harmony sinclair has his weird tendency of showing affection. (slight suggestive (?)
whenever sinclair is equipped with this particular ego, you find your patience wearing dangerously thin.
it’s not because of the blood, of course - such things are bound to be a common sign in this hellhole anyway - but rather his peculiar tendency of showing what he insists is “affection for such is a vital sample of unmatched harmony” (whatever that means) via, plainly, biting.
it’s all the more bothersome that, even with prior warnings, you still end up bitten at the most unpredictable times in battle. one moment your focus is locked on the abnormality before you, and the next sinclair lunges in with a maniacal grin, muttering something about “delightful chord” just before his teeth graze your arm.
“sinclair??” you swat him away the moment the pain registers, sharp and immediate as it gnaws into your skin; followed by the warmth of something slowly beginning to seep from the wound.
“the wing- did you just seriously. .” you growl, eyes narrowing with clear irritation as the realization crashed in. yes. he’s done it again. despite it all.
“ah, my apologies. . but the expression you made just now - the tension, the pain. . it resonates so vividly. a most. . fascinating harmony!”
before he can ramble further about this so‑called “harmony” - living up to the name of his ego, you suppose - as if he is not going to pay anything for biting deep into your flesh so unreasonably, your hand comes down hard against his head, ultimately silencing the rest.
or so you thought.
his grin falters for the briefest fraction of a second - before it blooms again, curling across his lips in a way that borders on something almost masochistic.
afterward, you find yourself gazing over at the manager, clearly signaling ‘assistance is required and preferably immediately’, all the while the champagne-haired man resumes scheming about making some sort of ‘chord’ out of you, his voice - tinged with that same unsettling enthusiasm - drifting from one side of your hearing to the other.
. . .
“STOP BITING ME??”
turns out, ignoring his scheming murmurs is not, in fact, beneficial for your poor skin all the time.
༚ ◜notes. i suppose it’s either a strange hyperfixation on this german boy or maybe adha of sorts. can’t help wishing i had the kind of self‑discipline binah seems to embody.
➤ LCB
while the obvious downside here is that he nearly never initiates kisses himself no matter how badly he may want to, his kisses are still full of love and devotion all the same. they’re mostly fleeting - almost shy to even let your skins touch for too long - but he’s always careful with you. careful with the way he cups your face, careful with the pressure of his lips, careful with making it a ‘proper’ kiss you’d genuinely enjoy.
➤ ZWEI ASSOC. SOUTH SECTION 6
much like his base self, his kisses remain rather short-lived - restrained by both force of habit and lingering shyness alike.
however, if he so much as senses that his briefness left you even slightly disappointed, he’ll immediately try making up for it in other ways like bringing back small gifts from missions, remembering passing remarks about things you wanted weeks prior, or awkwardly offering another kiss later once the two of you are somewhere private and safe enough for him to properly gather his courage.
➤ LOBOTOMY E.G.O::RED SHEET
due to the e.g.o’s effects, both his kisses - and his personality as a whole - become noticeably bolder.
he likes tracing his lips along the shell of your ear, the corner of your mouth, your jaw - lingering just long enough to leave you flustered before finally pressing a kiss against your lips when you least expect it. there’s a subtle teasing streak to him now - one he hardly bothers concealing anyways - and he seems to take far more amusement in watching your reactions beneath his touch than he probably should.
➤ MOLAR BOATWORKS FIXER
his kisses tend to carry traces of seawater, mechanic oil, rusted metal, and the lingering scent of those crabs’ fluids clinging stubbornly onto his clothes and skin after work. because of that, he’d much rather clean himself up properly before kissing you, growing reasonably self-conscious over the thought of you having to deal with the grime and scent still lingering on him.
however, if you still insist despite his protests, he’ll eventually give in with a sigh and a faintly embarrassed expression.
➤ BLADE LINEAGE SALSU
being within a syndicate such as the blade lineage leaves him tense more often than not, thus even something as simple as expressing affection through kissing you tends to make him noticeably nervous beforehand. he much prefers pressing soft kisses against your knuckles or forehead first - partially because they feel gentler, and partially because he’s not entirely certain he could withstand the overwhelming heat blooming across his face otherwise.
there’s also the lingering thought that his mentor may very well scold him later for indulging in such distractions for even a moment too long.
➤ THE ONE WHO SHALL GRIP
his kisses carry the faint taste of blood, assuming you manage to get him to kiss you at all. and no, it’s hardly ever on the lips, if ever. generally, he doesn’t believe himself deserving of something so intimate from you in the first place. his touches are fleeting to an almost painful degree; the very second his lips brush against your skin, he’s already pulling away again as though lingering any longer would be a sin in itself.
that said, on those rare occasions where everything becomes far too overwhelming - when the noise in his head grows unbearable enough for him to seek even the briefest distraction from it all - then perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll kiss you differently. not hesitant nor restrained this time, but desperate - intense in a way that borders on frightening, as if he’s trying to drown himself within the moment before guilt inevitably claws its way back into his chest afterward.
➤ CINQ ASSOC. SOUTH SECTION 4 DIRECTOR
perhaps the association’s influence rubbed off on him more than he initially realized - he delights taking your hand first, pressing kisses against your gloves or fingertips before eventually moving upward with slowly growing confidence in the manner of a knight.
despite the ‘elegance’ he tries maintaining, however, nervousness still betrays him in smaller ways: the faint flush creeping onto his ears afterward, the way his gaze briefly darts away once he realizes how long he’s been staring at you, or how he quietly clears his throat before attempting another smooch as though mentally preparing himself for a level 3 duel.
in addition, he’d kiss you behind a hat like in those clinché scenes too - if only his hesitation didn’t stop him.
➤ DEVYAT’ ASSOC. NORTH SECTION 3
his kisses tend to happen in passing - brief moments stolen between work, travel, or conversations. there’s something oddly domestic about them despite the nature of his occupation; a quick kiss against your hair while organizing documents, another pressed absentmindedly against your shoulder while walking beside you, one more before disappearing off toward another assignment.
however, the longer he spends away from you, the more noticeable his clinginess becomes once he finally returns. then his busses grow considerably more lingering, almost reluctant to end as though trying to make up for every moment of absence all at once.
➤ THE MIDDLE LITTLE BROTHER
i get the feeling that while his kisses are usually shy and loving most of the time, sure, but there are occasions where they become noticeably rougher around the edges due to the environment he’s within - mainly whenever his temper gets the better of him.
in those moments, affection tends to happen impulsively - sudden grabs at your wrist before pulling you closer, sharp kisses pressed against your mouth or jaw with poorly concealed frustration still simmering beneath them. he also grows visibly irritated whenever those moments are interrupted midway through.
still, such hot-headed outbursts are rather uncommon for him overall - happening only once in a blue moon.
➤ THE THUMB EAST SOLDATO II
no matter how badly he wishes to shower you in affection, being a member of the thumb means obedience above all else. rules are followed with absolute precision there; even a single misplaced word may cost someone their tongue.
thereupon, before long, kisses - affection in general, really - become something tortuously difficult for him to express openly. at best, you receive brief touches against your temple, your knuckles, the back of your hand whenever his superior happens to be looking elsewhere that day.
still, there remains something undeniably tender about those fleeting moments - perhaps because you know exactly how much he risks merely to allow himself even that smallest indulgence.
➤ HEISHOU PACK - YOU BRANCH
now due to the effects of the bolus - which transformed his branch into the most bloodthirsty and battle-driven of all - even his gestures of closeness carry that same ferocity. what should be tender becomes violent equally to he’s starved to the bone. contact with him rarely leaves you unmarked; bruises, scratches, and streaks of blood often linger across your lips, neck, and exposed skin badly enough to nearly require medical bolus treatment afterward.
and this is considered the ‘lighter’ version only because he still retains enough restraint not to completely lose himself at the sight of you stained beneath his hands.
➤ THE PINKY APPRENTICE
affection is something he carves for so deeply, after all. his kisses are filled with nothing but devotion and extreme carefulness - treating the act with an almost sacred sort of gentleness, as if even the slightest roughness from him would taint something he cherishes so dearly.
afterward, especially during days spent alone, he often finds himself resurfacing those memories again and again, quietly clinging to the warmth of such evanescent moments in an attempt to soften the solitude slowly beginning to grow teeth.
Please please please comfort with Sinclair or DonQui 🥹🥹🥹 could be Abt something related to the reader's canto or smth idk I just wanna see u write for my babies BCS I love your writing style!!!
Feel free to deny ts tho, ik writing can get rlly tough sometimes :)
Hope you have a nice day/night!!!
──── THE SHAPE OF CONCERN.
( gn.sinner.reader ) — there's a peculiar loneliness that comes with shouldering everything alone, and an equally peculiar exhaustion that comes from truly believing there is no one upon whom you may rely in return.
while the rest of mephistopheles settles into slumber, one sinner in particular finds himself unable to overlook the uncharacteristic weariness concealed beneath your usual dependable composure.
ⓘ an 、this was intended to be posted much sooner if burnout hadn't jumped me in a dark alley first. and since this request has been sitting around for like more than 2 months now, i did my best to finally finish it. hopefully it doesn't seem like i raw dogged the writing process too hard. if it does, no it doesn't.
at first glance, sinclair saw you as someone firmly placed at the top of the list of individuals he would never approach - unless sheer necessity demanded it.
you are distant, unapproachable, and intimidating. even a single glare from your place is enough to make him sweat; even the simplest joint observation of abnormalities leaves him feeling as though he is walking on eggshells.
yet on the other hand, you embody everything he could never be - disciplined, working more than talking, decisive and effective in combat, consistently performing beyond expectations whether pressure is present or not.
perhaps that is why - despite your personality, despite the way you twist a knot of discomfort in his stomach - he wouldn’t have it any other way. he admires you.
he longs to be like you.
and perhaps that’s the reason he finds himself always observing from a safe distance, always tacitly admiring your precise movements - far more intently than those of any of his colleagues.
thus, when fate finally decides it is time for your deepest secrets to surface - your canto - he finds himself overcome by a mixture of emotions all at once.
excitement - at last, learning more than the three words you barely utter out of reticence; anticipation - the chance to finally glimpse the layers beneath your stoic exterior, to understand the source of the discipline and restraint that always set you apart; and unease - the realization that what lies beneath may not be simple strength, but scars and burdens that shaped the person he reveres.
as it unfolds, that fear proves not entirely misplaced.
the canto does not expose strength so much as it lays bare something far more fragile - something you had never intended for others to see.
and though resolution may come in time, in this moment, there is no comfort to be found in it - sinclair understands that much.
therefore, it is no surprise that you remain awake beneath the moon’s rise, long past its arrival. but then, why is he here too?
. . . to put it simply, he couldn’t help himself. whether his attempt will succeed or not, he feels compelled to try. he can’t stand idly by while the one he respects endures such a state, as though sinclair himself were suffering in equal measure.
thus - slowly, carefully, deliberately with each step - sinclair makes his way toward where your slightly rigid form sits.
the moonlight filters through the dull, grey‑toned window of the bus, painting you in pale strokes of silver as shadows ink themselves into the corners, fragments of the quiet night stitched across your figure.
he pauses for a moment, taking a breath hesitantly, as if the distance between you is more than just a few steps. it feels like crossing a threshold, like daring to enter a space that has always been yours alone.
yet he moves forward still, because the weight in his chest won’t let him stay still no matter what. admiration has become concern, and concern has become resolve.
“um, h-hello,” he starts, the syllables tumbling over each other; hardly the way one imagines a proper greeting.
“hello,” you return, your voice flat and monotonous as ever - no trace of surprise in it, no indication that his presence has disrupted anything at all.
“i. . i noticed you’re still awake. it’s late, and. . well, i thought maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“alone or not, it isn’t something you should trouble yourself over.”
ah.
“i was just. . worried,” he admits, the words slipping out softer than he’d prefer, yet anything but a lie. “so i thought i’d check on you.”
as you attempt to form a response, your eyes widen - merely slightly, but enough to betray your genuine surprise all the same. as though of all things, his concern is the one you least expected.
of course it does.
you had always chosen to face it alone. every battle, every moment of dread, every lingering uncertainty - to the point solitude had long since settled into something familiar, something dependable.
something safer than relying on others.
and yet, here he is.
still standing here, still trying.
“i just wanted to let you know. .” he says, voice faltering again as he struggles to steady it. “. . . you don’t have to handle everything by yourself.”
“i know i’m not exactly the most reliable person,” he admits with a nervous breath, careful with each word. “but if you ever need someone to sit with you, or just. . . be here, i can do that.”
“. . .”
“i know the silence can be overbearing sometimes.”
the words settled between you, lingering within the bleak atmosphere of the bus long after they had been spoken. for a brief moment, you found yourself simply staring at him. perhaps it was because you had expected many things from sinclair tonight - awkward encouragement, hesitant attempts at comfort, even nervous rambling - but not this. not concern directed toward you with such sincerity that it bordered on painful.
yet despite the surprise, you found yourself unable to dismiss it. instead, your gaze drifted toward the empty seat beside you. after a moment's hesitation, you outstretched a hand and gestured toward it in silent invitation.
sinclair's eyes widened ever so slightly before relief softened the tension in his shoulders. he wasted little time accepting the offer, carefully lowering himself into the vacant seat as though fearful that lingering too long might somehow cause you to change your mind. even then, he remained cautious, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you - close enough to be considered company, yet far enough to avoid intruding upon whatever boundaries he imagined you might have preferred.
for a while, neither of you spoke.
the silence that followed wasn’t particularly comfortable, but neither was it unpleasant. it simply existed. unlike the countless nights before, it no longer pressed against your chest with suffocating weight, nor did it seem intent on swallowing every thought that crossed your mind.
outside the windows, the city remained awake despite the late hour. distant lights flickered across the darkness, their reflections dancing faintly against the glass. from where you sat, they almost resembled stars scattered carelessly across the horizon, too far away to reach and yet impossible to ignore.
sinclair appeared content simply to remain there.
he didn’t attempt to force conversation, didn’t pry into wounds you clearly had no desire to discuss - instead, he sat quietly at your side, hands folded neatly within his lap as if afraid even the smallest movement might disturb the fragile peace that had settled between you.
for someone who viewed himself as unreliable, sinclair possessed a remarkable talent for staying precisely where he was needed.
and though you would never admit such a thing aloud, you found that you didn’t mind his presence nearly as much as you once thought you would.
“. . . you think so?” after a considerable amount of time spent simply sitting beside one another and allowing the silence to drift where it pleased, your voice finally rises to meet the stillness. the question hangs between you for a moment, suspended somewhere within the pale moonlight filtering through the bus windows.
sinclair turns toward you.
“yeah.”
the champagne-haired man answers without much hesitation this time. his voice remains characteristically soft, although there is a certainty to it that wasn’t there before.
“i do.”
for a brief moment, he seems content to leave it at that.
then, as if realizing such a short answer may not sufficiently explain himself, he lowers his gaze toward his hands and continues.
“i mean. . . i know everyone needs time alone sometimes. i do too.” a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips, small enough that it nearly disappears before it fully forms. “but there's a difference between wanting to be by yourself and feeling like you have to be.”
his gaze drifts back toward the darkened window as he speaks, watching his reflection blur amongst the distant lights beyond the glass. perhaps it’s easier to say these things when he isn’t looking directly at you. perhaps it’s because he understands the feeling far better than he wishes to admit.
after all, there had once been a time when he believed every burden placed upon his shoulders belonged there; a time when guilt felt so natural that he scarcely questioned its presence. even now, despite everything he had endured and overcome, traces of that habit remained stubbornly woven into him.
it’s difficult to ask for help when one becomes accustomed to suffering in silence.
maybe that is precisely why he came here tonight.
“you know,” sinclair continues after a brief pause, fingers idly smooths a wrinkle from his sleeve. “everyone always talks about how dependable you are.”
“how calm you stay, how you always seem to know what to do, even when things get bad.”
“whenever something happens, people look to you.”
the man exhales deliberately.
“. . . i do too.”
his shoulders stiffen almost immediately after the admission leaves his mouth. whether from embarrassment or simple self-awareness is difficult to say. regardless, he doesn’t attempt to retract it - there would be little point in doing so.
the words are true.
perhaps not everyone aboard mephistopheles looks toward you in moments of uncertainty - such a thing would be impossible. every sinner possesses their own opinions, preferences, and grievances. however, enough of them do. enough that when a difficult decision arises or circumstances begin deteriorating beyond control, their gazes often drift toward the same person.
“but nobody can be that person all the time. eventually someone has to ask how you’re doing too.”
the statement itself is simple. remarkably simple, at that. so simple that by the way he says it, it almost sounds as though it should have always been obvious. the sort of thing that ought never require verbal confirmation in the first place.
“we’re all human at the end of the day, aren’t we?” a small chuckle escapes him then. maybe an attempt to alleviate the increasingly melancholic atmosphere hanging over the conversation - if so, it achieves limited success. “we might be sinners, and we might be able to come back because of the manager’s power to turn the clock.”
still, the smile accompanying it remains.
“but we’re still human.”
“and humans aren’t machines. we can’t just keep going because circumstances demand it. we can’t keep carrying everything without feeling anything.”
for a moment, his attention drops once more toward his lap, the golden shades of his eye dimmed for a fraction of second - as if there is this memory that drift by as he speaks.
“eventually we’’ll get tired too. physically, mentally, emotionally. . . sometimes all three at once.”
more often than not, people throughout the city treated such things as flaws - fatigue, hesitation, fear, grief,. . . they were imperfections to be corrected, inconveniences to be overcome. there was an entire industry dedicated to replacing human limitations with mechanical alternatives, after all. stronger limbs, sharper senses, faster reactions - countless methods existed for improving the body. yet despite all of that, a human heart remained stubbornly difficult to replace.
perhaps that’s what sinclair is attempting to say.
“people like to act as if those things are weaknesses, that they’re proof something is wrong with us.”
“but i don’t think that’s true.” his brows draw together ever so slightly as he speaks, gaze drifting away toward some indistinct corner of the bus. it still seems incapable of remaining upon yours for long. “because if getting tired means you’ve been trying your best this whole time - and doing it all by yourself, at that - then i don’t think that’s something to be ashamed of .”
“and with the fact that humans are social creatures at their core,” he adds. “i think it's completely okay to let someone else carry part of that burden for a little while.”
“that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
ah.
there it is again - that peculiar smile of his.
small and unassuming, lacking the confidence or charm one might find elsewhere. yet despite its simplicity, there’s something strangely soothing about it. something sincere enough that it becomes difficult to look away from.
under ordinary circumstances, you wouldn’t have paid much attention to such trivial, insignificant things.
for the longest time, your concerns rarely extended beyond yourself - the thoughts, emotions, and troubles of the other sinners aboard this damned bus had always remained comfortably distant, separated from you by walls you had carefully constructed over time. it was a selfish mindset, certainly, but not an unusual one. humans, by their very nature, are selfish creatures. they learn to prioritize their own survival long before they concern themselves with anyone else’s.
yet somewhere along the way, your emotions had begun slipping through the cracks.
maybe the events of your canto had weakened those walls, maybe exhaustion had finally worn them down, or maybe you had simply grown careless.
whatever the reason, enough had escaped for someone - sinclair, in particular - to notice. enough for him to walk across the bus in the middle of the night and sit beside you now.
curiously, the realization fails to evoke either the instinctive unease or the daily void you presumed it might.
as robotic and emotionless as you may appear, you have always despised being understood too effortlessly. despised being read like a book. despised the sensation of someone peering beneath the surface and uncovering the vulnerabilities you worked so carefully to conceal. despised being stripped of the armor you forged, left exposed in ways you never consented to.
yet as you sit beside him now, listening to the quiet conviction in his voice and observing the awkward earnestness that accompanies every word, those feelings fail to arrive.
all you find instead is a sense of understanding within his companionship.
and perhaps, for the first time in a very long while - someone who showed you that your colleagues admire you, that they recognize how dependable you are. someone who reminded you that it’s acceptable to let others carry the weight for a while. someone who checked in on how you were doing.
as your own gaze meets his shimmering golden eyes, you finally acknowledge that you are not alone, nor were you ever meant to be.
a single ‘hypothetical name combination’ is all it takes to reduce SINCLAIR into a blushing, stammering mess.
“your full name’s emil sinclair, right?”
sinclair blinks, visibly caught off guard by the sudden question. the two of you had merely been having an ordinary conversation moments ago, so the abrupt shift leaves him scrambling slightly for context.
did he say something wrong? misspeak somewhere earlier perhaps?
“. . .yeah?” he answers after a second, giving a small nod. “why?”
you hum thoughtfully for dramatic effect before flashing him a thumbs-up.
“nice name.”
“huh?”
“i was just thinking,” you continue far too casually for whatever direction this conversation is apparently heading toward. “if our names were put together, would it sound good?”
sinclair stares at you with a completely dumbfounded expression.
“something like, emil [name].” you suggest ever so innocently. “doesn’t that sound kinda neat?”
for several seconds that feel equivalent to an eternity itself, sinclair genuinely forgets how to respond.
in reality, however, his face is rapidly adopting an alarming shade of red, conveying quite effectively that he is, in fact, internally combusting on the spot.
“what?!” he blurts out far louder than intended, eyes widening as he blinks frantically. “w-wait, why are you saying it like that all of a sudden?!”
“what’s the problem?” you ask innocently, as though you hadn’t just casually and passively proposed marriage in the middle of a conversation. “you don’t like it?”
“n-no, that’s not what i mean-”
the poor boy completely short-circuits halfway through his sentence, his entire system seemingly shutting down as both hands immediately fly up to cover a face now bearing an uncanny resemblance to a tomato.
meanwhile, you can’t help the amused grin tugging at your lips as you watch him struggle this hard over a single hypothetical name combination.
“. . . you’re doing this on purpose. .” sinclair mumbles weakly from behind his hands, unable to meet your gaze anymore.
“maybe,” you simply shrug.
“that’s so unfair.”
“and yet you still haven’t answered my question.”
the champagne-haired man lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine.
“. . i-i think it sounds nice.”
“aw, really?” you giggle, absentmindedly poking at the makeshift shield of hands he’d raised in a futile attempt to hide his overly flustered state.
hex nail sinclair wraps you in a sudden hug at a rather inconvenient time.
as soon as you become aware of the sudden rise in temperature - brought on by finding yourself within sinclair’s embrace - you also register what follows in stark contrast: a flow of pain, as though enormous needles are slowly driving themselves as deep as they can into your flesh.
you immediately snap out of it and push against him, attempting to force him away - seeking to rid yourself of the pain as quickly as possible like any normal person would.
yet, as expected, it does not work. if anything, the increasingly deep growl rumbling under his breath is alarmingly unsatisfactory. this isn’t labeled an abnormality for nothing, huh.
it feels akin to trying to push a ridiculously massive rock with bare hands - except its surface is wrong. soft and fluffy, albeit beneath those textures lies a resistance that is rigid. jagged, even.
calling out proves just as futile. whatever remains of him cannot respond in this corroded state. that much is made painfully clear by the absence of your weapon, now thrown several paces away, far from where you are effectively held within his grasp.
but if you allow yourself to ignore the pain. . . his embrace is not entirely unwelcome. there is a certain warm comfort to it, one that feels misplaced given the circumstances. though not exactly safe, either.
before long, as if sensing your thoughts, the throbbing ache that once coursed through your veins begins to fade. despite the blood soaking into your uniform where his nails have pierced you, what remains is no longer agony but a strange, cushioned pressure. something like a soft, sponge-like weight pressing carefully against your stomach.
. . . did that, by any chance, change just because you refused to stay in his grasp?
no, of course not. that can’t be the case. right?
whatever. letting out a quiet sigh of defeat as ignorance takes the helm, you find yourself slowly leaning against the softened surface of his suit. the sound that escapes him - seemingly content, almost like a purr - works like a lure, guiding your exhaustion closer, coaxing you into surrender.
and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself rest; even knowing full well that what you’re giving in to is anything but safe.
after all, a refraction railway run is enough to wear anyone down. and sinclair’s warped suit, softened at the surface, proves suitable enough to serve as a temporary bed. however dangerous the foundation beneath may be.
after much coaxing - sinclair finally relents, letting you near the mess of feathers trailing behind him like war-torn banners. they’re tangled, dirt-streaked, kissed with dried crimson.
your fingers begin their work, gentle and deliberate. at first, he shivers - a silver flicker of surprise, unfamiliar with warmth that doesn’t demand anything in return. despite the chaos, his feathers are smooth beneath your touch, soft in a way that feels almost sacred.
he grumbles, of course. something about “not needing help” and “they’re fine,” but the way his wings slowly spread - just a bit - betrays him. he’s flustered, clearly. you can feel it in the way he leans in, ever so slightly, like a tired bird finding shelter.
when you’re done, he mumbles a shy “thank you,” voice barely above a whisper. if you dare tease him - call it a personal session or something equally embarrassing - he’ll either slap his wings across your face with a huff (affectionate, mostly) or yank his hat down so far you wonder if he’s trying to disappear entirely.
there is something lodged within your throat. a rock. thick. jagged. suffocating.
it presses against your airway no matter how hard you try to swallow it down. every attempt only makes it feel sharper, like splinters digging deeper into the flesh of your throat until even breathing begins to hurt.
nausea crawls violently up your stomach - acidic and vile - leaving your mouth tasting bitter enough to make you feel like retching right there on the spot.
your breath hitches again. and again.
it comes out broken every single time - uneven gasps tripping over each other before your lungs can properly fill. each inhale too shallow, each exhale too velocious. chest burns from the strain of it, tightening so painfully it feels as though invisible hands are crushing your ribs inward.
the air is cold. so cold.
yet your skin feels feverish underneath it.
your arms tremble uncontrollably - each shudder dragging humiliation and weariness along. numb fingertips still register the clammy weight of sweat against your palms. the room itself begins to blur around the edges. shapes smearing together in a dizzying haze whenever you so much as blink.
it hurts. the pounding headache. the bile threatening to rise. the soreness gnawing at every sense. it’s all-consuming.
“. . . -look at me,” the tender words break through your thoughts all at once - soft, unsteady, yet carrying a desperate sort of sincerity that seems to mirrors your own. “please.”
slowly, reluctantly, you raise your head. vision remains blurred beneath the disgusting layer of dried tears clinging to your lashes. be that as it may, even through the haze, the unmistakable shade of blond comes into focus before you.
worry sits plainly across sinclair’s expression. raw and unhidden. his hand reaches toward you carefully - almost hesitant - before his palm finally settles against the overheated skin of your cheek. the touch is warm. grounding. his thumb brushes slowly beneath your eye, brushing away the remnants of tears as though he could somehow ease even a fraction of your pain away through something so small.
you can see it in the way his brows knit together. hear it in the faint shakiness of his breathing.
his heart aches. because of you.
“i’m. . . so sorry.” he whispers at last - an apology. genuine and helpless. doesn’t know if his voice can even reach you through the noise clawing relentlessly at your senses at the moment. yet he still tries regardless.
god. you feel pathetic.
guilt soon twists violently inside your chest. sharp enough to make you feel sick all over again. dragging him into this. forcing him to witness something so ugly. burdening him with feelings that were meant to drown you and you alone.
before you can create more distance between the two of you by backing away, sinclair suddenly pulls you into an embrace.
“don’t push yourself away from me right now. please.” he murmurs softly. desperately. voice muffled against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you. not suffocating nor restraining. just firm enough to keep you from sinking further into those horrible, spiraling thoughts.
firm enough to remind you that he’s here despite everything. that even if you sink beneath an ocean of grief and agony, clawing despairingly for air while the weight of it drags you deeper and deeper - he will still be there for you.
the warmth of his body bleeds slowly into your freezing yet burning skin, thawing something numb and aching deep within your ribs. your hands twitch uncertainly before slowly lifting from where they had been clawing uselessly against the sheets. they hover near his back, trembling. hesitant.
your gaze shifts ever so sluggishly from the ground to the space ahead of you. everything remains nothing but a blur - your vision included. your eyes tremble viciously, as though trying hopelessly to rid themselves of those revolting images carved into your mind, yet no clarity ever comes.
merely emptiness. blank and vacant. or perhaps it’s simply something beyond your ability to comprehend at this moment. regardless, it’s still kinder than the violent rush of panic clawing against every corner of your senses moments prior.
as though sensing your heartbeat tardily beginning to return to a steadier rhythm, sinclair’s grip softens ever so slightly in turn. one of his hands moves carefully to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair in slow, repetitive motions. tender. grounding.
“you don’t have to force yourself to look alright for my sake.” he mutters gingerly, every word coaxed out with such careful sincerity that it makes your chest ache all over again.
you try - so hard - to force even the smallest response out of your dry, aching throat. nothing comes. your lips part, then close again. once. twice. over and over. nothing forms. only another dreadful sound threatening to tear itself free from your gullet.
eventually, no matter how much sinclair longs to keep holding you like this forever, he waveringly pulls away from the embrace. just ample for your eyes to meet his - one pair glimmers painfully beneath the faint golden hue resting within them, heavy with worry and hurt so openly displayed it almost feels unbearable to witness.
nevertheless, there is still something within the very same gaze of his that finally reminds your lungs how to breathe again. hesitantly. gradually.
“. . . this feeling won’t consume you forever,” he whispers, voice faintly quivering despite his attempt at certainty, as he reaches out to intertwine his hand with yours - a fragile gesture meant to seal his next words.
