Chapter Two-hundred Ninety-Seven: Crawling Terrors

Chapter 297

Crawling Terrors

Narcisse released Jaxon’s chin with a deliberate, slow glide of his thumb. The quiet clink of a glass terrarium lid sliding open echoed sharply in the cavernous, rotting suite.

Narcisse: “You think this little carnival has exhausted its horrors, Jiro?”

His voice was a low, velvet murmur, tinged with cruel amusement.

Narcisse: “Let us see how that proud spirit fares against your true disgust.”

In the pitch-black behind the silk blindfold, Jaxon heard the faint, dry rustle of chitinous legs scraping against glass. The sound hit him like a physical blow, turning the blood in his veins to absolute ice.

Jaxon: “Wait—”

His voice cracked, the defiant venom instantly replaced by sheer, suffocating panic.

Jaxon: “No. No, no, no—don’t you dare—”

Before the plea could leave his mouth, a sudden, scuttling weight landed directly on his bare chest.

Six bristling, barbed legs scratched frantically over his sternum, darting erratically across his trembling skin. Then came another. And another. The dry, greasy rustle of heavy brown carapaces swept over the bare expanse exposed by the parted dragon robe, their antennae whipping against his collarbone as they skittered in erratic loops over his ribs.

A choked, strangled shriek tore out of Jaxon’s throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated entomophobic terror.

Jaxon: “GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF ME!”

He violently convulsed, thrashing against the bed with terrifying force. The heavy mahogany frame shrieked against the rotting floorboards as he bucked his torso upward, frantically trying to dislodge the scuttling vermin. His bound wrists wrenched against the nautical cords until the friction scorched his skin, his knuckles whitening as he clawed at empty air.

Deprived of his sight, every frantic scrape of their spiny legs felt magnified a thousand times over, an invasive, crawling nightmare swarming across his bare flesh. His vitakinetic energy flared wildly, healing his skin in chaotic, desperate waves that only seemed to agitate the insects, making them scurry faster across his heaving chest toward the hollow of his throat.

Jaxon: “AHAHA—NO! FUCK, GET THEM OFF!”

He wailed, tears spilling rapidly from beneath the blindfold, his breath dissolving into hyperventilating, jagged sobs as he violently wriggled against the sheets.

Jaxon: “PLEASE—PLEASE GET THEM OFF!”

Narcisse stood at the edge of the mattress, arms folded, watching his prized treasure come undone. A cold, victorious smirk curved his lips as he listened to the absolute ruin of Jaxon’s sanity echo off the Grand Pavilion of Wonders’ decaying walls.

The dry, prickling scratches multiplied across Jaxon’s bare skin. Heavy, armored bodies scurried in frantic, erratic darts over his ribs and stomach, but the tipping point came when a set of spiny, bristling legs clambered up the slope of his collarbone and latched directly onto the hollow of his neck.

The cold, greasy tickle of antennae swept against his jawline.

Jaxon: “Iya—! Yamete! Yamero yo, kuso!”

He shrieked, his voice fracturing into pure, unbridled hysteria.

Jaxon: “Tore! Hayaku tore tteba! Goki… GOKIBURI! Iya da, iya da, iya da—!!”

His entire body snapped into violent, frantic convulsions. He wrenched his neck sideways with brutal force, slamming his head back into the pillows in a desperate attempt to dislodge the creature clinging to his throat. His heels dug into the mattress, bucking his hips off the sheets so hard the heavy four-poster frame rattled and groaned against the floorboards.

Jaxon: “Dareka—! Jordi! Tasukete, kocchi da!”

He sobbed out in a ragged, suffocating wail, tears streaming hot and fast beneath the soaked blindfold.

Jaxon: “Tasukete kure... hontou ni muri dakara... kore dake wa iya da yo…!”

The insects ran in a more frantic frenzy, their barbed legs skittering faster across his heaving sternum, scrambling over his hypersensitive skin in chaotic loops.

Narcisse stood at the bedside, arms folded neatly across his lavender double-breasted suit. He watched, thoroughly entranced by the exquisite, frantic poetry of Jaxon’s breakdown. The foreign syllables tumbled out like broken glass—raw, breathless, and stripped of every defense.

Narcisse: “Listen to that…”

He murmured with a low, purring chuckle, adjusting his jacket lapel.

Narcisse: “You shed your adopted tongue so quickly when pushed to the edge, mon cher. Such a magnificent, broken melody.”

Jaxon: “KISSAMA! Kuso kurae!”

He wept into the pitch-black of the blindfold, choking on his own ragged breaths as the roach on his neck crawled higher, its prickly limbs brushing against his earlobe.

Jaxon: “Yamero… tanumu kara… tore yo…!!”

One of the heavy, armored insects scurried down Jaxon’s calf, its sharp claws catching on the smooth skin before darting straight onto the bare sole of his foot.

Jaxon: “AIIIEEE—! HIII—! IYA, IYA, IYAAA—!!”

A bloodcurdling screech ripped from his raw throat, cracking into ragged, breathless shards of Japanese and wild, hysterical sobs. The spiny, frantic scrape of barbed insect legs scuttling directly into the hollow arch of his foot was sheer, unadulterated electric hell. It tickled with devastating, agonizing sharpness while turning his stomach into violent knots of revulsion.

Jaxon: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!! IYAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

His foot kicked violently, convulsing against the sheets with frantic, erratic strength, but the roach clung stubbornly to the moist, warm skin of his sole, darting up toward the tender creases beneath his curling toes.

Jaxon: “ASHI NI IRU! ASHI! ASHI GA—! AHAHA—IYA DA, TORO YO, HAYAKU!!”

He wailed, twisting his entire body into frantic, shuddering knots. His hips slammed violently against the mattress, his chest heaved in violent, hyperventilating gasps. The heavy mahogany bed groaned under the sheer force of his thrashing, the nautical ropes pulling so hard against his wrists that the joints burned.

On his chest, the other roaches panicked from the frantic shaking, scattering in erratic frenzy over his collarbone, his ribs, and the sensitive skin of his stomach. Their barbed legs scratched like dry needles across his skin. The one near his neck crept along his jawline, its long, searching antennae whipping directly against his lips.

Jaxon: “JORDI—!! JORDI, TASUKETE—!!”

He sobbed, the tears soaking straight through the blindfold, running down his flushed, convulsing cheeks. He was completely unraveled, gasping, choking on his own ragged terror, drowning in the pitch-black as the vermin swarmed over his bare, hyper-sensitized body.

At the foot of the bed, Narcisse adjusted his glasses, his lips curved into a smug, venomous grin as he leaned against the carved post, drinking in every second of the exquisite, chaotic ruin before him.

~

Deimos’ heavy footsteps and Tristan’s light steps echoed through the rotting, cavernous grounds of the Grand Pavilion of Wonders. Shadows stretched across the carnival grounds where debris and trash blew in the wind.

Without warning, a blinding blast of jagged ice sheared through the darkness, surging directly toward them at lethal speed.

Deimos: “TRISTAN!!”

Before Tristan could react, Deimos moved in a flash. He grabbed Tristan by the collar, violently throwing him out of the attack’s path. Tristan hit the floor hard, safe from harm, but the ice blast struck Deimos with full force.

A wave of solid frost violently swept over the floorboards, enveloping Deimos’ boots and climbing up to his ankles. Within seconds, a thick casing of glacial ice locked his feet firmly to the decaying ground, leaving him completely trapped and unable to budge.

Deimos: “FUCK!”

Tristan’s eyes widened.

Standing just beyond the settling haze of frost, Charlotte stood, her cruel gaze fixed intently on Tristan. A swirling wave of shimmering ice lazily hummed over her outstretched right hand, radiating a frigid, suffocating chill. She wore an elegant light blue coat trimmed with plush white fur at the collar and cuffs, layered over a sweeping dark turquoise gown that brushed against the frostbitten ground. Delicate sandals adorned with a ruby in the center caught the dim light, contrasting sharply with the frozen waste around her.

Tristan’s pulse spiked violently, a cold wave of terror seizing his throat as his eyes locked onto his mother. Panic surged through him in jagged, overwhelming waves, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as his vision blurred at the edges. Every instinct urged him to run, but his limbs felt heavy and leaden under the terrifying weight of her glare.

Tristan bared his teeth and clenched his fists.

Charlotte: “Tristan, you are so much like your father… Pathetic.”

She said icily. Tristan glowered at her.

Without another word, Charlotte thrust her right hand forward, launching a vicious, jagged blast of ice straight toward Tristan. Tristan’s eyes narrowed as adrenaline took over. With a flick of his wrist, he manifested a crystalline sword of solid ice in his left hand and slashed upward, cleaving the incoming ice blast cleanly in two and shattering it into a shower of sparkling frost. Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock.

Before the cold mist could settle, Tristan formed a smooth, slick path of ice beneath his feet. He slid across the ice with sudden, blinding speed directly toward Charlotte. As he closed the distance, a heavy layer of ice crystallized around his right fist like a spiked gauntlet. Driving his ice-encased fist forward, he delivered a brutal, heavy punch straight into Charlotte’s stomach. The air exploded from her lungs in a breathless gasp as she doubled over in pain.

Gasping for air, Charlotte retaliated with a sudden, violent wave of frost that encased Tristan, freezing him solid in a massive block of ice. Tristan grimaced and shifted his eyes as he was trapped in the ice. Fine, spiderweb fractures suddenly spiderwebbed across the surface of the frozen prism, groaning loudly as glowing blue light burst from the deep fissures. He effortlessly shattered the ice from within, broke free, and stood totally unfazed.

Tristan: “Come on, Charlotte, you know sub-zero temperatures never bothered me…”

He said with calm composure. Charlotte glared at her son with disdain as he advanced toward her, frosting the floor with every step.

Tristan: “No matter how much you locked me in freezers for hours.”

He said coldly.

Deimos growled under his breath, yanking frantically against the glacial casing locking his feet in place. The thick ice didn't even crack under his strain.

Deimos: “TRISTAN!!”

He bellowed in sheer exasperation, his voice echoing off the rotting walls. Realizing the stubborn block of ice wouldn’t give, Deimos gritted his teeth and violently wrenched his legs straight upward. With a heavy, suctioning snap, his feet slid right out of his boots, leaving the empty footwear completely frozen solid inside the glacial mass.

The moment his feet broke free, a suffocating, putrid wave of stench wafted out, thick and heavy enough to almost feel in the chilly air. It was an appalling mix of sour, stale sweat fermented inside wet leather for days, mingled with the pungent, sharp bite of rotting cheese, old damp fungus, and raw, decay-ridden trash left baking in midsummer heat.

The excruciating odor expanded rapidly through the frigid air like a toxic cloud, stinging the eyes and burning the back of the throat. The horrendous stink hit both Tristan and Charlotte full force, bringing their intense showdown to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Tristan: “UGH! DEIMOS!”

Tristan instantly recoiled in utter disgust, slapping his hand over his nose and mouth as his eyes watered from the excruciating odor. Across from him, Charlotte’s cold, imposing demeanor completely shattered; she recoiled backward, gagging slightly as she covered her nose with the plush fur cuff of her sleeve, grimacing in sheer revulsion at the grotesque smell filling the air.

Charlotte: “Mon Dieu, what is that stench?!”

She groused, fanning her face.

Charlotte: “This is worse than your father’s feet…”

Deimos stomped his feet, his sweaty footprints marking the tile.

Deimos: “BOTH OF YOU?! REALLY?!”

He snapped.

Someone swung a kettle against the back of Charlotte’s head.

The brutal blow connected with a sharp crack. Charlotte’s eyes rolled back, her frigid aura instantly collapsing as she crumpled limply onto the frost-dusted floorboards, knocked completely unconscious.

Fabien lowered the kettle and took a steadying breath as Celeste Marcella stepped out of the shadows right behind him, her arms folded over her chest and a fierce, satisfied grin on her face.

Fabien: “Holy fuck, did someone leave rotting fish out?”

He gagged and fanned his face.

Deimos: “SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!”

He bellowed.

Celeste: “Nah, it’s Deimos’ feet.”

Deimos sneered at her.

Tristan glared hatefully at his mother.

Tristan: “We have to get to Jordi and Jaxon now.”

Without waiting another second, Tristan, Celeste, and Fabien bolted through the rotting corridors and open pathways of the Grand Pavilion of Wonders. Their footsteps echoed loudly against the decaying floorboards and litter-strewn dirt as they sprinted through the carnival.

Behind them, Deimos crouched low, his powerful legs driving him upward as he took flight. Swooping into the night air above the pavilion, he soared overhead, his keen eyes scanning the shadows and broken rooftops below to keep watch and ensure no other threats ambushed the group from above.

~

The double doors of the decaying penthouse suite blew inward with a violent, thunderous roar, shattered fragments of aged oak and brass splinters detonating across the ruined hardwood floor.

Jordi stood framed within the billowing fog and dust of the ruined entryway, a silhouette of incandescent, furious power. His purple hair whipped wildly around his angular face, his dark jacket flaring behind him as blinding, violent arcs of deep violet electricity crackled across his shoulders and coiled tightly around his forearms. The air in the Grand Pavilion turned razor-sharp with the choking, ozone stench of raw, unbridled electrokinesis. Sparks leaped aggressively from his fingertips, skittering over the vintage wallpaper and scorching the baseboards black in jagged, dancing spiderwebs.

His eyes scanned the room in a single, lethal sweep. When his gaze collided with the four-poster bed—with Jaxon pinned blind, sobbing in ragged Japanese, choking on hysterical breaths while heavy brown roaches crawled brazenly across his bare chest, his throat, and the sensitive curves of his soles—Jordi’s expression shifted into something truly terrifying. He disintegrated into pure, lethal rage.

Jordi: “Get away from him, Narcisse…”

He commanded, his voice vibrating with a low, sub-audible hum that made the crystal drops on the ceiling chandelier violently rattle.

Narcisse barely had time to slide his fingers toward his lapel, his arrogant smile faltering, before the suite erupted.

Jordi crossed the room with predator-grade velocity, a streak of violet thunder. Without breaking his stride, he unleashed a concentrated lash of purple lightning that ripped across the space between them. The bolt tore through the air with a deafening crack, striking Narcisse squarely across the chest. The immaculate lavender double-breasted suit blackened and smoked on impact as the concussive force hurled him violently across the room, smashing him through a gilded vanity table in an explosive spray of shattered mirrors and crushed mahogany.

Before the dust from Narcisse’s impact could even settle, Jordi was at the edge of the mattress.

Jordi: “Jiro, I'm here. It's me…”

He spoke rapidly, his voice dropping from thunderous fury to desperate, tender urgency. His hands, entirely grounded now with the voltage withdrawn beneath his skin, moved with frantic, meticulous precision.

With swift, sweeping motions, Jordi struck the chitinous horrors away from Jaxon’s body. He swept the roaches ruthlessly off Jaxon’s heaving sternum, flicked the one clinging to the hollow of his neck violently across the floor, and immediately reached down to brush the creature scurrying over the sensitive, frantic arch of Jaxon’s kicking foot, sending it flying into the shadows where a lingering burst of purple static fried it instantly into ash.

Jaxon: “J-Jordi...?! Jordi, tasukete!!”

He gasped, his throat raw, his back still arching wildly off the sheets as phantom sensations of spiny, barbed legs continued to crawl across his skin.

Jordi: “They’re gone, baby, they’re gone. I’ve got you…”

He murmured urgently. He leaned over Jaxon’s trembling frame, his fingers instantly catching the knot of the dark blindfold at the nape of his neck. With a decisive yank, he tore the heavy fabric away and tossed it aside, letting Jaxon’s tear-streaked face meet the dim light.

Jaxon blinked against the haze, his pupils blown wide with panic and sensory exhaustion. When his vision focused on Jordi’s familiar, fiercely protective features, the wild, frantic Japanese died in his throat, replaced by a ragged, shuddering gasp.

Jaxon: “Jordi…”

He breathed, the vitakinetic crimson glow beneath his skin flickering erratically like a guttering candle as he healed Jordi and himself.

Jordi: “I have you, Jiro…”

He murmured in a fierce whisper. Reaching behind the ornate, carved headboard, electric sparks danced across his fingertips as he severed the thick nautical cords with surgical precision, snapping them cleanly using focused bursts of purple voltage.

The moment his wrists tore free, Jaxon collapsed forward into Jordi’s chest. His trembling arms wrapped desperately around Jordi’s shoulders, his face burying itself deep into the crook of Jordi’s neck, shivering violently from the residual freeze of the ice and the lingering, hysterical trauma of the crawling insects. Jordi wrapped one powerful arm securely around Jaxon’s waist, pulling the crimson dragon silk tight around his shivering boyfriend, while his other hand gently tangled into Jaxon’s thick black mane, anchoring him against the solid, grounding heat of his body.

Across the ruined room, coughing through a haze of plaster dust and shattered glass, Narcisse began to stir among the splintered wreckage of the vanity, his tailored suit in ribbons, blood dripping down his pale chin.

Jordi didn’t let go of Jaxon, but his Byzantine eyes snapped toward the rising figure, dangerous, lethal arcs of purple lightning dancing violently once more along the knuckles of his free hand.

Narcisse pushed himself up from the splintered remains of the vanity, a harsh, wheezing laugh rattling in his chest. One lens of his glasses had shattered into a spiderweb of cracks, and the scorched edges of his shredded lavender lapels smoldered, giving off the sharp stink of singed wool and ionized air. He wiped a streak of blood from his pale cheek with the back of a torn cuff, his arrogant composure hanging by threads, yet refusing to break entirely.

Narcisse: “Ah… the dutiful little corporate pet arrives right on cue.”

He rasped, leaning heavily against a cracked pilaster to steady himself. Despite the violent blow, his gaze flicked past Jordi, fixating once more on Jaxon, whose face was still buried in the crook of Jordi’s neck, his frame racked with silent, exhausting tremors.

Narcisse: “Tell me, Jordi… Did you hear him? He was magnificent. Singing for me in the dark. Stripped of every ounce of that cheap bravado.”

A low, guttural snarl vibrated in Jordi’s throat.

Violet arcs snaked violently down Jordi’s arm, jumping from his fingertips to lick across the floorboards, charring the wood black in jagged, branching veins. The air tasted pure copper, thick enough to choke on.

Jordi: “I’m done with you and your fucking tricks.”

He said, his voice flat, icy, and vibrating with enough suppressed voltage to shatter the remaining windows.

He kept his left arm clamped securely around Jaxon’s waist, pressing him tight against his chest and shielding him from the wreckage. With his right hand free, Jordi clenched his fist, drawing on the massive, unbridled current running through the old pavilion’s defunct grid. The overhead chandeliers flared blindingly white, then burst into a cascade of sparks.

Narcisse’s eyes widened behind his cracked glasses.

Narcisse: “You wouldn’t dare bring this entire floor down on his head—”

Jordi: “I don’t need the floor.”

He cut him off.

Narcisse glared narrow-eyed at Jordi, his jaw tightening as distant, heavy footsteps and muffled shouts echoed through the decaying corridor outside the suite—Tristan, Celeste, Deimos, and Fabien were closing in.

Realizing he was outmatched and out of time, Narcisse’s lip curled into a bitter, disdainful sneer. Before Jordi could thrust his hand forward to release the violent burst of purple lightning coiled at his fingertips, Narcisse swiftly raised his hand to his ear and pressed the small button embedded in his earpiece. He vanished, teleporting away and leaving only empty air and the lingering scent of singed wool where he had just stood.

Dropping the lethal charge, Jordi sank onto the edge of the mattress and pulled Jaxon into his lap. He wrapped both arms around him, pulling the torn dragon silk closed around Jaxon’s bare, chilled skin.

Jordi: “Hey, Jiro, look at me…”

He murmured, his voice softening into something raw and fiercely tender.

Jordi: “He’s gone. Look at me, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Jaxon took a ragged, stuttering breath, his hands clawing into the fabric of Jordi’s suit jacket. Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears, framed by the wild shock of black hair.

Jaxon: “He put… He put roaches on me, Jordi…”

He whispered, his voice cracking, the raw humiliation and terror spilling through despite his best efforts to bite it back.

Jaxon: “On my chest... my neck. My feet. I couldn’t—I couldn’t move.”

Jordi’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, his heart breaking at the sight of Jaxon’s vulnerability. He reached up, cupping Jaxon’s jaw with a warm, steady palm, thumb gently wiping away the damp tear tracks on his flushed cheek.

He leaned forward to press a lingering, protective kiss to Jaxon’s forehead, right against the hairline.

Jordi carefully slid an arm under Jaxon’s knees and lifted him bridal-style off the ruined four-poster bed. Jaxon’s head dropped against Jordi’s shoulder, his feet curling inward, completely exhausted from the sensory torment.

Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the ruined corridor before Tristan, Celeste, Fabien, and Deimos burst into the suite through the shattered double doors. Taking in the charred wood and smashed vanity, Tristan rushed over to Jordi and Jaxon, his eyes full of concern.

Tristan: “Is Jaxon okay? What happened?”

Jordi looked up, adjusting his hold on Jaxon to keep him wrapped securely in the dragon silk robe.

Jordi: “He’s safe now, but he’s completely exhausted. Narcisse teleported away before I could finish him.”

Celeste: “Yeah, Tristan faced off with his bitch of a mother, and Fab knocked him out.”

She drawled.

Celeste: “But Deimos’ feet did more knocking out.”

She added. Fabien snorted. Tristan hung his head.

Deimos: “HEY, SHUT UP!”

He bellowed.

Jaxon jolted in Jordi’s arms.

Jordi: “Would you keep it down?! He’s terrified!”

He hissed under his breath. Deimos shot Jordi a harsh glare. Placing a gentle hand on Deimos’ shoulder, Tristan slowly shook his head. Deimos met his gaze, then crossed his arms with a sullen pout.

Jordi: “I have to get him home… I’m sorry…”

He said gently and carried Jaxon out.

Tristan, Fabien, Celeste, and Deimos watched him go with Jaxon.

Celeste: “Uh, Jaxon is always getting kidnapped. Why is this different?”

She scratched her head.

Tristan: “Narcisse makes everything a unique experience.”

He muttered under his breath.

His sharp eyes took in the full extent of the catastrophic damage. The heavy oak double doors lay violently blown inward, splintered across the ruined hardwood floor in sharp, jagged shards. Thick, scorched black marks and intricate webs of charred wood crept along the baseboards and spread up the vintage wallpaper—mute testimony to Jordi’s power.

In the far corner, the gilded vanity table was nothing more than a heap of crushed mahogany and a sea of shattered mirror glass. The heavy mahogany four-poster bed stood as a silent witness to the ordeal, its thick nautical ropes cleanly severed and hanging limp from the carved headboard.

Celeste stepped past the wreckage of the vanity, her boots crunching against the fine sea of shattered mirror glass. As her purple eyes swept over the darkened corners and baseboards, she spotted dozens of stiff, blackened carapaces scattered across the floorboards. Jordi’s violent surges of purple static electricity had fried the roaches, leaving them as charred, motionless husks clinging to the shadows where they fell.

Celeste: “...I think I found the answer.”

She pointed to the charred cockroaches. Tristan’s green eyes widened.

Tristan: “...How did Narcisse know Jaxon feared cockroaches?”

He said flatly.

~

The low, throaty purr of the purple Ferrari 328 finally went silent as Jordi cut the ignition in the driveway of 35 Juniper Street. The quiet neighborhood of Papamos was draped in deep midnight stillness, a stark, grounding contrast to the rotten grandeur and salt-sprayed madness of the Grand Pavilion of Wonders. Streetlights filtered amber beams through the coastal palms, casting long shadows across the front porch.

In the passenger seat, Jaxon hadn’t moved. The silk dragon robe was wrapped tightly around his frame, his arms crossed over his chest, fingers digging into his opposite shoulder, clinging to his own skin. His wild black hair was thoroughly disheveled, spilling over the plush leather headrest, and his dark eyes were fixed on the dashboard, staring through the glowing gauges into empty space.

Jordi stepped out as he rounded the car. He opened the passenger door with deliberate softness, not wanting to startle Jaxon, whose nerves were already strung like piano wire.

Jordi: “We’re home, Jiro…”

He whispered, his voice steady and low.

Jaxon blinked, his name pulling him back to the surface. He tried to swing his legs out to stand, but the moment his bare soles touched the cool pavement, a phantom prickle skittered across his arches—a vivid memory of spiked steel, melting ice, and spiny insect legs. A sharp, involuntary gasp caught in his throat, and his knees instantly buckled.

Before he could drop, Jordi caught him under the arms and lifted him seamlessly against his chest. Jaxon let out a quiet, defeated breath, his forehead slumping against the lapel of Jordi’s suit jacket.

Jordi kicked the front door shut behind them, the deadbolt clicking home with a resounding, permanent snap. The familiar smells of their home—clean cedar, subtle citrus, and the comforting absence of gardenia cologne—washed over them instantly. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow from the kitchen nightlight, and the quiet house offered the absolute sanctuary Jaxon desperately needed.

Carrying him straight past the living room, Jordi brought him into the primary bedroom, stepping into the en-suite bathroom where the air was warm and still. He gently lowered Jaxon onto the plush edge of the vanity bench, but Jaxon immediately pulled his feet up onto the rung, tucking his soles away from the cold ceramic floor tiles. Every nerve in his feet was still firing phantom warnings, trembling with lingering static.

Jordi: “I’m running a bath…”

He whispered, turning the heavy chrome faucets. Steam billowed into the cool air, carrying the faint, soothing scent of lavender and sandalwood oils Jordi poured into the rushing water. He kept his back turned only as long as necessary, then knelt before Jaxon, his Byzantine eyes scanning his boyfriend’s face with fierce, unyielding devotion.

Jaxon sat shivering under the red silk, his knuckles pale where he gripped the lapels. Lingering dampness from the melted ice cubes left his chest clammy.

Jordi: “They’re gone, Jiro…”

He said gently, resting his warm palms over Jaxon’s trembling knees.

Jaxon: “I can still feel them…”

He rasped, his voice rough and fragile, tears welling once more along his dark eyelashes.

Jaxon: “Every time I close my eyes, I feel those legs scraping on my ribs... in the dark. And my feet... God, he wouldn’t stop. I begged him, and he just kept going.”

Jordi’s jaw tightened, but he kept the lethal fury buried deep, refusing to let any volatile voltage disturb the room’s fragile calm.

He reached up, untying the tangled cord of the dragon robe and letting the lustrous silk fall away from Jaxon’s bare shoulders.

Jordi: “Let the water wash it off…”

He helped Jaxon stand, supporting nearly all of his weight as he stepped into the deep, steaming tub. Jaxon sank into the hot water with a ragged, shuddering gasp. The heat enveloped his body, driving the residual chill deep from his bones and soothing the overstimulated, burning nerve endings along his torso.

Jordi didn’t leave his side. He shed his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt past his elbows, and loosened his tie. Kneeling by the porcelain rim, he picked up a soft, thick sponge and soaked it in warm, sudsy water.

With agonizing care and deliberate gentleness, Jordi washed away every trace of the abandoned carnival. He smoothed the sponge over the back of Jaxon’s neck, across the broad expanse of his shoulders, and down the taut lines of his chest, scrubbing away the ghost of insect carapaces and the sweet, cloying phantom of gardenias. When Jaxon flinched at the hollow of his throat, Jordi leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the warm skin right where the roach had rested, grounding him with the steady heat of his lips.

Jordi: “Nothing touches you here except me…”

He murmured between kisses along Jaxon’s collarbone.

Jordi: “Nothing…”

Then Jordi reached down into the water, his fingers carefully brushing the curve of Jaxon’s calf. Jaxon’s breath hitched sharply, his leg instinctively tensing to pull away, the traumatic ticklishness still humming in his limbs.

Jordi: “Easy, baby…”

He coaxed softly.

Jordi: “I’m not going to tickle you. Just let me clean them.”

Jordi lifted Jaxon’s right foot from the water, supporting the heel with a firm, solid grip that gave no room for sudden, agonizing tickles. Using a thick, warm washcloth, Jordi applied firm, steady, grounding pressure across the pristine arch, wiping away the memory of the tickling, the icy cubes, and the skittering claws. He washed between each toe with deliberate, firm strokes, leaving no space for light, maddening static.

Jaxon’s head dropped back against the rim of the tub, his fingers tangling into the damp strands of his black hair as he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The intense, agonizing hypersensitivity was slowly, miraculously melting away, replaced by the deep, heavy security of Jordi’s touch.

By the time Jordi helped him out of the tub and wrapped him in a heavy, dry velvet robe, Jaxon was practically swaying on his feet from pure exhaustion. Jordi carried him into the dark, quiet bedroom and pulled back the heavy quilts on their bed.

He tucked Jaxon beneath the covers, then stripped down, changed into his black silk pajamas, and slid into bed beside him. The moment the mattress shifted, Jaxon rolled over, burying his face into Jordi’s chest, his arms winding tightly around Jordi’s waist. He hooked one warm, clean leg over Jordi’s thighs, anchoring himself entirely against the man who had torn through an entire city to pull him out of the dark.

Jordi rested his chin atop Jaxon’s thick mane of hair, wrapping his arms securely around his back. A faint, harmless violet spark fluttered over Jordi’s knuckles, dissipating into pure, protective warmth as Jaxon’s breathing finally leveled out into the deep, rhythmic cadence of safe, uninterrupted sleep.