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It’s late by the time Casper gets home.
He trawls through dark alleyways lit up by neon lights and long-dried stains that tint the flagstones an otherworldly red. His eyes burn from too much exposure to light from the overworld, everything moving in wavy afterimages that stutter and shift as he walks. His mouth’s dry, as is his skin, and his very hair follicles feel like they’re blistering, silver-white hair falling out of his skull.
This is what he hates most about being in the human world for too long— it makes him feel as though his whole body’s been dipped in bleach. Some days it gets so bad that his skin begins to flake like he’s suffering from a sunburn and he has to lie in his bedroom with the lights off to begin feeling even a little like he’s a normal not-human being again.
Casper’s practically leaning on his scythe by the time he arrives at his front door. The gloves are thin enough for him to feel the shock of cold through his palm from the doorknob. Usually he isn’t sensitive to such temperature changes, but tonight, it makes sense that his skin would alternate between too hot and too cold, oscillating in a feverish way across both ends of the spectrum.
He opens the door and shuffles inside. He pulls the keys from the doorknob and drops them in the little bowl by the front door, which makes an unpleasant clink in his ears. Then he sags against the wall, his body gone limp from the hours of work. The scythe weighs heavily in his hand, its blade dull from the amount of soul-taking he’d done in the last twenty-four hours.
It takes a part of himself, each time he does it. He likes to complete everything he has on his list, checking things off one by one as one goes, just as prideful and accomplished in his work as he was the first day he met Sunshine and told them so to their face. But there are some days like this when that feeling of accomplishment is far outweighed by the unpleasant sensation of his soul attempting to peel itself apart from his physical form.
He feels more ghost than reaper, wandering his house with a tired stagger. The light hurts, even despite turning the dimmer switch all the way down, casting his apartment in the low, deep reds which might better suit the stomach of a monster than a comfortable, cozy apartment. He quickly grabs an orange from the fridge then skulks off to his room to bask in the darkness.
On days like these, he feels so far from himself, like someone else looking through a window into his life rather than him controlling anything within it. His reactions and thought process have been significantly slowed to the point that he’s glad he’s not trying to cross traffic or climb up flights of stairs for the sake of his own safety.
The worst is when he finishes off the little food he’s able to stomach and slinks into the bathroom to brush his teeth before going to bed— reapers still have to worry about dental hygiene, after all— when he glimpses himself in the mirror and feels like throwing up. He’s practically translucent, his skin even paler than it usually is, and only getting worse by the second. Sometimes he wishes he could wash himself off after going to the other world for a bit, maybe just grab some soap and have at it, but that’s certainly never the proper solution. He’s getting too light, and it feels like drinking battery acid; he needs something else, something deep and sultry like a good drink or—
Or them.
Although he’s not exactly in a position to even be seen right now, feeling as he does like a glance from the wrong person could scatter him like ashes.
He should at least text them, let them know that he’s okay.
So he does, and as expected, their response back is immediate.
They’re worried and teasing, in that infuriatingly cutesy way they always are when they don’t want to worry Casper more than he’s already worried— which he never is.
They have this irresistible pull that has Casper sitting at his desk chair before he’s even had a second thought about it.
He’s supposed to be in bed laying down…
…But the premise of seeing what Sunshine is up too is too alluring to deny.
Sunshine succeeds at pulling Casper’s attention away from his ailing pains at least until their call has ended. Then he spends another additional hour on the computer researching articles, pulling up anything he can find that might explain why they are the way they are.
As expected, nothing really helps. Casper might have said it jokingly in the beginning, but they really are special. More special than anything can explain, honestly.
It worries him.
And confuses him.
Staring into their eyes, though, had succeeded at easing some of his discomfort.
It usually does, even if it doesn’t change the fact that their soul literally is as clear and bright as the same sunlight that has given him the current migraine he still nurses. They’d succeeded at distracting him from the pain for a good while, but now there is nothing but the repeating stabbing pain to his temple.
He lays back in bed and tries to recall things they had said to him to fortify himself. Things like… how cute he is.
How wonderfully amazing he is (which he knew already, of course), and how intelligent he is.
Really, hearing it from someone else makes his cheeks flush in a second and brings a low tingle to his stomach.
It’s not… uncommon for him to think darker, dirtier thoughts when he’s looking for something to taint the bleached feeling he still has in his guts.
Casper masks one final message to Sunshine as good-night well-wishes, though he knows in truth he’s trying to push them off worrying about him too much, much to his failure. But that’s okay; their worry is feeding him now.
In the dim, lustful glow of his bedroom lights, Casper’s hand snakes beneath his boxers and strokes experimentally at his length. He’s still soft, though he turns onto his stomach and tucks an arm underneath his pillow. He scrolls back through their messages, picking out the favorite ones, looking at Sunshine’s icon with a renewed sense of purpose.
The human would probably make fun of him if they saw him like this, seeing how pathetic he looks in his bed with one hand digging into his own trousers while the other scrolls through their conversation with a hungry lust.
They’re always teasing him, saying such ridiculous things…
He picks one of the messages of praise and looks over it over and over, allowing his eyes to glaze over with a darkening lust, breaths growing heavy alongside the more restless pump of his hand curled around the dripping head of his cock.
Once he comes the first time, he already feels some of his lucidity returning, breathing fresh, new life to his lungs. He sucks it up greedily, his nose still shoved unceremoniously against his pillow. He’s able to breathe a little easier, even as his heart beats crazily against his ribcage. They’re texting him, and now they sound worried about his lack of response. He doesn’t consider it much before sending something back and returning his hand to his flaccid cock.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but he was never one to masturbate before they came into his life. Now, many things have changed, some of them not… unwelcome, though there’s a degree of embarrassment to be had for what they have pushed him to, the new and wondrous ways he manages to find release from the same human acts that put his spirit in such peril in the first place.
Being dirty, doing dirty and sinful things, should not be anything new to him. And yet he still manages to find a guilt in them that they were not the one with him doing them together, that maybe there would be a chance for such a thing to happen in the future, and it has just not happened yet. He would like to be that hopeful, to think that there will be a time when they’ll meet in person and be able to do everything he’s imagined.
They must have imagined things, too, being the more risk-taking of the two of them and even less of a filter whenever they’ve had things to say about him. He’s even almost considered dirty talk with them before, but some filter within him had held back. Maybe he’s been too shy. Or censoring himself too much. For what reasons he can only imagine.
When Casper finishes the second time, he gets up and hides away in the bathroom for a quick second. Sunshine wants to hear from him so badly, and he feels the yearning pulsing through him as he splashes water on his face and considers a quick shower.
Before that, though, he washes his hands then sends away another text reassuring them that he’s already feelings leagues better— perhaps not for the reasons they think, though the statement isn’t untrue— then turns his eyes onto his shower.
Yes, absolutely he needs a shower now.
At least it’s been well-earned.