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dark-blue-mondays:

syx-blue:

syx-blue:

Syx hadn’t slept the entire time he’d been behind bars, he just couldn’t. The dreams always haunted him. The solitary made him feel half mad. More than half mad really. He’d pulled a stupid stunt to get out.  More foolish than he should, but it worked. Anna and Minion would be eager to see him. So would Wayne. Yet he found himself outside of the towering building that Harrison lived in. The bags under his eyes were deep, a five-o-clock shadow on his jaw, his clothing too big and stolen. He’d used a brain bot to fly up to the roof of a nearby building. He didn’t even know what his plan was. He was just tired and wanted the thoughts to go away.

Syx set the pajamas aside and lifted his arms to let Harrison strip his undershirt from him. A blush creeping onto his face at being so nude before him. It still made him nervous, but he was growing to trust Harrison more all the time. His greed for touch and contact overriding all else. Once his undershirt joined the pile with the rest of his prison clothing yet more faint scars were revealed covering his ribs and stomach. The worst one that was obviously medical in nature. 

Harrison could smell Syx’s nerves, and he let his hands settle on the other man’s slim hips to steady both of them as he takes in the sight. Syx’s body is scarred, but beautiful, lean but firm in all the same ways as his own. He doesn’t ask about the scars. If Syx wants to tell him, he will.

Instead he reaches for the silky pajama top and unbuttons the top two buttons, which allows him to slip the whole thing over Syx’s head.

Syx raised his arms and helped slip into the silky top. Running his fingers over the fabric he conceded, “It is very nice, feels a lot like my cape material only much less durable,” though he supposed durability wasn’t something often considered when making pajamas. 

He stepped into Harrison’s arms, wrapping his own around the other blue man. Harrison smelled good in a way he felt he’d never find words for. He could get lost in it. It was better than thinking. He was sick of his own head.