#I've been working on his build for physical years

[weaselle]

love these additions! And it's something i wish more people would pay attention to when choosing a pet, because there are several breeds that exhibit this attribute, sometimes called selective disobedience or intelligent disobedience, and in all these breeds it is a feature, not a bug.

the classic example (and one close to my heart) is a siberian husky. Imagine you are sledding and your route takes you over a lake that is thickly frozen over at this time of year. You tell your dogs to take the sled over the ice, knowing that it is a safe route in the winter. But what you don't know is that last month there was an unseasonable thaw and the ice is much thinner than usual. So when you tell your dogs to take you and your heavy sled over this thin ice, you WANT your dogs to refuse. Right?

you don't hear any traffic so you tell your seeing eye dog to take you across the street, but there's a near-silent electric car coming... You tell your hunting dog to go into the bushes and flush out game but there's a bear napping in those bushes... and of course, livestock guardian dogs, who you do not want waiting around for orders, but deciding for themselves what they should do when completely unsupervised.

There are all kinds of reasons you'd want this feature, and there are quite a few dogs bred to have it. Poodles for example, are considered expert-level-only hunting dogs by many experienced hunters for this reason. They are meant to think for themselves, solve problems, assess situations, and make choices. Golden retrievers, on the other hand, are NOT meant to be as independent.

I've been working with a siberian husky for the last few months, and building a relationship with her to where she doesn't just flick an ear to show she heard me and then do whatever she wants to do anyway, instead of what i'm asking her to do, has taken real effort.

There are three major issues i see with people getting dogs these days

A: i wish people would look at what a dog was bred for and assess whether or not they can provide some version of that activity. I'm working with a beagle right now whose owners do zero sent play (leaving scent trails or hiding treats easter egg style) and are not interested in doing any, and it's like, of course your dog misbehaves on walks, he's driven to fulfill his need to Investigate The Smells, and he was bred to literally pull a human on a leash along interesting scent trails. If you give him an opportunity to do those things in a positive way, he won't be stuck with the choice of ignoring his deepest desires or "misbehaving" as his only options. Gods, the people really are the hardest part of training dogs. Too many people don't even look into the breed's purpose at all, they'll get a doodle because it's cute and never even think to ask what the two breeds were meant to do.

B: Human lifestyles and canine lifestyles used to be a ven diagram that was much closer to a circle. We used to both live in the woods and hunt creatures and defend territory. Even farming or ranching is not too far from this lifestyle. It has been a great match up for a long time. But now, modern™ society has us living in a way that is much less of a match up. Clients want me to train their dogs not to bark, and are not encouraged when i explain that we spent literally thousands of years asking them to bark more, actually, so it's going to be an uphill battle. Humans used to have very physical lifestyles, and it use d to be much rarer to spend a day where your dog couldn't be with you all day doing normal dog behaviors. Now our lives are full of very strict and confining rules of behavior we expect from a dog, and yet people are spending less time than ever socializing/training their dogs to be functioning members of their own pack. It's sad.

C: people assume certain breeds, like labradors and golden retrievers, are "easy mode" dogs, which is kinda true except they have a completely unreasonable expectation of what "easy mode" looks like. It's like a person who has no idea how to work on a car getting a car based on it being the easiest to do mechanic stuff to it, but never learning how to do mechanic stuff. Then they get upset that it keeps breaking down and they can't fix it.

Anyway, uh, thanks for coming to my ted talk i guess, lol

Anatolian shepherd dog puppy in training

[swimminginwatercolors]

Okay.

Why tf does the Knights of Favonius in Genshin Let lil ol Albedo hang out in Dragonspine?

Like, He's found corrupted blood and stuff, and they need SOMEONE to research that stuff, but like-

THATS HIS BROTHER!?

WHO WAS CORRUPTED!?!?

WHY LET ALBEDO HANG AROUND THE STUFF THAT MESSED UP HIS BIG BRO!?!?!?!?!?

[hayanahed]

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR

Dear Humanity,

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.

Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.

A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.

Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare

I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.

These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.

MY Father Income

Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future

My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.

As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.

When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.

We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.

As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.

Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.

Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.

I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.

Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.

The purpose of the fundraising campaign

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.

All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed

Verified by :

⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)

⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof

Thank you for your kindness and support.

.جزاكم الله خيراً

yours sincerely;

Haya Alshawish.

[dolche-tejada]

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he has Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best our MC could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[lokidjarin-7567]

The Prophecy

Viktor x You When the friend of your youth, Viktor, sees you still living in the Undercity, and working in a strip club at that, he is determined to reconnect, and rekindle a childhood friendship that was rooted in something more. Contents: fem!reader, fluff, angst and smut all in one folks, 18+ MDNI, a few physical features described but still reader insert I think (hair colour and freckles), both Viktor and you POVs, long-ass one shot 8.1k words Taglist: @night-fall-moon @zsuzsu321 @sh1zhu @circeinspace @casualjagodek @retrokatz @am-3-thyst @xlittlemissydjx @sseleniaa @thefandomsfervent Hi guys, thanks for bearing with my while I've been working on this one!! I have been absolutely obsessed with this man ever since I finished Arcane, so I just had to write something about him! I also think a lot of people mischaracterise him, so I tried really hard to get his personality right - let me know if I actually have lol. Anyone who knows my works knows how slutty my smut can get lol, but this is actually quite tender so a new one for me too. Anyway, I'll stop waffling now, I hope you enjoy. TTPD Contents | General Masterlist | AO3

DISCLAIMER: while this, in my opinion, is still classified as an ‘x you’ fic, a few physical features are described, namely ‘you’ having burgundy red hair that is, at one point, described as curly and having freckles, alongside a handful of super vague descriptors (eg. fluttering eyelashes, slope of her nose AKA things that can be applied to any and all faces) - basically everyone in the Arcane show has cool hair so I thought this would be a cute detail. It’s possible to ignore if you don’t want to think about have a different hair colour, but if you don’t want to, don’t read it! Almost every comment on this fic has been relating to this which, when I put hours of hard work and effort into something that I was proud of, is insanely demoralising. There has always been a disclaimer in the contents above, but I’m adding it here as well so it’s as clear as possible. Dead dove do not eat and all that. And I’m always open to constructive criticism, but there’s a way to go about it, and a way that will put someone in a slump for months, so please think before you comment! Anyway, not to put a downer before the work, thank you for the reposts and loves so far ❤️

Viktor was lost in thought as he made his way back to Piltover, small tube of Shimmer tucked away in his satchel. He didn’t know what to do. Using it might stabilise the Hexcore, allowing it to keep the plants alive and accomplish everything he and Jayce had been working towards for years, maybe even curing this sickness that had taken over him, or…

Or it could end horribly.

The undercity was as dark and unpleasant as he remembered it. He had never fit in here in his youth - too scrawny, too bookish, and with his leg, he stood no chance. And now was no different.

The neon store signs stood out against the blackened buildings and muddy streets. This part of the city, deep in the underbelly of Zaun, seemed busier than the rest, roads bustling with call girls and salesmen and tourists from Topside taking their pick of unruly establishments. Hundreds of voices layered atop each other in a cacophony of harsh laughter, garish music and argumentative tones. There was barely space to walk, especially with his cane, and he was starting to wonder if this journey was even worth it.

Then something caught his eye. A flash of red, deep and vibrant, moving towards him on the far side of the lane. It was hair, bouncy and curly and his subconscious told him it was shorter than it should’ve been, but it was a colour he knew. Her face wasn’t one he could place at first, but as she got closer, he saw the freckles that smattered across her nose like a constellation, her pink lips that were perpetually curled into a soft frown, her eyes that she always accentuated with brown liner. It was her.

The only friend of his youth. A young girl who used to sit behind the foliage near the water where he tested his inventions. She was shy, even shyer than he used to be, too scared to ask him anything about what he was making for a long time, just watching with curious eyes. But he would never forget the day she moved closer. The way her long, burgundy locks flowed around her, almost touching the floor, the way she was trying her best to be confident, but there was a soft shake in her hand, and a slight stutter as she said hello. Then she produced a small invention of her own - a submarine, the same colour as her hair, designed to float perfectly so the periscope was the only thing that peeked out from the surface.

For years, they were inseparable. She was more artistic than him, always adding a flair to her designs that he didn’t have, so he’d let her ‘improve’ his too. They would play together, and then as they got older, build together, each creation more daring and experimental. And then they started to drift apart. They were in their mid teens when her mother got sick, and she couldn’t make it out as much. Viktor always offered to help, but she refused, not even allowing him to see where she lived. And so, when Professor Heimerdinger found him and offered him an opportunity to be his assistant, he couldn’t even tell her. He left a note, delicately placed under a rock where they would build together, telling her where to find him and how to get in touch, but he never heard anything.

And now here she was. He called out her name softly, not wanting to alarm her in this hostile city, but she didn’t hear. She’d walked past him now, so he turned, following but she was walking fast, faster than he could manage. He called out again, but it wasn’t until then that he noticed the headphones over her ears. She couldn’t hear a thing. He carried on, hoping she would stop but she didn’t. If it was anyone else, he would’ve gone home, given up, but now he’d caught a glimpse of her, he had to see her. To talk to her. To find out why she never got in touch. To apologise for leaving her behind.

She disappeared from view for a moment, and he panicked, thinking he’d lost her again, but he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, entering an alley beside a row of bars and clubs. He grimaced, following her to see the red locks just moving out of sight again, and a bouncer closing the door behind her. He tried to follow her into the building, but the man stopped him.

“Please…” he asked, out of breath, “it’s an old friend, I need to see her…”

“Staff entrance only, pal. You’ll have to go ‘round the front like everyone else.”

“But… she’s right there… I only need one moment, if she just saw me…” The words died on his lips. Would she even recognise you?

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

It was dark inside the club, the lights low apart from on the stage and around the bar. It was only mid afternoon, but the place was near full of lowlifes just starting their evenings, sloshing their drinks and talking loudly. The neon from outside carried into this space too, strip lights around the platforms accentuating their presence. There were dancers atop each of them, but he averted his eyes. He shouldn’t have come here. This was so far from his comfort zone, loud and unruly, a long way away from his lab, but he had to see her. He couldn’t let her go again.

He found a stool by the bar, ordering a soda and waiting for her to start her shift. There was no way he could miss her again if he was right here when she started.

And then he saw her at the very edge of his vision, as though his eyes were programmed to search her out in any crowd. She was on stage, cherry red hair glowing in the soft lights, combined with the neon from below making her look like a ghost, ethereal. What was she doing up there?

***

“Afternoon, Joey.” You muttered to the bouncer, and he opened the door for you wordlessly as you slipped off your headphones, replacing your perfectly selected playlist with the sleazy music of the club. Just one of the many reasons you hated working here. You were running late, as per, throwing your things in your locker and quickly changing. Lacing up your shoes always took the longest time, and you barely even had a chance to check yourself in the mirror when you were finished. Your hair looked perfect at least, the naturally burgundy curls sitting at shoulder length. You missed the long hair of your youth, but it become impractical very quickly, and the memories it held… you ended up cutting it all off soon after your mum died. That was when you started working here too. You’d had dreams, of course you did, but growing up in the Undercity made it almost impossible to follow them. There were worse places to work though - for the most part, the patrons were respectful, and everyone who you worked with was kind, but it was still a strip club. At the end of the day, no little girl wanted to be an exotic dancer when they grew up. At least it just about paid the bills.

You had been put on a long shift today - late afternoon until the early hours. You didn’t mind though; it was exhausting, but more time meant more tips. And you needed the money. You were saving, slowly but surely. One day, it would be enough.

These shifts always started slow. Not many tips this early in the day. Not enough drunks - they were all too willing to part with their money, an exploit you knew how to use. After a while on stage, it was your turn to make your way into the crowd. You started away from the bar, smiling at a few, a couple of words of flirtation thrown around, but no one was loose enough for anything else yet. There was something different about the energy today though. You felt… exposed, on display, more than usual. Self conscious in a way you hadn’t been since your first week. By the time you got to the bar, you were already feeling frustrated at the lack of interest. But your favourite coworker was pouring the drinks tonight, and she had one ready for you already.

“Thanks, Katie” You crooned, knocking back the shot quickly and she immediately offered to refill - something you gratefully accepted.

“Thought you might need it. Slow start?”

“Yeah, not the best day so far.” You took your second, thanking her again, when you heard a voice call out your name. Your real name. It made you start, whipping your head around to find the source. You didn’t use that name here. You were expecting to see an ex, or an old boss, but instead you were met with a face you hadn’t seen in years.

His eyes hadn’t changed. Kind but tired, amber in colour and glowing like whiskey in sunlight. The curve of his nose was the same, the curl of his lips, the small moles like points on a map - one beneath his right eye and the other to the left of his lip. There was a cane tucked beside his stool, and he was dressed well. Too well to be in this part of town. A uniform of some sort, something a Topsider would wear: blue shirt accented with a cream ascot and waistcoat. It suited him.

As soon as you saw him, every fond memory of your childhood rushed back to you like a river. The gentleness when he explained his creations to you. His willingness when you asked if you could paint them pretty colours, or add cute designs. The way he held you as you cried about your mum falling ill. How quickly he offered you support, and how quickly you turned him down. You didn’t want to be a burden, but you regretted that choice as soon as he stopped showing up to your usual spot. You kept going for months before you gave up, still trying to find him. The last time you visited was to scatter your mum’s ashes - your stories of Viktor’s designs and the beautiful creek where you tested them out together being one of the last things that brought her comfort.

And now, he was here.

He’d made it out. He’d made it Topside. And you’d only fallen further down.

If there was one person you never wanted to see you like this, it was him. He was the only slither of your youth and innocence left, the only soul in the whole of Runeterra who knew the true version of yourself, the first version of yourself. The version you actually liked. And now, he had to see this. You couldn’t tell what you were feeling. Every emotion was vying for attention: joy, nostalgia, anger, envy…

He repeated your name in a questioning tone, and you realised you’d been staring at him, the rollercoaster of emotions you just went on likely visible on your face.

“Do you know him, darling? Or shall I grab Joe?” Katie asked from behind the bar, staring him down with a protective look. Viktor opened his mouth to speak, indignant look on his face, but you answered for him, never once being able to tear your eyes from him.

“Yeah I… cover for me? If anyone asks, he got a dance.”

“Of course.” Viktor’s gaze had returned you, confused, and you just muttered a ‘come on’, signalling him to follow you, and you lead him across the floor to one of the private rooms. They weren’t exactly the nicest places to talk, the whole room painted a hideous deep purple, a weirdly-shaped black velvet sofa the only thing to sit on. As soon as you closed the door, turning around to see the soft look on his face, every drop of anger seeped from you, replaced with relief. Relief that he was alive. Relief that he had done something with his life. Relief that you hadn’t lost him forever.

You couldn’t help it but let the tears fall as you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him tight.

***

He was surprised by her warm welcome. After all these years, he had always imagined she would resent him, but here she was, face pressed to his chest as she hugged him, tears falling onto his shirt. He didn’t even have to think about it, one arm naturally surrounding her as she cried, keeping her close, while the other held firm to his cane, ensuring it was stable for the both of them. He never wanted to let her go again.

She eventually pulled away though, wiping her tears with the shy smile he remembered so well.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.. on your fancy Topside shirt too.” She laughed nervously, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I… um, I imagined bumping into you one day, finding you again, but I never thought I would be dressed like this.” He finally let himself glance down at her when he said that, to take her in completely, safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t meeting his eyes. She looked beautiful - a black two-peice set, solid silk on the areas that counted, but the frills and accents were a sheer lace, stockings too, glittering beads woven into the delicate material. Even if the environment didn’t suit her, somehow the clothes still did, the same style he’d seen her develop in her teenage years. Simple in colour, beautiful in design - the cunning of her inventor’s mind applied to her other passion.

“What are you doing here, Viktor?” She sat down on the awkward sofa, curling her legs up onto it, and he followed suit, resting his cane against the arm.

“I could ask you the same thing.” It fell from his lips before he could stop it, and he winced, expecting her to be offended, but she just smiled sadly.

“You got out.” She stated as a shrouded question, ignoring his quip, and he nodded. He could explain, he should, but not yet.

“And you never wrote me.” He responded.

“Write you? Viktor, I didn’t know where you were.” She never got your letter.

“I left you a note by the creek. You never got it?” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve found you somehow, or…”

“It’s ok, Vik.” She shuffled closer on the loveseat, grabbing his hand and squeezing tight. Hearing the name she used to call him sent a pang of pain to his heart. This is what he had been missing out on all these years, all because of a stupid letter. “If I was in your shoes, I’d have done the same. Besides, I never let you see where I lived, or anything else about me. And when mum… I fell off the face of the earth. I wouldn’t have let you in no matter how hard you tried.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know.”

***

You spent a long time asking about his life now. He was working in the academy, partners with Piltover’s favourite researcher, helping to create the HexTech that kept the whole city afloat… he had changed the fucking world. And you were… here. Still.

He said your name softly, as though trying to broach a subject carefully and you knew what was coming. You had seen the query floating in his eyes since the moment he saw you.

“What are you doing working here? I mean, you’re brilliant, more so than me, and yet…”

“I’m still stuck in the Lanes?” You sighed.

“Well, yes.” You’d never once thought of him as ignorant. Maybe he’d been living Topside for too long.

“I never got my break. You deserved what you got, of course you did, and you’re the smartest person I know, Viktor, but that doesn’t change the fact that you got lucky. And it’s not the same here as when we were kids. Sure, things weren’t great then, but now… There are no jobs, no money, housing is insanely competitive even though most of it is disgusting.. it’s a vicious cycle meant to keep you in the shitter. This is what I could get. It pays my bills and lets me save a little, the other girls are nice, it’s close to my apartment…”

“But…” You knew from the look on his face what he was going to say - a long speech about how much potential you have, and how much better you could have it. You dropped his hand.

“But what?” You couldn’t help but snap, defensive over the very job that you cursed daily. “But I’m better than selling myself to sleazy drunks? You think I don’t fucking know that? You think I want to be losing my sense of self every day just so I can keep the lights on? You think it’s my dream to feel like I’m a lesser human being because I will let someone pay me to take them into this room and…” You stood up then, starting to pace as silent tears fell. You never let yourself think about any part of your life longer than you had to. Not pondering on it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You know I wasn’t saying that…”

“I know I’m sorry… I just…”

“I know… I know…” He stood up then too, wrapping you in his arms and letting you cry. Again. You felt so stupid. “I missed you.” He whispered, face nestled into your hair, barely audible.

“I missed you too.” The tender moment didn’t last for long though, as a sharp knock on the door startled you, jumping away from him and wiping your eyes.

“Vikki?” Joey’s voice called out, and you breathed a sigh of relief. “You ok in there?” You put on your smiley voice, cooing back to him.

“Yeah, all good Joe, got a paying customer in here...”

“You got it, doll.” You heard him walk away, and turned back to see Viktor looking at you, head cocked, small smirk playing across his features.

“What?” You asked with a shy smile, wiping away the last of your tears.

“Vikki?” Oh.

“Well I couldn’t exactly use my real name.” He laughed at that, and you couldn’t help but giggle too. “That does mean we’ve been in here too long though, I should…”

“Yeah, no of course…” he moved to open the door, grabbing his cane, but you stopped him quickly, pressing your hand against the door frame.

“One second…” He frowned as you reached towards him, but he didn’t move, just watched curiously as you took your time unknotting his ascot. Once it was off, you unbuttoned a few of his buttons, trying to ruffle his shirt a little, make it look like you had actually been doing your job rather than talking to an old friend. “There…” you muttered quietly, realising he’d shuffled a little closer to you as you worked, and now his lips were only a breath away. He was looking at you so intently, as though there was something he wanted to say, but he never spoke, just gazed at you in a way that made your heart swell. Your hands lingered on his chest, comforted by the warmth and solidness of him. A reassurance that he was real and here. You didn’t want to move.

“Please, don’t go anywhere just yet…” you muttered, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

She had been backstage for a while now, muttering something about trying to move her shifts around. She came back beaming, and it was infectious, a smile he was trying to fight taking over his own face just at the sight of her.

“Ok, if you’re busy tonight, or you have plans, you can tell me to piss off…”

“Never.” She blushed in response, her wide smile spreading further as she spoke, and he was helplessly drawn to her, eyes scanning her face intently.

“Well, someone came in early for their shift, but someone else is running late… anyway, our schedule is a mess, but good news is I only have to stay for another hour and then I’m free so… I was thinking, maybe you’d want to grab some food and catch up? Unless you have somewhere else to be…” She still sounded so shy, so unsure - the same habit she had when she was young, babbling when she was nervous. He was finding it hard to connect the dots in his mind: the timid person before him now, the girl he used to know, and the dancer on that stage, full of bravado and confidence.

“That sounds wonderful.” The joy in her face was intoxicating, and he watched as relief visibly washed over her body.

“Ok, brilliant.” She spun away for just a moment, trying to track down the bartender she seemed to know well. “Katie, he’s with me, ok? Send him back in like an hour, and his drinks are on my tab.” He tried to protest, but she rested a hand on his shoulder, quickly silencing him. “I insist. It’s the least I can do, considering how long you have to wait around.” Again, he tried to tell her didn’t mind, that he’d wait as long as she needed, anything for her, but she was gone already, slipping into the crowd, his shoulder cold where her hand had been. He sighed, turning back towards the bar on his stool, taking another sip of his soda.

“That’s our Vikki…” Katie mused, slicing a few garnishes behind the bar. “Never accepting that somebody else would want to do something for her.” He let out a dry laugh, half at the name, half in agreement.

“That sounds like her.” A beat of silence passed between them. The club was starting to fill up, but it wasn’t too rowdy yet, and nobody else was at the bar, all relying on bottle service and shot girls instead.

“Drink?” He shook his head politely. “How do you know her?” Katie asked, staying busy but obviously trying to snoop. He didn’t mind. She was a topic he didn’t mind talking about.

“Childhood friend. I haven’t seen her in… a very long time.” Her eyebrow shot up at that.

“What was your name, by the way?”

“Viktor.” A look of surprise flitted across her face.

“Ohh.” She drawled knowingly, smiling at herself as she continued to wedge limes.

“What?”

“I’ve heard of you, that’s all. Her childhood love who disappeared on her while her mother was dying…”

“You don’t know the whole story…” He snapped back quickly. He might hate himself for what happened, but he felt the need to defend his choices. It had turned out well for him, he just wished he could’ve found her. Taken her with him. Their life could’ve been so different. Katie chuckled, continuing her tasks.

“Oh trust me, I do. She’s very quick to defend you, you know. You can do no wrong in her eyes…”

“Not so sure about that…” As he muttered to himself, something she’d said suddenly hit him. Her childhood love…“Actually, on second thought, I will grab a drink please, whatever she usually has. But don’t put it on her tab…”

“I wasn’t planning on it, Topsider.” She saluted mockingly with a smile.

Two down and that was all he was having, just needing something to take the edge off after Katie’s admission. All those years wasted, because you thought childhood love was stupid and pointless. And now, seeing her again, you still love her as much as you did back then…

Katie was on her break, so he twisted in his seat, trying to find her in the crowd. She had never been difficult for him to spot, everything about her so familiar to him, and this time, she was centre stage, which made it even easier. Every part of him was screaming to turn away, to not taint his view of her, but he was instantly transfixed. She danced so fluidly, so gracefully. Every movement she made was purposeful and poised. However much she hated her job, she took pride in it. He was a scientist, sure, but she was a creator, through and through.

***

You were finally finished, and you were exhausted. Even though it wasn’t even half a usual shift, seeing Viktor, all the memories it brought back, it had been so emotionally draining.

You were grateful that the changing area was empty. It wasn’t the usual shift time, and no one ever came here on their break, so at least Viktor wouldn’t have to deal with that. You almost laughed at the thought.

There was a gentle knock, and his voice sent a flutter straight to your heart.

“Vikki?” He called out mockingly, and you laughed at the way he’d latched on to your new name. It was inspired by him, after all. “Are you decent?”

“Yes, you can come in.” You were looking good, if you said so yourself. The fashion and the opportunity you were afforded to express yourself in that way was one of the few things you did like about this place. You’d tried to incorporate the shapes and designs of your ‘work attire’ into a more Lanes-friendly outfit, layering a black organza shirt over the lacy bodice, beading shining through the sheer fabric, pairing it with a bubble skirt and knee high boots, just the right height to allow your stockings to peek from the top. There was only one item that wasn’t black; his neckerchief that you had taken earlier was now around your own collar, tied in a dainty bow. He grinned as soon as he laid his eyes on it, striding towards you and gently holding the hemmed edge between his fingers.

“I guess I’m not getting this back, huh.”

“Never.” He shrugged.

“I’m ok with that.” God, the way he looked at you. It made you melt without fail, warm flush spreading across your cheeks.

“Are you ready to go?” You muttered, eyes still glued to his, honey tones making you feel as though you were stuck in them. A fly trapped in amber, resigned to its fate.

“I’m ready when you are.”

You’d decided you were going to cook for him tonight instead of taking him out. The places near you either weren’t nice enough, or they knew you for the wrong reasons. Besides, you wanted to show him your place. To show him that, even though you were still here, you had done everything you could to make the best of it, to continue learning and inventing and developing yourself.

That did mean you had to stop by the store, though. Which meant bumping into Angel. He and Viktor would not get on.

You had grabbed Viktor’s arm as soon as you left the club, a habit from the times Joey had walked you home, knowing that you were safer beside a man than by yourself. Even though the Undercity was bustling tonight, there was something so soothing about being here with him. A nostalgia warming you from the inside out. He let you guide him into the shop below your apartment, chatting absentmindedly about nothing and everything, when a smooth voice stopped yoou in your tracks.

“Not so fast, Vikki…” You groaned, turning back the few steps you had made into the entrance.

“Hey Angel.” You cooed, although it felt wrong falling into your usual flirtatious routine when Viktor was right behind you. He was working behind the counter today, thumbing through the till. His long dreadlocks were down, grey peeking through his beard, wide grin as his eyes traced over you, following your arm to where it joined the man next to you.

“Is that a nickname, or…” Viktor muttered, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you responded.

“No, Vik, this is my landlord Angel…”

“Landlord, huh? Thought I was more than that, sugar…” He leaned across the counter, shit-eating smile on his face, clearing noticing and enjoying the fact he was winding up your new companion. Viktor scowled, moving a step closer to you.

“Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming, old man…” You sent him a wink, and he laughed, the booming noise of it always making you smile. “What have you got in that’s fresh? I’m actually cooking tonight…”

You chatted a little longer, grabbing what Angel recommended and some wine, before heading upstairs via the back of the shop. Viktor was still scowling slightly as you were unlocking your door, and you laughed lightly, nudging him with the bag of shopping.

“What?” He huffed.

“I don’t like that guy.” He grumbled, feeling smug that you had called it.

“He’s my landlord, Vik, and a friend. He’s a good guy, don’t worry.” He just shrugged as you finally got the door open, and you thanked the stars that you had remembered to tidy last night, or else it would be a complete tip. There were still remnants from your busy morning scattered all around the studio: scrap pieces of fabric and thread strewn across the kitchen table, the half-finished neglige you were constructing laid over the back of one of the chairs, the cogs and pieces of machinery lie abandoned next to your sewing machine in the wake of the modifications you were trying to make so it could handle more delicate material. The space itself was dark in colour, olive and navy washing the walls, brown leather sofa and black countertops marking their territory in the small apartment, the stain-glass screen in front of your bed the only splash of jewel toned colour. You could feel Viktor’s curiosity at the place, and as he stepped further into it, a smile settled onto his lips.

“It’s so very… you.” He said, and in any other intonation, it would’ve sounded like a bad thing, but when he said it, full of adoration.. it was a compliment of the highest order.

***

She was mesmerising as she cooked, twirling in the kitchen to her carefully selected vinyl, a wide smile on her face as she tested what she was making. He wanted to help but she wouldn’t let him, batting him away and telling him to sit down, and for now, he had obliged. But, as much as he wanted to help her always, right now, he just wanted to be close.

“At least let me pour the wine?” He said, already standing to help, and she huffed, but didn't object. Instead, she handed him the corkscrew and the bottle wordlessly. He smiled, leaning against the counter and continuing to watch her as she stirred. She was always so chaotic when she was creating, something evidenced by the near bomb-site on her kitchen table. It was just so… her. Everything about her apartment was as well, such a perfect and beautiful representation of everything she was, every tiny detail of her life and personality reflected in the space she lived in. The colours, the soft furnishings, the bookshelves lining the wall behind her bed. Then, he noticed something about the stain glass screen that separated the room, soft light from her bedside lamp washing through it and creating a blue ripple across the floor like a stream. It was of their place, their creek. It was abstract, sure, but he would recognise it anywhere. The way certain rocks jutted out, the colours of it all, the small boat floating in the still glass water.

“Did you make that?” He asked earnestly, and she briefly glanced up from the stove to see what he was looking at.

“Yeah, I've been trying out a lot of different hobbies actually, things to keep me busy when I’m not working. That was one of my favourites…”

“It’s beautiful.” She smiled sadly, focusing her attention back to the pan.

“It reminds me of you.”

He poured them both a glass, and she gratefully accepted.

“It’s nearly finished, just a few more… oh I meant to ask earlier…” Her mind was such a beautiful thing, the speed at which it moved so captivating, not even time to finish her own thought before starting another, “why were you even here today? In the Undercity, in my club… I just never thought I’d see you back here by choice.”

“I was visiting an old friend, a quandary about a new gadget Jayce and I are working on, but…” He was going to say something about it, ask her opinion on whether he should follow Doctor Reveck’s advice, what he should do next, but he decided against it. “He didn’t have any insights.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“No, I…” She looked hurt at the speed the word left his mouth, almost recoiling and turning back to her cooking with a frown. “I mean that you probably could, but I don’t want to taint tonight by talking about a project that has been frustrating me for weeks. Another time though, of course I would appreciate your insight.” She sighed in relief, smile flitting back across her face. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer, humming as she did, a flurry of breathtaking movement as she dipped it into the sauce, spinning back around and holding it up to him.

“Taste?” She asked, the look on her face so hopeful it melted him, her joy infectious. But underneath all of it, he couldn't help but notice the cracks: the bags under her eyes, the tiredness set into them, the subtle shake of her hand. But he just smiled, enveloping her hand in his and bringing the spoon to his lips.

“It’s perfect.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.” She looked proud nonetheless, spinning back away from him and he was left to watch again, heart swelling. He wanted this. Cooking with her, drinking wine in the kitchen to her favourite record, letting her order him around. He wanted the… intimacy of it. The domesticity. The realisation of it ached. You could’ve had this. All these years without her, all these years wasted. Precious time that you no longer have to spare. If you’d have just waited, just taken more time to find her, insisted on helping her even…

“It’s ready!” She exclaimed, presenting a plate with a wide grin, and every stress, every regret simultaneously melted away and intensified, a pit forming in his stomach.

“It looks wonderful.”

***

You had eaten, and you were both now on your second glass of wine. You felt closer to him with every single second, drawn to every word he said like moth to a flame. At some point in the evening, you’d moved to the floor, backs to the sofa, as you looked through some of your old sketches you had found. The conversation lulled momentarily, a faraway look in his eyes, and you realised how close you had gotten. Your elbow was leaning on the sofa, supporting your head with your body twisted to face him, knee pressing against his thigh. You moved your head forwards to glance at the sketchbook, and your hand fell, resting on his shoulder. A stillness fell over him at the touch, and he smiled sadly to himself.

“I think you should come back with me.” He stated with finality, and you froze.

“What do you…”

“I think you should come back to Piltover.” He closed the book, placing it gently on the low coffee table. He was serious. “Help Jayce and I with our projects. Let me teach you about HexTech.”

“Vik, I don’t exactly have any actual experience. I don’t have an education. I can’t afford to live Topside…”

“You can live with me.” He said it so simply, like it was so obvious. Of course you would love that. Now you’d seen him again, you didn’t want to be apart from him but… “Professor Heimerdinger can give you lessons, but you have the mind already. There are certain things that can’t be taught. You have the passion, the skill, the creativity…”

“But…” You weren’t trying to pick apart his plan, but it felt terrifying. Even though it was everything you had ever wanted, it felt so far fetched. Like a fever dream. It didn’t feel like your life, your future.

“No, I… I lost you once, I can’t do it again.”

“Vik…” He grabbed your hand that was resting by his shoulder, and you felt yourself relax into his touch. He turned head to meet your eyes, sadness creeping into them.

“I don’t have much time left.” The finality of his statement shocked you, and you couldn’t tell what he was talking about. Did he have somewhere else to be? Oh god, you’d already kept him here too long…

“What do you mean, time left?”

“I’m dying.” It felt like somebody had punched you in the gut, all the air in your lungs gone.

“You’re…”

“Dying.” He repeated factually, and your heart sank further into your stomach. “And if we don’t… Jayce and I are working on something that might help, but if it doesn’t, I need someone I trust to take over from me.”

“Viktor, hold on, I need to think…” Your mind was racing, and you still couldn’t quite wrap your head around everything, hands running through your hair. He was dying. He wanted you to move Topside. He wanted you to work with him. To take over his life’s work. “It’s been years. I haven’t seen you in years and now you want me to… now you trust me to…”

“Of course.” He muttered, speaking your name softly to get your attention, hand gently wiping your face where tears had fallen without you noticing. “You’re everything to me, you always have been. There’s nothing I wouldn’t trust you with.” His hand was still resting on your face, and as you searched his eyes, you saw something else. Something pleading, something that echoed the feeling bouncing around in your heart. It would be hard. It would take a long time to settle in, to learn the ropes, to feel like you belonged. But it was your dream. To help change the world. And if he didn't have long, there was no chance you were wasting any of your time left with him.

“Ok.” You answered nodding, and you watched a smile take over his face, heart swelling at the sight.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… Vik, you’re offering me my dreams on a silver platter, and on top of it all, I get to be…” You nearly slipped, about to say be with you but you knew that was a lot. That you had only just reunited and to spring the whole I’ve loved you since I was 10 and I’ve never loved a soul since thing on him might ruin the dream that he’s just given you. But, fuck, you wanted to kiss him right now. “I get to work with you again.. there would have to be one hell of a catch for me to say no to that.”

“The whole dying thing isn’t too much of a problem then?” He asked with a slight smile, trying to hide a genuine fear beneath a joke.

“Oh, honey, knowing that we don’t have another decade of time to lose… I’m not letting you slip through my fingers this time.” His hand felt so natural resting against your cheek you’d forgotten it was there until it moved to cup the base of your neck, thumb drawing gentle lines across your jaw. His amber eyes were searching your features, looking for anything to indicate that you were unsure, but your resolve shone through, and you could see the moment he realised this was going to work, relief flooding through them.

Then, before you could process what was happening, his hand gently guided you forward until your lips brushed against his—light as a feather. For a moment, you couldn't believe he had just kissed you, that it was real. But as you met those pleading honey eyes, everything else faded away. Every doubt, every regret, every sliver of worry vanished, replaced by such overwhelming care and love that you felt you might burst. Your body gave in without conscious thought, melting into his arms as you kissed him. His hands drifted to the back of your head, tangling in your hair and pulling you closer. You couldn't get close enough, your hands gripping the front of his shirt. His fingers traced down your body until they reached your hips, pulling you over him. A soft giggle escaped into his mouth as you swung your leg over his, settling onto his lap. When he finally broke for breath, you found yourself chasing his lips, panting into the space between you with a wide smile.

His lips found yours again, this time with more urgency, more need. Your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, steadying yourself as his grip on your hips tightened. The feeling of his fingers pressing into your skin sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but let out a soft moan into his mouth. He smiled against your lips, one hand moving to cup your face while the other remained firmly at your waist.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispered against your mouth, voice rough with emotion. You could only nod in response, too overwhelmed by the feeling of finally being in his arms after all these years.

The record had long since stopped playing, leaving only the sound of your shared breaths and racing hearts in the quiet apartment. His thumb traced gentle circles on your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, full of warmth and something deeper, something that had been there all along. Something that you had been too blinded by insecurity to notice earlier. Something that you knew all too well, reflected in your own heart. You pressed your lips to the mole on his cheek, and the one beside his mouth, a small smirk playing across his features as you did.

“I still can’t quite believe this is happening.” You muttered softly against his cheek, and he sighed, thumb dancing across your lips.

You eventually found yourselves entwined on your bed, limbs tangled in soft cotton sheets, his back pressed firmly against your sturdy wooden headboard as you rocked onto him with gentle, deliberate movements. Each subtle shift of your hips sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making your breath catch. You panted softly into his mouth as his strong, careful hands helped guide your every motion, his touch both grounding and electrifying. The overwhelming need to be closer drove you to pull him tighter against you, your arms wrapping securely around his shoulders until there wasn't even a whisper of space between your bodies. Your chest pressed firmly to his, feeling his rapid heartbeat matching yours, as your head naturally found its place in the crook of his neck. You pressed feather-light kisses against the sensitive skin, tasting the salt and breathing in his familiar scent. The intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming - so intense, so raw, so perfectly natural - and you found yourself climbing toward your peak faster than you ever had before, your body responding to his every touch as if it had been waiting for this moment forever. You whined softly into his skin as pleasure built within you, each movement bliss, and he responded with a groan as he pressed his lips tenderly to your temple.

"That feels so good, sweetheart," he drawled, his voice coarse with desire, and your hips instinctively bucked harder against him, drawing a sharp gasp from both of you. His meticulous fingers traced teasing patterns across your hipbones before finding their way between your bodies, circling your sensitive clit with perfectly measured pressure that made your toes curl. His other hand gently cupped your chin, drawing you back until your eyes met his, gilded with desire but still so full of tenderness. His lips ghosted across yours before he pressed his forehead to your own, releasing your face and returning his hand to your hip, guiding you once more. You could feel yourself fluttering around him as your pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, and his eyes rolled back, a broken groan escaping his lips and filling the charged space between you. The coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter as you approached your climax, desperately seeking more of him, claiming his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that swallowed the stream of desperate moans spilling from both your lips. When your release finally crashed over you, it was like nothing you'd ever experienced - all the pressure, all the built-up desperation exploded like a supernova and pure, white-hot ecstasy consumed every nerve ending, every thought, every sensation except the feeling of him inside you and against you. He followed shortly after, gasping your name like a prayer against your skin as his own pleasure overtook him, his lips finding purchase on your neck as he shuddered through his release. In that moment, it was perfection, hearing him, feeling him, everything you had ever dreamed of and more. But as you came down from your shared bliss, you couldn't quite silence the intruding thought lurking at the edges of your consciousness - that you wouldn’t have him for long.

***

She looked so peaceful curled against him, her head nestled perfectly in the crook of his chest as if she belonged there, her beautiful red hair fanning out like a fiery halo in the dim light. Her beauty was staggering - the gentle slope of her nose, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curve of her lips - and he couldn't help but trace each feature with his fingertips, mapping the geography of her face with tender precision. She sighed contentedly in her sleep at his touch, unconsciously pressing closer to him, one hand curling loosely in the fabric of his sheets that lay across them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this complete, this profoundly at peace, as if all the jagged pieces of his life had suddenly aligned. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, committing every detail to memory - the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, the way her lips curved slightly downwards even in sleep. He wanted to capture this moment, to carry it with him always like a talisman, a protection. A reminder that he would do anything to preserve her peace of mind. To make her happy.

The soft amber from the bedside lamp caught in her hair and painted her skin in warm honey tones, making her look almost otherworldly in her beauty, an ethereal being who had chosen, inexplicably, to be with him. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a feather-light kiss, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, before letting his own eyes drift closed. Despite everything - the illness creeping through his veins, the uncertainty that clouded their future like a torrential storm on the horizon - right now, everything felt exactly as it should be.

[fayelero]

— WILDFLOWER ! timeskip!atsumu

➥ pr : timeskip!atsumu x famous!fem!reader

➥ syn : after a tough argument with your boyfriend, you got in a car accident…

➥ wc : 3.1k

➥ tw : tough argument, car accident, injured reader, angst to comfort, crying reader, y/n employed a lil.

➥ a/n : trauma era ! (it’s weird I’ll stop)

The lights of Shibuya sparkled like they always did—a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of neon advertisements flashing bright against the obsidian night sky, painting the urban landscape in vibrant, electric hues of pink, cerulean, and electric blue. Massive screens flickered with advertisements, music videos, and breaking news, casting their ever-changing glow across the bustling streets below. But high above the cacophony of the city, inside the sleek, minimalist luxury penthouse that had once been their sanctuary, the air was thick with a different kind of electricity—raw, crackling tension that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The once warm and welcoming space now felt cold, almost suffocating. Gone were the soft throw pillows carefully arranged by interior designers, the artful photography capturing moments of their shared past, the subtle scent of sandalwood that typically permeated the air. Now, there was only silence punctuated by ragged breathing and the distant hum of Tokyo's nightlife.

Atsumu stood by the kitchen counter, a study in controlled fury. His muscular frame was tense, arms crossed over his chest, revealing the definition of years of professional volleyball training. His brow was furrowed, a familiar competitive edge that usually served him on the court now turned inward, sharp and dangerous. His blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly disheveled—a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil brewing inside him.

You were on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth. Your designer heels—Louboutins, a gift from a recent magazine shoot—clacked against the pristine marble floor in a staccato rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each step was a statement, a declaration of your growing frustration.

The penthouse, situated in one of Shibuya's most exclusive high-rises, had always been a symbol of your collective success. But tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker, ready to explode under the weight of unspoken resentments and mounting professional tensions.

"I'm so sick of this, Atsumu!" you screamed, your voice a complex mixture of rage and profound hurt. Tears streamed down your face, tracing perfect lines through your meticulously applied makeup. Your hands, adorned with delicate rings from your latest endorsement deals, gestured wildly, punctuating each word with raw emotion. "You're never here! Never! And when you are, all we do is fight. I've spent the last five years supporting you, loving you, waiting for you—while I'm out there building my own damn career!"

The vulnerability beneath your anger was palpable. These weren't just the words of a frustrated partner, but of someone who had consistently placed another's dreams ahead of their own, only to feel increasingly marginalized and forgotten.

Atsumu's response was immediate, defensive—a reflex honed from years of facing down opponents on the volleyball court. "And what? You expect me to just drop everything?!" His voice was louder than you'd ever heard it before, a mixture of Osaka dialect and raw emotion. "You think bein' a professional volleyball player is just fun and games? That it doesn't take everythin' I have to stay at the top?"

His words were defensive, but underneath lay a deep-seated insecurity. The volleyball world was unforgiving, with careers that could end in an instant. Every moment not training, not preparing, felt like a potential threat to everything he had worked for.

"That's not what I'm saying!" you yelled back, your voice cracking with a complexity of emotions. As you wiped furiously at your cheeks, the carefully constructed persona of the confident model and actress momentarily dissolved, revealing the deeply wounded individual beneath. "But it's like I don't exist to you anymore, Atsumu! It's like I'm just a damn afterthought!"

You paused, inhaling sharply, gathering the last reserves of your emotional ammunition. When you spoke again, your words were calculated, designed to wound. "You know what? Maybe you love volleyball more than you ever loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The sting in your words was palpable—a razor-sharp blade that cut through the carefully constructed facade of their relationship. In Atsumu's eyes, you could see a storm brewing. His pupils dilated, the golden-brown irises darkening with a mixture of hurt, anger, and something deeper—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple—a tell-tale sign of his rising frustration. The fists at his sides tightened, knuckles turning white, betraying the athletic control he typically maintained with such precision. Years of professional volleyball had taught him to channel emotions, to convert raw feeling into explosive physical energy. But here, in the intimate battlefield of their home, those skills failed him completely.

"Don't even start with that crap," he spat, his voice dripping with venom that was more pain than malice. The Osaka dialect grew thicker, a subconscious retreat into his most authentic self—the version of Atsumu that existed before the fame, before the pressure, before the constant performance of being a professional athlete. "You're the one out there posin' half-naked for the world to see! You don't even care about what that does to me, do ya? Every single time I see your face plastered all over those magazines, I'm reminded of how everyone else gets to see what's supposed to be mine!"

The words hung in the air, loaded with possessiveness, insecurity, and a deep-seated fear of loss.

You froze, his words slicing through you like a knife. The transformation was immediate—from emotional vulnerability to razor-sharp defensive mode. "Excuse me?" you said, voice dangerously low, each syllable carefully enunciated. The model's training kicked in—controlled, precise, devastating. "What's supposed to be yours? Atsumu, I'm not some possession you can just claim. I've worked my ass off to get where I am. And if you can't handle my success, that's on you—not me."

Your career hadn't been a gift. It had been a battlefield of its own—endless castings, brutal rejections, critical eyes dissecting every inch of your appearance, your talent, your worth. Each magazine cover, each commercial, each film role had been hard-won, purchased with countless sleepless nights and moments of self-doubt.

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm that barely concealed his hurt. "Yeah, sure. Poor you. The perfect little model and actress who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. Do ya even realize how lucky you are?"

The accusation hung between them—a gross oversimplification of a complex journey.

Your mouth fell open, shock mixing with the anger that burned in your chest like an uncontrollable wildfire. "Lucky?" you repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and mounting fury. You took a step closer to him, closing the physical distance between you, your presence electric and challenging. "You think my career is easy? That I haven't sacrificed just as much as you have?"

The vulnerability returned, raw and unfiltered. "You have no idea what it's like to have your entire life picked apart by strangers, to have people constantly criticize you, to feel like you're never enough no matter how hard you try!"

In that moment, the fight transformed. It was no longer just about time, or absence, or professional demands. It was about two individuals drowning in the expectations of their careers, of society, of each other—desperately trying to maintain their individual identities while simultaneously trying to maintain a relationship.

The room fell silent, heavy with unsaid things. The city continued its relentless pulse outside, indifferent to the emotional storm raging within the penthouse. Neon lights continued to dance across the windows, a stark contrast to the stillness inside.

"I can't do this anymore," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you. Your voice was soft, but filled with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the entire space. Shaking your head, you grabbed your designer handbag—a Chanel piece that had been a hard-earned gift by Atsumu after a particularly challenging campaign.

"Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" Atsumu barked, his voice rising again, a last-ditch attempt to maintain control of a situation rapidly slipping away.

"Anywhere but here," you snapped, your hand already reaching for the Porsche keys in the decorative bowl by the door. The keys clinked against each other, a metallic punctuation to your decision. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

Before he could respond—before he could plead, argue, or attempt to reconcile—you slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the penthouse, a final, definitive statement that seemed to echo the fracturing of something once believed to be unbreakable.

—

Travis Scott's "SICKO MODE" blasted at maximum volume, the bass so loud it seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The irony wasn't lost on you—a song about chaos and intensity perfectly matching the emotional storm raging inside your mind. The lyrics seemed to mock your pain, each beat a punctuation to your spiraling thoughts.

The words rang out, and you laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that was more sob than anything else.

"I'm so fucking useless," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the thundering music. Tears streamed down your face, cutting perfect lines through your carefully applied makeup. "Nobody could ever really love me. Not Atsumu. Not anyone."

The streets of Tokyo blurred past, your Porsche cutting through the night like a silver blade of desperation. Every word from the fight replayed in your mind with merciless precision. Atsumu's accusations echoed like razor-sharp whispers, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You don't even care about me anymore," his voice rang in your ears. "You'd rather show off for strangers than even try to make this work."

The music swelled, Travis Scott's voice a backdrop to your internal breakdown.

"I'm nothing," you muttered, your grip on the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. "Just a pretty face. Just something to look at. Never enough to be truly loved." The words were a mantra of self-destruction, each one landing like a physical blow.

Your mind was a tempest of emotions—guilt, rage, self-hatred swirling together in a hurricane of pain. The city lights streaked past like watercolor brushstrokes, Tokyo's infamous neon landscape becoming an impressionistic canvas of blues, pinks, and electric whites.

You pushed the Porsche faster, as if speed could outrun the pain, could silence the voices in your head. The powerful engine roared beneath you, a mechanical beast responding to your emotional turmoil. At 180 kilometers per hour, the world outside became an indistinct smear, much like your sense of self—undefined, chaotic, on the verge of complete disintegration.

The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on you. Ideas of worthlessness, of being unlovable, of being nothing more than a commodity—they filled your mind completely.

The intersection approached—a critical point of convergence that would change everything in a heartbeat.

The sharp, piercing sound of a car horn sliced through the music. A moment of stark clarity emerged, milliseconds stretching into an eternity. Your head turned, eyes widening as massive headlights barreled toward you, bright and unforgiving.

Travis Scott's voice was the last thing you heard.

The impact was sudden. Violent. Apocalyptic.

Metal screamed against metal, a cacophonous symphony of destruction that mixed with the final echoes of the song. Your Porsche—a machine engineered for precision and speed—was reduced to a crumpled sculpture of twisted metal and shattered dreams. The collision flung the car across the intersection with a force that defied physics, spinning and tumbling like a discarded thought.

And then, silence.

Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, rising like a spectral mourner above the wreckage. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that seemed to echo your final, unspoken thoughts.

"Atsu…," you whispered, as darkness began to creep in.

The city continued its relentless pulse, indifferent to the personal tragedy that had just unfolded on its streets. Neon lights flickered, a final, distant reminder of a life that now seemed impossibly far away.

—

The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence of the penthouse. Atsumu, still frozen in the aftermath of your departure, instinctively reached for his mobile. The caller ID displayed the hospital's number—a sight that immediately sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

"Hello?," he answered, his voice raw from their earlier argument.

The words that followed would forever divide his life into two distinct periods: before and after this moment.

"Sakusa Kei Memorial Hospital," the voice said. "We're calling about a patient involved in a severe traffic collision. Are you the emergency contact for y/n?"

Time seemed to stop.

The next hours passed in a blur of sterile white corridors, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the constant beeping of medical equipment. Atsumu's athletic composure—usually so precise, so controlled—completely dissolved. His hands shook as he filled out medical forms, his usually confident Osaka dialect reduced to fragmented, desperate whispers.

The hospital room was quieter than Atsumu had expected, save for the soft hum of machines monitoring your vitals. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of his fear as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, lying amidst a sea of white linens and medical equipment. The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

Your body looked so small, so fragile against the stark hospital bed. Bruises bloomed across your exposed skin like shadows of the argument that had led you here. A cast encased your left leg, another your arm, and your face was marred with small cuts and swelling that no makeup could disguise. But your eyes—their familiar light dimmed but not extinguished—opened slowly at the sound of his approach.

“Atsumu,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread that tugged at his heart.

He froze mid-step, his athletic frame tense, as though moving too quickly might shatter what little remained of you. Tears, warm and unwelcome, blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his legs carrying him to your side.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. His hand hovered over yours, afraid to touch, afraid of breaking you further. “God, I’m so sorry, darlin’. This is all my fault.”

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion from the accident and the aftermath evident in every line of your body. For a moment, you said nothing, letting his words settle into the quiet. Then, with more strength than he thought you could muster, you managed, “Don’t… do that.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed in confusion, guilt momentarily eclipsed by the sharpness of your tone, fragile though it was. “Do what?” he asked softly, his voice a broken echo of its usual bravado.

“Don’t you dare make this about you,” you replied, your voice gaining a sliver of its familiar fire. “This isn’t your fault, Atsumu. I was the one driving. I was the one who left.”

The tears he had tried so hard to control now fell freely, streaking down his face as he shook his head vehemently. “But ya wouldn’t have been drivin’ like that if it weren’t for me,” he countered, his Osaka dialect thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot—if I hadn’t said those awful things—ya wouldn’t have been out there at all.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his guilt palpable in the room. “And if I’d listened to you instead of trying to win the argument… maybe I wouldn’t have stormed out,” you admitted, your tone soft but unwavering. “We were both wrong, Atsumu. Both of us.”

The admission seemed to strike him harder than any spike he’d ever taken on the court. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at you as though you were some ethereal being he’d never quite been worthy of. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sank into the chair beside your bed, his head dropping into his hands.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered, his voice muffled but no less raw. “I thought I lost ya. When they called me and said you’d been in a crash…” His voice cracked, and he lifted his head, his golden-brown eyes now rimmed red with unshed tears. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

You reached for him, wincing as your arm protested the movement. Despite the pain, you managed to place your uninjured hand over his. The contact was light, hesitant, but it was enough to anchor both of you. “I’m here, Atsumu,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was fighting against every emotion threatening to spill out. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. “I’ve been such a damn fool,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I’ve been so caught up in everythin’—the games, the pressure, provin’ myself—that I forgot… I forgot what really matters.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice, at the sight of the man you loved stripped down to his very core. “You matter to me, Atsumu,” you said, your tone firm despite the weakness in your body. “But I need to matter to you, too. Not as an afterthought. Not as something you’ll get to when volleyball isn’t in the way.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening as though he was afraid to let go. “You do,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You matter more than anythin’. More than volleyball, more than any championship, more than everythin’ I’ve ever worked for. I just… I didn’t know how to show ya that without feelin’ like I was givin’ somethin’ up. But I see it now. I see you now.”

A single tear escaped down your cheek, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Then show me, Atsumu,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. “Be here with me. Don’t just tell me—show me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet understanding passing between you as the city lights outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. Finally, Atsumu leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so soft, so reverent, that it nearly undid you.

“I will,” he promised, his lips brushing against your skin with each word. “I’ll show ya. Every day, every damn moment. I’m gonna make this right, darlin’. I swear it.”

The weight of his words settled into your chest, warm and grounding.

The hospital room was still, the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the city your only company. But in that stillness, amidst the aftermath of chaos and pain, the first fragile threads of healing began to weave themselves through the fractures of your relationship.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him.

Ⓒkiesbrainjuice all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

tag : @haechansbbg

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

hii! can we get a story were jude and the reader are expecting a child and he’s being super protective and attentive with her and just being the best husband ever maybe a little smut if you’re feeling like it😉

Heyyy… so, remember me?

Yeah, it feels like it's been about eighty-four years. I swear I didn't fall off the face of the earth, life just decided to humble me a little. Between school, work, and a near-death experience (yes, seriously), I've basically been living on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Now, with the end of the semester creeping up, things are somehow even busier than before. BUT(cue dramatic music)...summer Break is almost here!! Yayy!

Starting May 20th, I'm going to try (emphasis on try) to post at least twice a week! Fingers crossed. Pray for me. Light a candle.

Thank you so much for being patient with me. I promise I'm cooking up some really good stuff, and it's going to be so worth the wait. I can't wait to finally share everything I've been planning with you guys!

Love you all & see you soon!

-Bianca🌻

P.S. Don't forget my fics now available for ONLY $3 ($4.50 on iOS) each on my Patreon shop if you're looking for something specific; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

I've uploaded way more fics to it. I just haven't posted them on Tumblr.

In All the Little Ways

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Your son isn’t even here yet, but Jude is already head over heels—fiercely protective, endlessly patient, and so in love with the little family you’re building together.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Husband!Jude Bellingham x Pregnant!Wife!You

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.9k

Warnings! FLUFF, protective Jude, domestic sweetness, lots of baby fever, Jude being the most attentive husband ever, soft!dilfJude energy, boydad!Jude

You learn very quickly that there are two types of pregnant women in the world: the ones who glow like goddesses, and the ones who swear they're being slowly taken out from the inside.

You, for better or worse, fall solidly into the second category.

"Sit down, love. Please."

You blink down at your hands, still buried wrist-deep in the kitchen sink, suds clinging stubbornly to your knuckles like a second, soapier skin. The dishes clatter faintly against one another as you scrub, a mindless rhythm that’s become almost meditative these days—one of the few chores that lets you feel halfway normal.

Behind you, you can feel Jude hovering. His hand is half-extended, frozen awkwardly between reaching for you and holding back, like he’s ready to physically lift you away from the sink if it comes to that.

"Jude," you sigh, exhaustion threading through your voice as you turn slightly to look at him. "I'm just washing a few plates."

"You’re seven months pregnant," he counters immediately, his voice rising a fraction, that note of helpless urgency slipping through. His dark eyes—usually so steady, so soft—are wide and pleading, like he’s trying to will you into understanding the sheer scope of his concern. "And you’ve been on your feet for nearly an hour. An hour, babe."

You glance over your shoulder and catch the full effect of his worry. His brows are drawn together in a fierce line, his mouth pressed into a thin, stubborn line of determination. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, but he’s leaning toward you like he can’t physically help it, practically vibrating with barely restrained anxiety.

God, he looks so sincere it almost makes you feel guilty.

Almost.

You huff out a breath and dry your hands on a towel, more out of pity for his poor, fraying nerves than anything else. "Fine. But not because you're right," you mutter, flicking water droplets in his direction for good measure. "Because I’m tired."

"Same difference," he says immediately, flashing a grin that's more relief than triumph. He steps forward, gentle but firm, and catches your elbow in his hand like you're made of blown glass. Like you might shatter if he isn't careful enough.

You roll your eyes dramatically, but you let him lead you away from the sink, secretly grateful to be off your feet.

"Feet up," he instructs as soon as your back hits the couch. His voice has taken on that soft, bossy lilt he only uses when he’s pretending to have any say in the matter.

Before you can even protest, he’s already fussing—grabbing one of the giant, overly fluffy pillows he once swore he hated ("Why do we need a graveyard of cushions?") and tucking it carefully under your ankles, adjusting it once, then twice, until he’s satisfied.

It’s ridiculous, really. Over the past few months, Jude has evolved—or maybe devolved—into some insane hybrid of husband, bodyguard, and personal butler.

If you so much as breathe funny, he’s at your side with a glass of water and three different suggestions for prenatal yoga. He’s read every book, highlighted every article, downloaded every app the internet has ever recommended. He meal-preps your favorite comfort foods on Sundays now—though he always burns the roasted vegetables—and has stocked the pantry so full of prenatal vitamins it looks like you’re preparing for the apocalypse.

Last week, he spent three hours installing some ridiculous contraption in the car that promised to make your seatbelt “more bump-friendly.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him you weren’t entirely sure it was legal.

You’d tease him mercilessly if it wasn’t…well. Kind of the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.

"You comfortable?" he asks now, crouching down in front of you so you’re eye level. His hand—big, calloused from years of gripping footballs but somehow still warm and impossibly gentle—finds your knee. His thumb traces slow, absentminded circles there, grounding you.

"I'm good," you reassure him, giving him a small, real smile.

Still, he hesitates, scanning your face like he’s waiting for you to suddenly combust or cry or both. And to be honest, you don't blame him. The mood swings lately have been… unpredictable at best. Yesterday you cried because the cereal box wouldn’t open properly.

"Really," you insist, reaching out to cup his jaw. His scruff has grown in a little, prickly against your palm, but familiar in the most comforting way.

He leans into your touch immediately, closing his eyes for a second and releasing a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. The noise he makes—somewhere between a hum and a sigh—blooms warm and soft in your chest.

"Okay," he says finally, though he still sounds like he’s ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch. "You need anything? Tea? Water? Grapes?"

You lift an eyebrow. "Grapes?"

"You said you craved them the other day," he says defensively, looking almost sheepish.

You laugh under your breath. "That was one time, Jude."

"Still," he shrugs, as if that explains everything. "Just in case."

You shake your head and tug at the sleeve of his hoodie, coaxing him closer. "Just sit with me."

It’s all he needs to hear.

The tension bleeds out of him like air from a balloon. He shuffles onto the couch beside you with comical caution, lowering himself like he’s afraid the cushions might collapse under his weight.

Almost immediately, his hand finds your bump—it's instinctual by now—his fingers spreading protectively across the stretch of fabric covering your stomach. His thumb moves in slow, reverent circles, as if he's wordlessly communicating with the little life inside you.

You cover his hand with yours, weaving your fingers between his, squeezing lightly. His touch is steady, reassuring.

He smells like fresh laundry and the faintest trace of the aftershave you got him for your last anniversary—the one he insists on saving for “special days” but you know he wears just to make you smile. It's a stupidly perfect combination. It smells like home.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, your body finally surrendering to the tiredness that's been gnawing at your bones all day. Your eyelids flutter closed, your breathing syncing up with the slow, steady rhythm of his. He’s so warm.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The television hums softly in the background, some late-afternoon cooking show playing reruns you're not really watching. The clatter of pans and soft chatter from the screen fills the living room with a kind of easy, domestic noise. Outside, the sky bruises into early evening, colors bleeding together in dusky streaks of violet, gold, and deepening blue. The kind of light that makes everything look a little softer. A little slower.

Jude’s hand stays splayed protectively across your bump, thumb tracing lazy, mindless circles. His touch is warm, grounding. You can feel the steady beat of his pulse under your fingers where your hands are still tangled together.

It’s peaceful. So peaceful you feel yourself drifting a little, lulled by the steady background noise, the weight of Jude's palm, the rhythmic inhale and exhale of his breathing beside you.

And then—A flutter. Small, quick, like the flick of a bird’s wing inside you.

You blink, roused from your haze, and press your hand a little more firmly against your belly, right over where you felt it.

"He's kicking," you murmur, your voice barely louder than the hush of the television. You smile, small and instinctive, as the tiny movements continue beneath your skin. It’s a strange and beautiful sensation. A secret only you and your baby share—until you let Jude in on it.

Jude’s face lights up instantly, the transformation so pure it makes your chest ache. His whole expression softens, his eyes going wide and glassy, lips parting in awe. "Yeah?" he breathes, already leaning closer like he’s afraid he might miss it if he doesn’t move fast enough.

You nod, shifting a little to give him more space. The couch creaks under your combined movements. Jude's hand slides lower, fingers splaying wide across the curve of your stomach, just above your hip bone. His touch is gentle, tentative, like he’s afraid of pressing too hard.

"There," you whisper, catching his hand and guiding it to the right spot. You hold your breath as you wait, heart thudding in your ears.

For a few long moments, nothing happens.

Jude stays perfectly still, head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration. So still you can almost feel the tension vibrating under his skin. You can see it, too—the faint crease between his eyebrows, the slight pinch at the corners of his mouth. You wonder if maybe the baby’s decided to nap just to spite you both.

But then—

A kick. A little harder this time. A tiny, decisive thump right against Jude’s palm.

He jolts like he’s been shocked, sucking in a sharp, disbelieving breath. His head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a kind of wide-eyed wonder that makes your throat close up. He’s so close you could count every freckle dusting his nose, every individual eyelash framing his gaze.

"Did you feel that?" you ask, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

"I—yes," he stammers, looking completely dazed. "I did. Shit." His fingers flex instinctively, trying to catch the feeling again. "It was…shit, it was amazing."

You laugh wetly, blinking back a sudden, stupid rush of tears. Because it is amazing. And because you know that look. The look that says he’s falling a little more in love with both of you every time he feels that tiny life moving. The way he stares at you, like he’s seeing something sacred. Like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

Your heart twists so hard it’s almost painful.

He doesn’t look away for a long time. His thumb strokes absentmindedly over your hip bone, the touch feather-light and reverent. "How are you feeling?" he asks eventually, voice pitched low and careful, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You take a beat to answer, savoring the way his hand still cradles you, the way his thumb keeps brushing soothing, absentminded strokes against your side.

"Not too bad," you say finally, smiling through the knot of emotion tightening your throat.

It’s not a lie. Not really. These days, the morning sickness is more like occasional afternoon queasiness. Still unpleasant, but nothing like the all-consuming misery of the first trimester when you couldn't even think about food without dry-heaving. You’re sleeping better now, too—well, most nights—propped up on a fortress of pillows Jude arranges for you religiously.

You may not be able to walk up a flight of stairs without needing a full recovery nap afterward, and you definitely haven't seen your own toes in weeks…but you’re here. You’re okay.

Better than okay.

"No headaches?" Jude presses gently, his brows knitting together again, that familiar, earnest worry back in full force. "Back okay? Feet?"

You nod. "All good," you reassure him, squeezing his hand where it still rests over your belly.

He searches your face for a few seconds longer, his gaze darting between your eyes like he’s trying to read something invisible there. Like he knows you too well to just take your words at face value. Finally, he seems satisfied and turns his gaze back down to your bump.

"Jude?"

"Hmm?"

Your voice is soft, almost shy in the quiet room. You lean down, pressing your forehead gently to his. His arms come around you without hesitation, wrapping carefully around your waist, mindful of the bump between you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

You can feel the tension in him—the way his muscles stay taut even as he pulls you closer, the way his breathing hitches slightly when you exhale against his skin.

"I just…I worry," he says after a long beat of silence, his voice so low you almost miss it under the soft hum of the television and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. "That you’re doing too much. That I'm not doing enough."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those familiar chocolate brown depths that have always been a mirror for every thought he’s too stubborn to say out loud. They're wide and earnest now, glinting faintly in the low evening light. Vulnerable in a way that makes your heart twist.

You lift your hand to his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw, feeling the faint prickle of stubble beneath your fingertips. Your thumb sweeps softly over the shallow cleft in his chin, the way it always does when you need him to believe you.

"You're doing enough," you whisper, meaning every word with a fierceness that almost startles you. "You're perfect."

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s trying to let the words sink in—but when he opens them again, there's still that shadow of doubt lingering. He shakes his head slowly.

"But I can't carry it for you," he says, voice cracking the tiniest bit, raw around the edges. His hand slides instinctively back to your belly, resting there like an apology. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a second longer than usual. "I fucking hate that I can't."

"Jude." You grab his chin, forcing him to look at you, gentle but firm. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do," he says without hesitation, the easiest truth he's ever told.

"Then trust me when I say you’re doing everything you can. More than everything. You carry me. That's more than enough." Your voice wavers, but you steady it, pulling him closer until there’s barely an inch between you. "This is our baby. Our job. Not just yours, okay?"

He stares at you for a long moment, his throat bobbing with the force of the emotion he's trying—and failing—to swallow down. Then, slowly, he nods, leaning heavily into you like he’s finally letting himself be held, too.

You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling him against you, your fingers combing through the soft coils at the nape of his neck. His breathing evens out against your collarbone, slow and shaky, like he’s exhaling every fear he’s been carrying alone.

When he lifts his head again, his eyes are glassy, lashes clumped together with unshed tears he stubbornly refuses to let fall.

He nods after a moment, leaning heavily into you. You wrap your arms around his neck, combing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes, exhaling a slow, shaky breath. When he opens them again, they're glassy.

"I'm gonna be there," he promises, voice thick and raw, a solemn vow sealed between your heartbeats. "For everything. The late nights. The nappies. All of it. I'm not gonna miss a second." His hands tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to you. "Swear to God."

You believe him.

You believe him with every fiber of your being.

"I know," you whisper, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek, feeling the slight tremble there.

Because Jude Bellingham doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not on the pitch.

Not in life.

Not in love.

Your baby kicks again—a sharp, cheeky little nudge against your ribs—and both of you laugh, the sound bubbling up to soothe your tears. Your foreheads stay pressed together, and it feels like the whole world has been distilled down to this: the two of you, and the tiny life growing between you.

"You're sure I can't get you anything?" Jude asks a few minutes later, breaking the silence, though his hands stay firmly planted on your bump. "Juice? A snack? Anything?"

You roll your eyes fondly, leaning back into the couch cushions with a sigh. "Jude, you just brought me lunch. Like, two hours ago."

"Yeah, but that was forever ago," he insists, brow furrowing in earnest worry. "You need to eat more. You’re eating for two, remember?"

You lean back against the couch cushions and sigh. "I promise I'll tell you if I want something. Now come sit with me. Your show’s on."

"You sure?"

"I’m positive."

He hesitates—torn between wanting to keep fussing over you and finally accepting that maybe, just maybe, you’re okay for now. Eventually, he nods, dragging himself onto the couch properly and settling beside you, one arm slipping around your shoulders, the other instinctively returning to your bump. His fingers stroke over your clothes, tracing invisible patterns only he knows the meaning of.

It’s been his favorite thing to do ever since your bump started forming.

At night, when you’re curled up in bed, he’ll rest his head there, ear pressed against your stomach, almost trying to catch whispered secrets through your skin. Sometimes he stays so still you think he’s fallen asleep—but then you’ll feel the faint hum of him, humming to your bump, a low, soothing rumble that vibrates through you both.

Sometimes he talks, too.

Whispers soft things he thinks you can’t hear. Promises. Hopes. Fears he’s too proud to say out loud when you're awake.

Later, when he thinks you’ve drifted off to sleep, you hear him whisper it again against the soft curve of your belly:

"You're my whole world. Both of you."

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to. You can feel it in every careful brush of his fingertips, in the way he tucks the blanket a little tighter around you both, in the way he kisses your bump with a tenderness that could tear you apart if you let it.

He rests his cheek there, humming under his breath, and you think—no, you know—that whatever storms might come, whatever fears might lurk in the edges of the night, you’ll never face them alone.

Not with Jude by your side.

Not ever.

-Bianca🌻

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Healer

masterlist

viktor x anhedonic!reader [1.4k][AO3]

cw: implied/referenced depression, suicide, suicidal ideation, self harm

summary: Anhedonia set in and the idea of exiting life's stage became all the more appealing. But you've heard about The Healer and perhaps he can save you.

tags: gn reader, S2 Viktor, post-Act 1, anhedonia, angst, depression, suicide, SI, SH, viktor gardening?, reader's just admiring him atp, not betad, not encouraging anybody to join any cult

a/n: idk if vik's abilities extends to making plants appear but for this pretend it does

if you're unfamiliar with what anhedonia is, it's a symptom of a larger condition (can be depression, bipolar, schizophrenia, more), characterised by the inability to experience physical and/or social pleasure. makes existing difficult, like you're dragging so much pointless weight and everything feels high effort, so what's the point.

just a brief description (based on what i've learnt from it in research and experience), so i encourage learning more to get it more in depth if it interests you or sounds too familiar.

You prayed for an easy coax out of the darkness.

The little home of scrap fabric and heartbroken brick you built throughout the years was becoming more and more dilapidated, though its original state had never been of full health to begin with. And like it, your body’s ridges became prominent, visited by unexplained bruises, warmed by the thickened hair on your skin, and yet living on had always been the only option you saw—no, the only option you allowed.

You’d breathed long enough to outlive many of those around you. Whether it was becoming grey-lunged corpses, enforcer punching bags, or a Promenade diver, everybody knew somebody who, sooner rather than later, knelt to kiss Death’s feet. Surrendered. Be it by their own or another’s will.

Then it fell upon you: the swole blanket of indifference, of apathy. It cloaked your mind, buried your defences that was defiance, which had been the only source of survival you’d had left. But snuffed out now.

And how easy it is to think of self-inflicted inexistence when it seems nothing else matters.

Oblivion would whisper in the corner, a demented, deformed dog snarling yet begging your hand’s comfort. Come to me. And you can’t find good reason as to why you shouldn’t.

This… healer—a man whose touch could gild any man’s sick and bestow him a new life, a new body, a new mind—you’re not sure when he arrived. But the whispers morphed to murmurs which morphed to rumours and unfolded itself into your side of the city’s underbelly.

Was he the answer to your prayer?

You made journey to the place you’d heard he’d made camp, and it unfurled before you and stole all expectation and put them to rest. Because for once, the Sumps had colour, had life.

At the centre stood a strange, globular… building? Just like stained glass, its surface was of mute Spring colours, translucent, swirling lattice-work reminiscent of butterfly wing patterns.

He’s a tall thing. A beautiful thing. His metal body cloaked, careful, and coded with grace. Each movement was deliberate, no gaze shared unintentional. How had he come to exist? How had this world birthed your people’s suffering but, as well, him?

You want to laugh at the sick irony. Whoever’s dealing the cards need their hands cut off.

“What ails you?” he asks, giving you such soft regarding you can’t help but be rendered speechless.

In truth, you’re not sure. Physically, you know you’re lacking, but so was everyone so why are you different? In your head there sits a temptress, attempting to lure you to the edge of buildings or blades, but she had no name. No one speaks of her.

The healer tilts his head, seeming to take a better look at you. He looks so kind. Such eyes, opalescent, have seen suffering, and you know it.

“Life,” you give a one-shouldered shrug, smiling. “I… I’m not actually… uh, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” you take a step back.

What had been the point of this? Attempt what? Healing? What’s this man to do?

“No,” he steps closer, his voice swathed in a strange mechanical whir. “Stay,”

You’re sure that by the furrowed desperation on you, it convinces something inside him, as he turns and beckons you with a nudge of his head. So you follow.

Each step he makes creates a heavy thunk beneath him, and though you don’t feel its impact, merely by sound you feel the weight of him. How had he acquired such a body? Modded fingers, let alone limbs, cost years of your wages—you can’t imagine how much his entire body might have cost.

“I can feel something plaguing you,” he begins, shifting slightly to catch a look of you.

You scoff but it doesn’t quite match your face.

“Then what brought you to me?” he shrugs and looks away, leading you to the side of the Sumps where a clear plain rolled out.

You watch as he kneels and reaches for the soil, taking it between metal fingers.

“I’m not sure,” you kneel beside him, shoulders bunching up. “What are you doing?”

He hums, smoothing the ground and creating indents, “I’m assessing,”

You lean forward, folding your arms and hanging your head to look at him.

The metal frames his face, just barely hidden by chestnut waves, curling beneath the jaw and around the ear.

He’s got a rather angular beauty to him, something belonging to scrutiny and studiosity. Even his strong brows follow theme, arched forward in a focused furrow, over narrowed eyes homing iridescent irises. You’re not sure if he’s from this world. Or if the world was gifted him.

Your attention trails back to his hand, and he digs his fingers beneath the soil. Then, hand glowing beneath the metallic muscles, the ground is imbued with a light, where then verdant stems spring alive.

You choke back a gasp, glancing about as the spindly bodies uncurl and reveal yellow petals. Roses?

Whipping back to him, you take note of the glow leaving his eyes, shock threading through your system.

When you glance back at the flowers, now surrounding the both of you, you can’t help but think: logically, how you might have reacted would be with pleasant surprise, glee, even.

Such occurrences, the arcane or a mere flower field, was a coveted sight, and without a doubt you would have felt the surge of optimism. But instead nothing happens. Instead it’s unmet anticipation and expectation sitting at your belly, pooling into grey disappointment.

It’s when you look back to the healer that you realise this disappointment must have shown on your face. He inclines his head so slightly, blinks, as if saying I understand. And he smiles. He smiles and it’s the gentlest thing ever given to you to hold and witness.

You want to crumple, to lay graves for your limbs and disassemble each part that ever dared to exist only to suffer. There used to be anger, and at the very least there was indignation. At topside for their neglect, your parents or finding each other, for finding something beyond the misery and creating you. Where had all such righteous resentment gone?

“Viktor,”

You look up to see the healer’s hand stretched out, asking for yours in return. And you oblige, shaking it gently, before pulling away only to be held with soft restraint.

“You are welcome to stay,” his voice becomes tender, becomes more human almost, aimed purely for your audience. “Even if what torments is not outright seen. I welcome all,”

Your breath comes out long, carrying with it the tired days in the dark. The healer… Viktor makes no acknowledgement of this but just another observant blink, the corners of his mouth slightly tightening.

“Wasn’t gonna die or anything,” you joke, flattening your lips and hoping it registers as a smile, however trying it may appear.

“Eh,” Viktor shrugs, turning his attention to your hand and turning it about as if trying to see new angles. “A slow death is still a death,”

This makes you frown. Why has he assumed? But why is he right?

“The slower it is, the more painful, I think,” he remarks, but he seems almost far away. “As you watch what is left of you wither, and all you can do is… hm, watch,”

Then you understand. Something in your chest tightens as you take in once again all this stranger is. “You’re well-acquainted,” you note, coming out barely as breath and observation, spoken clearer by the narrowing of your eyes than your own voice.

He looks at you again, and something’s changed. His eyes? It seems. There’s something more amber about them, more grounded in this singular hue. “My longest companion,”

You hum, nodding.

There’s a safety in knowing you’re understood, even if they’re not able to fix you. It cloaks you warmer than summer, than any consolation offered in pity—he understands. And perhaps not the very same that brandishes you, but in some aspect he knows.

Which is what makes you ask, “Can you fix me?”

His eyes resume that pearl sheen once again and you’re mesmerised, gaze flitting between each eye in deep investigation—tell me who you are, how you are; tell me how you’ll fix me. Like the field around, the sweet sunshine hues of the roses, to make your land more than just barren.

And he does. He raises his other hand, uncurling, coming to hover by your face. “May I?”

You breath sweeps back in and you nod, leaning forward and connecting his cold fingers to your cheek.

He notes you for a moment, saying nothing, doing nothing. It’s his gaze that makes you feel naked, removed of any pretence crafted carefully. But he shifts his attention and his fingers connected with your forehead, eyes overtaken by a white glow.

Your vision drowns in the white.

a/n anhedonia's been hitting me and this is the only thing i could muster to make so here we gooo. not my favourite, feel like i could've done it better but oh well, least i made something wahooyaaa writing is coping after all 🫵🏼😃🗣️

requests + taglist open!

[this is a reupload, i have no idea why the original post disappeared :''')]

[witherby]

Sorry if you answered this, but since jj raised punch what was that like for him? Like especially when she was super little?

-⏳

Great question! It was some of the most stressful parts of his life!

⚠️ This is a violence and injury-heavy series. Graphic descriptions of harm may apply. ⚠️

You have to understand that there was already a lot going on in the first place. JJ had only been brainwashed into Momsy and Popsy's little family for about a year before Harley broke up with the Joker and fled. She'd finally hit her limit with abusive and toxic relationships and his rampant cheating every time she turned her back, so she tossed her old costume in his face and peaced out without sparing a second glance at JJ.

Feeling abandoned, and still trying to keep a shred of sanity after his violent conditioning, JJ was now the sole source of Joker's attention, and it was bad. It took months of trial and error — much, much error — to learn Popsy's hair-triggers and how best to appease or avoid them. He learned the best ways to smile for him, when the right time to laugh was, and when to make himself scarce. For the most part, he got a routine down and could handle his new life just fine.

Even if he sometimes dreamt of thick, comforting capes and a ruffle to the hair and warm, hot meals, even if he woke up from nightmares about his conditioning just barely suppressing a scream, even if he occasionally fantasized about stuffing a grenade down Popsy's big grin and watching him paint the walls red, JJ had a routine he worked hard to maintain.

Until you appeared. Your mother was some henchwoman the Joker had taken a liking to and apparently had some unprotected fun with a couple months before Harley left. Unfortunately, Popsy hadn't let her go to the hospital to deliver you, so you were born in a pile of tarps and packing peanuts in the corner of their latest hideout. Your mother suffered a bad bleed and hadn't made it, leaving a brand new infant without a food source and your father literally incapable of caring less.

"What do I look like, a father!?" The Joker had laughed. Only to see JJ standing just off to the side looking sheet white. "Oh, right. Congrats, Junior; if the baby dies it's all your fault, 'cause Heaven knows I won't be doing any of the heavy lifting! Ha! Someone fetch me my coat, I've got a date with Batsy tonight I just can't miss!"

And wasn't that a horrifying job to give a 12-year-old.

So JJ buckled down, gently brushed the packing peanuts from your sticky body, found a clean blade to cut your umbilical cord, and wrapped you up in one of his hoodies. Your mother was hauled off and disposed of in a garbage bag with zero fanfare, and he swore to himself that you would not follow suit. You, who was so small and innocent and undeserving of the cruel circumstances that had befallen you, yet there you were all bundled up in his arms.

The last time JJ asked a henchman for help with something, they deliberately fucked it up and got him in trouble, so your brother took you with him to go rob a grocery store of all the formula and diapers he could physically carry, coming to terms with the fact that he would not be able to rely on anyone for help.

No one else would care for you. No one else would try. But Popsy told JJ to do it, so he would. He could do this, no problem. JJ was still struggling with coming into his identity, but his intelligence was as high as ever. How difficult could caring for a harmless baby even be?

It was hard. It was so fucking hard actually. The memory of how hard it was getting you through your infant stages is still enough to give JJ palpations today.

You cried a lot. All the time. Part of that was because you were cold — abandoned buildings seldom still had any utilities running, least of all the HVAC — and part of that was because you were hungry — villainy did not come with a paycheck — but JJ did his best to make it work. Every day he strapped you to his chest, paranoid that leaving you alone too long would result in Popsy or a henchman deciding to do away with you, and helped make the next batch of plans to either take over Gotham, take out the Bat, or both. Every afternoon he worked with his hands and shimmied you to his back so stray sparks didn't hit your skin from welding or blowtorching, as he built weapons and traps and moved big pieces of cargo from point A to point B at Popsy's command. If it was a good day, there was, at max, one tantrum from his Popsy to defuse. If it was a great day, you were quiet and didn't draw anybody's attention thus triggering one of Popsy's tantrums. There were so few great days in your infancy.

And in the evenings, when all the work was done and Popsy had retired for the night, JJ climbed to the highest point in the building and made a warm little bed out of every stolen material that wouldn't be missed. He'd make sure you had a fresh diaper and a full belly, wrap you up in a stolen onesie, and read to you with stolen baby books just above a whisper. And you would stare at him with your big, round eyes, and reach for his hands with your itty bitty ones, and grip him as tight as you could. Watching. Listening. Taking your cues from him, slowly but surely.

JJ would then lie down with you securely on his chest and listen to you breathe as you slept. He'd stare at the ceiling and think back to Janet Drake when she used to pay him any attention as a baby. He couldn't recall the sound of her voice anymore, but he remembered that she would hum for him when he was fussy. He remembered that she'd give him little squeezes to comfort him. He remembered her kisses to his forehead.

He remembered Bruce's pats to the top of his head. He remembered Alfred's gentle shoulder squeezes. He remembered Dick's brilliant smile.

Tim JJ would use those fading memories to help him care for you as best as he could. Because that's all they were anymore, memories of a past life that no longer belonged to him. The sooner he accepted that, the easier it would be to fully and completely settle into his new life as Joker Junior and as your big brother.

Despite having no formal education, you were a quick learner. When you started to walk and talk, it didn't take long for JJ to teach you the ins and outs of navigating life under the Joker's rule. You made some mistakes, of course, because you were a child being raised by a teenager. One such mistake, in which the Joker had taken a hammer to your wrist for accidentally setting off a small explosive in the latest warehouse, led to the realization that you don't feel pain.

That was good because pain couldn't be used to bully you into submission.

That was good because it meant you wouldn't stay out of commission for as long whenever Popsy wanted to put you to work.

That was bad because Popsy could do just about anything to you with little consequence.

That was bad because Popsy liked it when his victims suffered consequences, and your lack of a "proper" reaction sometimes exacerbated his ire.

JJ adapted. Taught you what signs and cues to look out for in terms of how bad an injury was since your body couldn't do it for you. Put you on a feeding schedule when he realized you didn't have hunger cues, either. Helped you understand the swimming in your vision when you were sick and the tingly numbness in your fingers and toes when you were frightened. Showed you how to properly apply face paint and helped you dye your hair green to please Popsy. Tried to teach you how to read and write so you could help draw up blueprints, and how to do basic math so you could properly weigh the amount of explosives needed to build a bomb. Made up games the two of you could play when all the day's work was done. Learned to style your hair and taught you proper hygiene to keep you healthy and help you feel pretty.

JJ did everything for you. At first because it was asked of him, and then because he loved you. He loved to make you laugh and smile, he loved to teach you new things, he loved to invent new games with you, he loved to keep you safe.

Because the Joker might be part of his family, but he's not crazy enough to believe that the man has any love for him. You do, though. You love your big brother and love to learn and laugh and play with him just as much as he does.

JJ raised you from birth when your mother could not and your father would not. You are his baby sister and you are the joy in his world. He'd do it all again for you, no questions asked.

[commodorez]

Cactus fascinates me, does it run on code similar to an existing instruction set or is it completely original on that front?

What can you do with it? What's it's storage?

Both the Cactus (the original wooden prototype from years ago) and the new PCB Cactus(es) are essentially derived from a minimal 6502 computer design by Grant Searle for their core logic. Here's what that would look like on a breadboard:

There isn't much to it, it's 32K of RAM, 16K of ROM containing Ohio Scientific's version of Microsoft BASIC, a 6850 ACIA for serial interaction, some logic gates, and of course a 6502 microprocessor (NMOS or CMOS, doesn't matter which). You hook it into a terminal and away you go.

Grant's design in turn can be best described as a distilled, modernized version of the OSI Challenger series of computers. Here's an OSI-400 and a Challenger 4P respectively:

The left one is a replica of the 400 circa 1976, also called the Superboard. It was affordable, endlessly reconfigurable and hackable, but ultimately very limited in capabilities. No BASIC, minimal monitor ROM you talk to over serial, but you could connect it to a bus to augment its features and turn it into a more powerful computer.

Whereas the OSI C4P on the right from about 1979 has more RAM, a video card, keyboard, BASIC built in, serial interface, cassette tape storage, and that's just the standard configuration. There was more room to expand and augment it to your needs inside the chassis (alot changed in 3 years for home computer users).

Grant's minimal 6502 design running OSI BASIC is a good starter project for hobbyists. I learned about the 6502's memory map decoding from his design. I modified and implemented his design on a separate cards that could connect to a larger backplane.

Here are the serial, ROM, RAM, and CPU cards respectively:

Each one is 100% custom, containing many modifications and fixes as I developed the design. However, that's only half of the computer.

I really wanted a 6502 machine with a front panel. People told me "nobody did that", or couldn't think of examples from the 1970s but that seemed really strange to me. Especially since I had evidence to the contrary in the form of the OSI-300:

This one I saw at VCF West back in 2018 illustrates just how limited of a design it is. 128 bytes of RAM, no ROM, no serial -- just you, the CPU, and toggle switches and LEDs to learn the CPU. I was inspired the first time I saw one in 2015 at VCF East, which is probably when this whole project got set in motion.

Later that year I bought a kit for a miniature replica OSI-300 made by Christopher Bachman, and learned really quickly how limited the design philosophy for this particular front panel was. It was a major pain in the ass to use (to be clear, that's by OSI's choice, not any fault of Christopher in his implementation)

So... I designed my own. Took awhile, but that's the core of what the Cactus is: my attempt at experiencing the 1970s homebrew scene by building the computer I would have wanted at the time. Over half of the logic in the Cactus is just to run the front panel's state machine, so you can examine and modify the contents of memory without bothering the 6502. I added in all of the things I liked from more advanced front panels I had encountered, and designed it to my liking.

Here's the original front panel, accompanying logic, and backplane connected to the modern single board computer (SBC) version of the machine:

And here's the new Cactus SBC working with the new front panel PCB, which combines the logic, physical switch mountings, and cabling harnesses into a single printed circuit board.

So, what can you do with it? Pretty much the same things I do already with other contemporary 1970s computers: play around in BASIC, fire up the occasional game, and tinker with it.

I've got no permanent storage designed for the Cactus as yet, it's been one of those "eventually" things. The good news is that a variety of software can be ported to the hardware without too much trouble for an experienced hobbyist. A friend of mine wrote a game called ZNEK in 6502 assembly which runs from a terminal:

Right now, you have to either toggle in machine programs from the front panel from scratch, burn a custom ROM, or connect it to a serial terminal to gain access to its more advanced features:

Here's it booted into OSI BASIC, but I have also added in a modern descendant of Steve Wozniak's WOZMON software for when I need to do lower level debugging.

I've also got a video card now, based on the OSI-440. I have yet to implement a keyboard, or modify BASIC to use the video board instead of the serial connection. Even if I did, screen resolution is pretty limited at 24x24 characters on screen at once. Still, I'm working on that...

Anyway, I hope that answers your question. Check the tags below to see the whole process stretching back to 2017 if you're curious to learn more of the project's history. I'm also happy to answer any more questions you might have about the project.

[sguidwards-bestfriend]

So apparently pitchpearl is a thing, I've been on tumblr for a while and if you know any history then you understand why selfcest doesn't surprise me in the slightest

Anyway...

dpxdc Misunderstanding that becomes reality fic: 1.5k

part 1

Warning: I plan on a very melancholic ending, its a good ending but also kinda sad

...

When Danny moved to Gotham, he really had thought he wouldn't continue his hero work in this dimension.

But there was a little girl in the street that almost got hurt during a rogue attack.

But some kind of gas went off at the cafe he worked at and it's not like he really needs to breath and there were so many people.

But his University, Gotham U, was in a lock down from a random winter storm that definitely wasn't natural.

So he did what he could when he saw it and kept off of the news when he was doing class work, letting the other "vigilantes" pick up where he couldn't.

However, after a few more months of class, work, and being a vigilante (the news station that first showed him used the correct name!!), he was right back where he had been in Amity before he'd managed to close the portal.

Exhausted and failing at everything other than hero work.

The year after he had graduated high school he stayed in Amity and was able to make amends with the ghosts, being the crown prince definitely helped. He thought the ghost attacks stopping would have lessened his pa- Jack and Maddie trying to catch one. In reality they only became more and more frantic to catch the last ghost, "Mini Phantom".

Revealing he had a daughter, that that daughter was half ghost, hadn't gone well in the slightest.

The one shot Maddie managed to hit had almost destabilized her. He had grabbed her and ran into the portal. He wasn't sure how he'd done it, but in a fit of blinding rage he had destroyed both sides of the doorway to the Ghost Zone.

Frost bite had managed to get her to retract into her core. She'd need some time before she'd have a physical form again, and she'd need Danny to keep her stable for some time, but she would make it. She'd be fine in the end.

It felt weird to have two cores in his chest, but other than needing to take ecto shots it wasn't a huge change.

The last time he'd been to frostbite Ellie's core had some sort of shake to it. It could have been nothing, but a halfa was rare enough. A halfa making a never-born hadn't even been thought of. Add on, that that never-born could possibly be born a halfa was... concerning.

So here he was, in an entirely new dimension, nervously chewing on the end of his stylus, waiting to hear back from Frostbite. His study sessions lately kept being interrupted by thoughts of her. If she really was okay.

Then there was an earth shattering BOOM, that shook his entire building.

As he floated upwards and through the wall he caught a glimpse of something he had never seen before in his afterlife.

A daemon. An actual daemon with red skin and horns and a flaming tail crawling out of the ruble that used to be his front door.

Danny could sense immediately that the being wasn't from the ghost zone, but it held just as much power as one of the stronger ghost.

He transformed and landed in front of the being, "Hey! That was my front door! What gives, Rudolf?"

The daemon shook the dust off his head and looked at Phantom, then at his chest, and back at him. "I do not fight those that carry child."

"Oh... uh." He was not expecting that. "Are you okay?"

It was the daemons turn to look perplexed. "I am fighting a hellblazer, he owes me something. Refuses to pay."

"That's annoying." He looked around to see some guy in a trench coat at the end of the street. The yet to settle dust cloud making it hard to figure out any other features. "I can help if you-"

At that a massive blast of magic hit him and the daemon, sending them careening farther down the street.

Danny's vision went double and he thought he was going to throw up. All he could focus on at first was the pain as he tried to stand on wobbly legs, then it was the emptiness in his chest.

Ellie.

He closed his eyes and dropped back to the floor. He focused on her core. He found it quickly, checking it over, turning it every which way incessantly until he heard someone groan in front of him.

When he opened his eyes he was looking at two much smaller daemons, one a bright red, the other a darker wine red, sitting in a massive indent in the road. One he very luckily was on the very outskirts of.

The two immediately started to bicker, swatting at each other, but not actually fighting.

He heard footsteps on the wreckage behind him, some magic words were said and the daemons' were hand cuffed and poofed out of sight.

"Hey kid, you okay?" Trench coat asked him, not bothering to give him his hand.

"No thanks to you, you ass."

"I just saved your life." He said with a blank expression.

"The daemon wouldn't have done anything to me. Unlike you, they have a moral code."

Trench coat huffed, that seemed to ruffle his feathers. "And what would those morals be exactly?"

"They pay their debts, for one. And two, they don't magically attack people carrying children." Danny stood up and wavered. Trench coat grabbed his arm to steady him.

He stared at Danny for a few more seconds, "You're not human." It wasn't a question. He sucked in a breath, "You're not fully human."

"Ding, ding, ding." Danny tried to shake of the hellblazer's grip. "Let go of me."

"I know where to get medical attention for non humans. You need to be looked over." He said, starting the motion to make a portal.

"Nuh, uh. No. I'm fine." Danny said, patting the hand still wrapped around his arm. Trenchcoat let go and shoved him lightly, Danny felt the world twist around him as the pavement came up to meet his face.

Before he hit the ground he stopped in mid air, not by his own volition, and was gently propped back up.

"That blast spell is designed to not affect humans. You shouldn't have felt more than a breeze." Trenchcoat went back to opening up a portal, it glowed an eerie red. "Come on, well check the little one too."

Danny let himself get pulled through the red portal, it quickly closed behind them.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

His head was pounding.

"wha/t- morals- exactly?"

Talking.

"debts- two- atta/ckp/eo-ple- children."

Two voices. Two people.

"not human."

He feels empty.

"Letg/oof me."

He's hurt. His other half is hurt.

"You need to be looked over."

He opened his eyes, a man was holding his other half. His other half and his daughter.

"Nuh, uh. No. I'm fine." His other half swatted at the man.

The man pushed his other half to the ground.

He tried to reach out but his hand was barely a shimmering outline.

His other half didn't hit the ground.

There was ringing in his ears. The man would pay.

"Come on,- the little one too."

The man pulled his other half through a portal.

A sickly looking portal. A bloody color.

He floated up. Sped to the closing portal.

It closed too fast.

He wasn't fast enough.

...

It took Phantom 20 minutes to get his thoughts in order and another 10 before the ringing in his ears stopped.

He had been split in two before, but the ghost "dream catcher" the ecto-scientists made years ago had split his ghost half and his human half entirely. This was different.

He still felt a bit of his humanness. Transforming would suck though, he felt too low on ecto to do that.

His other half was in his human form when he looked. He still had Ellie nestled up against his core. But his core looked off. Although the silhouette was of a full sphere, he couldn't help shaking the thought that he saw some parts missing.

When Danny had been split before only his ghost had kept the core, it was what nearly killed them both. What made them promise to never split again.

Maybe if they both had bits of a core they'd be fine until they could reunite.

He tried to focus on his core but it made his head pound.

He'd have to hope his other half could manage as he tried to organize a rescue mission.

Although he'd managed to get a message from the Ghost Zone to Sam and Tucker, he wouldn't be able to get one dirrectly to their dimension.

He knew even trying to make a portal with his ecto as low as it was wasn't a good idea. And would be a waste of the ecto shots he had just chugged.

There was really only one hope of help he had left, one he really didn't want to ask.

A new friend he had made at the cafe.

Tim Drake-Wayne, son of Brucie Wayne. The very same Brucie Wayne that was definitely funding Batman's weird night life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wow this got away from me, honestly was planning on like 500 words. I want to continue this, but if anyone wants to pick it up and play around please feel free to add stuff in the reblogs! I adore reading peoples additions to posts

(As always please please please help me writing tags i never knwo what to do with them, the lack of structure here compared to ao3 confuses me)

[bengiyo]

Hello 👋

All of your favorite horniest sex scenes?

Hello! I've been busy, so this has taken forever to get to!

I don't always need the guys to bounce around on each other and gyrate enthusiastically for it to out as horny. Oftentimes, I find myself more drawn in by the building desire between the characters, and the explicit acknowledgement of release. I like when the sex feels like it's also revealing something to us about the characters. I've highlighted many of these before, but it's fun to revisit.

Ghost Host, Ghost House Episode 4 Couch Scene

I will never get over this scene, and especially the director's cut of it. These guys knew they liked each other almost instantly, and it was so rewarding to see them reach a place where they could express that. Bonus points for discussing the logistics of gay sex.

This show has been on Gaga and YouTube for a while, but it's also now available on Viki!

La Pluie Episode 6 Floor Scene and Episode 7 Bed Scene

I liked this scene so much that I wrote about it. Again, there's a lot of anticipation between these two, and you can tell how far it's built up because Patts has to dial it back down when Saengtai wants to stop. It's especially important to me because Saengtai does blow Patts in the next episode. If you're on iQIYI, there's an extended cut of that at the end of the video lists.

Mood Indigo: The Post-Funeral Scene

These two are so horrible for each other, but damn are their sex scenes compelling. Theirs are the kinds of scenes only possible between two people you know can never work long term. I was so glad that we got back to Haruhiko in Playback, and the first thing he did was blow Rio in a car. If you haven't seen the Novelist, and you're itching for hornier BL, it's right there.

The End of the World With You "You're Soaked"

From the same team as The Novelsit, we got to experience baby's first fuckboy in this incredible show. Again, I love when we get scenes with couples who aren't ready to work, because they're allowed to have raunchier sex. They get to amp the intensity of the physicality because they need to give a reason why someone was so caught up and missed the warning signs. I actually love the car scene later as a more romantic intimacy scene, but we're focusing on horny here.

Jack o' Frost Birthday Sex

A common theme here with the Japanese offerings is that people are allowed to have more interesting sex scenes right before they split. This is true even in Jack o' Frost. We get a really great oner from the leads that precedes their breakup and Ritsu's accident. I think this might be my favorite of this list because the actors have to build the entire scene together since there aren't any cuts.

Gameboys 2 Bed Scene

Cairo and Gav are one of my favorite pandemic couples we got on screen, and I was quite relieved for them when they finally got to have this moment. We also confirmed they switch, and I love that.

Wedding Plan: Namnuea Showing Off His Stamina

No list for me would be complete without including them. I really loved seeing two gay men go at it after clearing out all of their misunderstandings. They had already had sad goodbye sex. It was thrilling to see them having enthusiastic, athletic sex. This also leads directly to one of my favorite emotional payoffs for a closeted character of all time.

Kiseki: Dear to Me Reunion

The second couple stole this show, but damn if I didn't love the way these two played out sex across multiple years between their characters. These two really suffered, and I really love the way Taro Lin and Hsu Kai captured the changes between these two as Bai Zong Yi grew and matured. This really was a solid sex scene.

Love Class 2: Sungmin and Joo Hyuk

I just really wanna thank them for reassuring me that if Korea wanted to, they could deliver.

Sleep With Me Jeans Scene

I am not a lesbian, but I share their beliefs. This scene was so good. I loved that these two, who have different kinds of disabilities, were able to have a very fun sex scene. I really like when it's clear both characters want to be there.

Only Friends: Boston and Top in the Car

Despite my eventual disdain for this show, I was impressed with Neo and Force for giving this incredibly selfish sex scene between their characters. This entire scene is about injured egos, and it's a standout scene from this show. We won't discuss the rest of the show here.

Thanks for the ask!

[fandomofone]

I've been thinking about Adrien and running.

There have been plenty of posts theorizing and breaking this down, so I'm sure I'm not covering any new ground here, but I have a couple of points to make that I specifically have not seen come across my dash that I wanted to mention. Put it under a cut because this got long. (whoops)

We first see Adrien running with Sublime in Sublimation and it seems like just an activity he's taken up, a new hobby. We get a deeper look at how he gets into this hobby at the end of Climatiqueen- where we see him walk past his house and pick up the pace, falling into a run and eventually bumping into Sublime, where voilá, a new friendship is born.

A lot of people have theorized that Adrien breaking into a run once he reaches the gates of his home symbolizes him running away from the oppression of the house that he shared with his father, symbolizes him running away from his life. Sublime even straight up asks him if he's running away. And I do believe that is true, in part. Just look at the angle that has been chosen to display the house as it comes into view- the house literally looks like Gabriel Agreste looking disapprovingly down the length of his nose at his son. It's looming over him ominously, a huge, imposing structure that suffocates the frame, taking up the majority of the space and making him seem small. This seems to perfectly encapsulate how Adrien is feeling about himself at this time in his life. Added to that he's probably got conflicting feelings and guilt over his father being gone. I wouldn't want to go home either.

But I think there's more to it than that.

Why Adrien starts running.

Adrien has just come from a very stressful and depressing day where, through no fault of his own or anyone else's, he's been made to feel marginalized and useless in contrast to all of his friends who seem to have something driving them, especially his extremely passionate, enthusiastic girlfriend. Despite her attempts to be helpful, all that's been demonstrated to him throughout the course of the day is that the only passion he has in his life- being a superhero, being Chat Noir- is something he can never do as Adrien Agreste, and it's something he can never share with anyone. This is a personal failure for him- he's letting Marinette down. Bad boyfriend move #1. Despite all her hard work and encouragement, he cannot settle on a passion that he can have as Adrien. He's made her inadvertently feel bad for having so many, so easily, and he can't even partake in the passion that he does have full time. His identity is literally and metaphorically fractured. Following all of that, having to return home to a house that no longer feels familiar or safe to him (for a variety of reasons) triggers a panic attack.

Physical exertion, specifically running, is a very common way to handle a panic attack. It is literally the flight response in 'fight or flight' manifesting during a period of high levels of stress- the feeling that you can't sit still, need to move, everything is building and you need an outlet to burn off that excess energy, until the adrenaline in your body normalizes.

Why Adrien keeps running.

Routine gives him something to focus on. Joining Sublime during her regimented training routine provides structure, the very thing that his entire life has consisted of and revolved around for 14 years, and has now been completely removed from his life, in a well-meaning attempt by the people who love him to encourage him to do what he wants to do for once.

This is terrifying.

The literal one-step-after-another aspect that running provides gives him a predetermined course to focus on. It's an automatic response; his body already knows what to do and there is no decision for him to make. It's something that he doesn't have to think about, something that's within his control. Additionally, the physical exercise itself provides endorphins, something he's sorely missing at this point in his life.

Ugh, Adrien. It's going to be a long, hard road for you, I'm afraid. 🥺💔

[gyuwoncheol]

Vantage Point | Meet the Characters & Series Masterlist

Status: Begins tomorrow (January 20)!

Pair: Mingyu × f.reader

Summary: Pulling off the "No Strings Attached" arrangement with his best-friend-turned-best-friend-with-benefits was easy, but when a new condition is added onto the mix, Mingyu didn't realise just how much he held onto you when you finally let go.

Genre: College au. BFFs to FWB trope. Fluff, Humor, Angst, Smut [chapters with smut will be indicated and will contain the necessary warnings]

Author’s Note: Please take time to read this before starting the series ☺️

Hello, my darlings! Finally getting round to posting this after missing the commited date last time due to covid. But welcome!!! 🥳 This is the first story to my Snap Shoot universe! Before you get into it, let me just point a few things. This is the first time I'm ever creating a universe with interwoven stories, and while I've done SMAUs before, this is the first one I've done for SVT and the first time I'm also this adventurous about it. It's definitely very different from what I post on here but I'm having lots of fun putting it together. I know it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, this is very much a work of fiction. This is an AU. While Korea may be the assumed setting for this series, it is not explicitly defined. I'm also trying to avoid using lots of Korean cultural references (maybe except for food) such as use of honorifics like "hyung". While many of my other works refrain from over-describing oc's physical features, you may find that in this series (and universe), oc's features will inevitably be defined. You'll find that the visuals of the characters and the aesthetic of the photos/social media posts will be Korean/ Asian. It's a SMAU, so i'll have to place photos and these photos must maintain consistent. I absolutely do not mean any ill intention of being non-inclusive (I don't even fit the same aesthetic as oc).

Again, it's a work of fiction, while I want you to relate to oc, kindly also allow me breathing space to build the character. If you feel uncomfortable at any point in the series, you are very much welcome to stop/unfollow. As mentioned, this is a SMAU, but it contains several chapters which are purely written narrations. All edits (texts, social media posts, etc.) were done by me, however some photos (esp those of Y/N) are from the web, if they are yours, please let me know so that I may credit you or remove the photo. The texts are all done on light mode. Deal with it. This follows a FWB trope, expect lots of smut and suggestive content— specific smut warnings will be available in chapters where they are present, along with other necessary warnings. This series will have lots of fluff and lots of crackhead nonsense humor. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Biggest shoutout to my dearest friend @wongyuseokie who has been nothing but supportive through all of this and through all my dramatic Mingy-induced meltdowns. I love you more than you’ll ever know ♥️

Meet the Characters

Mingyu: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography, yn/Camie's best friend since childhood

Yn: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography with Mingyu, Mingyu's best friend since childhood. Nicknamed "Camie" by her group of friends for her highly concerning camera collection/obsession.

Seokmin: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography, same friend group as mingyu and yn, Mingyu & Wonwoo's housemate

Soonyoung: technically a year older than the 3, but currently a Sophomore with Gyu, Cam and Seokmin after shifting into their major

Wonwoo: Junior, studying Film & Photography as well, Mingyu's guy best friend and housemate in The Man Cave, a brotherly figure to OC, Soonyoung's former classmate in highschool

The Man Cave: shared house near their university where Mingyu, Wonwoo and Seokmin live, and Soonyoung often crashes.

✨Other characters/members will come as the series progresses.

Series Masterlist

To be populated as each chapter is posted. There is no posting schedule. Chapters will just get uploaded as they come.

Teaser

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five 🔞

Chapter Six 🔞

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Tag List!

@strawberryya @idyllic-ghost @septemberskies @ladyblablabla

If you want to be tagged as each chapter comes out, do send me an ask or reply to this post so I could include you in the tag list 😊

[hiding-under-the-willow]

ENAMOURED by your ghosts au I would love details on what happened to etho 👀 from my understanding it was hels??? Very obssessed with that art btw it's so cool

Yeah yeah yeah I've worked out a little more of the detail for this whole backstory in my head since I last talked about it so I can actually get into it sure :]

So while the property that Grian and Joel end up in during the main plot of the au is large, it's mostly taken up by like the giant ass manor that's on it and the grounds around that. Which is why they've got such a plethora of ghosts, there have been thousands of people living there over thousands of years. Etho's property however, which he bought for cheap maybe ten years before the main story of the au, is almost entirely undeveloped, and has very rarely been a place people lived, hence why he's got like 3 ghosts total. There's a single cabin on the property, one that hasn't been used since around the 1890s when the property was used as a hunting grounds, which was promptly abandoned after the hunting accident that led to Gem's death. Hels had, up until Gem's death and subsequent residence on the property as a ghost, been the only one haunting the property for about 500 years.

He was generally unpleasant in his life, but 500 years on his own building resentment and anger in his loneliness in his unchanging world as he watches Wels across the fence seemingly finding companionship in his afterlife hadn't exactly made him any better. He was stubborn, and unfriendly, and averse to change, and extremely quick to anger. He had lost the deft touch of control that most knights wield over their acts of violence. Lacking his sword in death and unable to leave any touch on the world other than the occasional scratch from the sharp talon like ends of his gauntlets' fingers, he has taken to leaving long, animal like scratches in his environment when he cannot ignore that call to violence in his anger. The cabin looks like it's been ransacked by a bear, claw dug grooves in doors and tables, old dusty furniture with fabric tears revealing rotted insides, wallpaper that peels in unnatural places and forms. The trees around the property are often similarly marked. The only thing seemingly left fully intact, is a dark sword mounted above the fireplace.

Gem, being the strong-willed individual that she is, manages to mellow him out a bit in the 100 or so years they spend alone together on the property. She herself is strange and unusual in a way that seems to throw him off enough to manage to endear her to him in the time he spends too confused to be angry. And so he remains this kind of sulking, possessive, angry thing, but they share the house, and having as sharp a tongue as she does, Gem starts to turn him towards more verbal sparing than enacting any physical violence on their surroundings.

And so that 100 years of joint solitude passes by, Cub dies on the property and haunts his respective corner, seemingly uninterested in sharing the little cabin with Gem and Hels, and so Hels remains comfortable in his unchanging world.

And then Etho buys the property.

And it isn't exactly strange that someone has bought the property, it had probably passed through a dozen hands in the time since Hels had been stuck there, but no one had ever really moved in. It had been used as a hunting estate and as a scout's meeting place and as a garden, but never had anyone looked at the little cabin he had claimed as his own and decided they were going to live there. And the assumption had been that with the state it was in, no one would. Until Etho came along.

He comes in, all on his own, and starts fixing things in the little cabin, pulling out old furniture, cleaning dusty floors and struggling through plumbing work and tearing out old wallpaper. The only other person around in this time is XB, who he seems to have hired to handle the grounds while he handles the house. By the time the house is even slightly livable he's moved in.

This, obviously, does not make Hels very happy. Gem is happy to see the house get an update, and is intrigued by this weird lonesome guy who has moved onto their property, and this only seems to upset Hels more. He starts acting out I little ways, tearing Etho's clothes, scratching new furnature he brings in, messing up repair work.

Etho isn't oblivious to this, and isn't exactly a skeptic when it comes to the supernatural, so he starts talking to whatever entity he imagines to be antagonizing him throuout the day, and decides to antagonize him right back, much to Gem's entertainment and Hels' increasing agitation.

It is the day when Etho finally decides to take down the old sword above the fireplace that things go wrong.

Etho probably should've known not to touch the sword when he watched a set of scratch marks appear in the stones of the mantle beside him as he prepared to take it down. But he kept going. And maybe when a second set raked across his brand new dining room table as he pulled the sword down he should've thought to just put it back. Instead he continues to verbally antagonize Hels as he brings the thing down. Maybe he gets a little too on the nose, connecting the sword to his antagonizing spector, either way he says just the wrong thing to set the ghost off. Hels, used to interacting with Gem, who he can touch but can't injure, attempts to grab at Etho in a moment of anger, instead managing to claw the shit out of the side of his face. In the panic of realizing what he had done he attempts to catch him by the arm as he stumbles back and does the exact same thing to his arm. Queue panic and blood and such. XB hears the commotion from wherever he is outside and is the one who calls an ambulance and such. I imagine Etho gets his first shaky glimpse of Hels right as he's passing out from the blood loss.

Etho survives, of course, but looses an eye and has some pretty severe damage to his face and arm. Gem is the first of the ghosts he meets when he returns to the property, Hels hiding away when he comes home. He kind of shuts himself away in the house after that. If it seemed like he was running away from something moving to this middle of nowhere empty property before, it certainly seemed like he was hiding now. Xb is the only one he keeps around, and even he's stuck at an arms distance. It takes him a long time to not be terrified of Gem, or of Cub when he meets him. How he and Hels eventually manage to coexist is a whole other story. But either way I've been typing for too long lol I need to wrap this up

Crazy place for this au to have ended up at from 'haha wouldn't it be funny if Etho was Grian and Joel's weird shut-in neighbor that can also see ghosts' but whatever

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Ransom Drysdale

Summary: Ransom is approached with an offer that could keep his family off his trail.

A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.

Previous

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Another night, another "date" that went nowhere. Sure he's only looking for a quick hookup, but he's still got standards! He sighs tiredly into his second bottle of beer.

Ransom's been pulling himself away from you, for your safety, and it's been making him more and more miserable. He's been getting short with people at work again. The D&D group has been helpful, but even then, it's just not enough. He misses you but he's gotta build that wall between you. At least until he can get his head on straight. And a big part of that is finding some outlet for his sexual frustration.

But the dates all boring, just interested in a free meal, not even decent at conversation. What the hell happened to him? When did he actually start to give a damn about substance? He just needs someone to fuck, not get married to! Why couldn't he just grin, bear it and get them in bed?

Because they're not Bubbles, he thinks. That thought makes him freeze and he's tempted to smack some sense into himself. He's been struggling, fighting that little judgmental voice that points out how each date falls short of being you. He's scared of what it means. He won't drag you down with him. You deserve better.

His musings are disrupted when someone sits across from him. Ransom looks up and is only partially surprised to see Nick.

"Hello, Hugh."

"That's not my name," Ransom spits. "You've got the wrong person."

"So good at lying you've even managed to convince that sweet thing that you're becoming a good guy," Nick taunts, making Ransom grip his beer bottle tighter.

"I'm not who you're looking for," Ransom says through gritted teeth, not meeting Nick's gaze.

"We both know that ain't true," Nick smirks. "I was hired by your mother, Linda Drysdale, to find her son. She's paid good money to get information on you. I've got your name, your work location, even your home address."

"So I should call the police because you've been stalking me?"

"You have no idea how much of this information is public knowledge."

"Why haven't you given Linda the information?"

"Short answer: because she's a bitch." Ransom guffaws at that. "Long answer, I can understand why you'd want to go 'no contact' with that viper pit you call a family. I'm not that coldhearted. But, your mom is paying me quite a bit of money, and I do like happy customers not demanding their money back."

"Again, I'm not the person you were hired to look for," Ransom reiterates as Nick rolls his eyes. "But what's the price of you not telling these strangers about me?"

"Simply put, a date with your friend from New Year's," Nick shrugs. "She's cute, sweet. Way to bubbly for someone like you."

"She's not for sale," Ransom seethes.

"Agreed. She's an independent, pretty woman who deserves to be treated like a queen. She also seems the loyal type. You tell her one date with me and you're free from your family, I'm sure she'll agree to the terms."

Ransom slams a fist on the table. "Don't fucking talk about her like that!"

"Like what? That she's practically an angel, especially for befriending an asshole like you? I looked into your past, Hugh. Not pretty."

"And yours is better?"

"Yes," Nick states. "Not only that, but how do you think she'll feel when she finds out you've been ditching her for dates with bimbos in search of a quick hookup?" Ransom bristles making Nick chuckle. "Just ask her. I'm sure she'll be very open to helping out her friend."

With that, Nick leaves the bar, letting Ransom stew in his thoughts.

You look around the break room, trying to find Ransom. He's been working a lot lately, apparently. He said he's been dealing with a big project. At least his D&D group seems to be going well. His schedule has a lot of meetings with them. You're happy he's making friends but still, you miss him.

At least he's been keeping up with your gift exchange. Just a small gift here and there. Always small, for financial reasons, but always meaningful. He really does listen to you better than anyone else.

It's your turn for the exchange so you opt to go see Ransom at his desk, get at least a little time with him. On your way you bump into Jake.

"Oh, hi!" he smiles. He's always so friendly, but he notices you look...off. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just...kinda missing Ransom," you confess. "I'm glad that you guys are getting along, that the D&D group is good for him but you meet up so often I barely get to see him anymore."

Jake's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What do you mean? Is every other week too often? We can try for less, but I dunno if---"

"What?" you whimper, cutting him off. Your blood goes cold and your vision blurs with tears.

"Hey, what's going on? What's wrong?" Jake asks, trying to be calm.

"I need to go home," you sob. You hand him the gift for Ransom and head to your cubicle to clock out early.

Back in the IT Department, Jake approaches Ransom's desk.

"Hey, um, is everything...um..." Jake falters.

"What is it?" Ransom spits.

"Why are you lying to Bubbles?"

Ransom's face contorts from annoyance to rage and fear. "What are you saying?"

"I ran into her on my way to get some coffee, she had this for you," Jake puts the gift on Ransom's desk. "And she said you've been hanging out with the D&D group so much you never have time for her." Ransom's eyes go wide. "I didn't realize you've been using us to cover for doing something else and told her the actual schedule."

"Shit," Ransom mutters as he facepalms.

"What's going on, Ransom?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Ransom seethes.

"Okay, emotions are high right now, I get that. When you're ready, I'll be here to listen."

But will she? Ransom worries.

Next

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ozwriterchick; @ronearoundblindly; @lokislady82; @thiquefunlover63