmirched, his subjects slain, and most brutal of all, his greatest love gave their life to warn him in futility. He heeded their advice but- but the shaking in his heart, it’s so stifling, he can’t think straight, he needs to sit down- but he was useless to do the one thing you requested, to be safe. Now here he is, another casualty right after you fell, without the grace to even stay a dead lord. In another world, with another chance at life, and the first thing he does is spiral. How pathetic of Lord Akuma. Utterly disgusting. Even after his demonic blood gave him another chance, he’s spending it bawling like a baby, crumpled on the ground of a grungy subway station, his breath so shallow he feels like he’s about to die again.

Misery. He’s too afraid to take in the world around him without the comfort of you, so his hands tangle into his hair and against his tears. Rebirth is nothing to an infernal, but today, the very picture of grief, the Voice Demon has been defeated for the first time in his immortal life.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

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