#but can see a bear up the side of a mountain that no one but Sang can see

[tartagliove]

IN GOOD COMPANY kinich x reader ✧ 1.1k words

"when there's no saurians to hunt, i take on other jobs too. i guess that means we're in the same line of work."

tags ✧ fluff, no pronouns used for reader, clumsy reader, reader and kinich are childhood friends but have feelings for each other.

note ✧ dedicated to @hanaeriin, from your @pixelcafe-network secret santa! i hope you're doing well and are taking care of yourself! i decided to not go down the wintery route for this since i know you don’t celebrate the holidays—hopefully you'll like this little kinich fic ahhh

a huge thank you to @fandomsuggestions for betaing this!

Three sheets of paper hang limply from the commission board. They flutter weakly as a hot breeze blows, which offers little relief from the scorching summer sun and the stifling humidity. You wish you were relaxing at home or cooling off in the river far below the tribe, but you have expenses that need to be paid, so you’re scanning the few available commissions and debating on which one you want to take.

Two of the commissions are straightforward and easy—a package delivery and hilichurl camp clearing—but the reward offered is nowhere near enough to cover your monthly expenses. You look at the third paper, skimming the wall of text that details a long and arduous commission. However, it also displays a reward of Mora with enough zeroes to make your eyes widen. That money would last you through most of next month as well.

It appears as though you will have a lot of traveling and fighting ahead of you. You normally are excited for a commission like this, but in the summer heat? Sighing, you reach for the commission.

A flash of green darts across your vision, snatching the sheet of paper out from beneath your fingers.

You whirl around. “Hey! Give that back, I was– Ajaw. Of course it’s you.”

“That’s Almighty Dragonlord K’uhul Ajaw to you, puny human! How many times–”

Tuning out the floating dragon’s usual rant, you look beyond him at the approaching Saurian hunter. A smile lights up your face. “Kinich!”

The bright sun makes the blue and green shine to his hair more obvious. His gorgeous eyes seem to glow from within as they look from his companion to you. “Morning,” he says, nodding at you in greeting.

You try to ignore the way a shiver runs through you at the sight. “It’s good to see you! Are you looking for a commission to take on, too?” you ask him, pointing toward the commission board that now bears two lonely pieces of paper. “The options aren’t very good.”

“Except for this one!” Ajaw flies between you two, waving the commission you were looking at in front of Kinich’s face. “It’s perfect—days of scaling the sides of mountains, fighting some dangerous creatures, not to mention, I can feel a storm brewing!”

You frown at Ajaw, knowing full well why the dangers of the commission delights him.

Kinich, however, swats the Saurian away with the back of his hand. “Were you planning on taking this?” he asks you.

You nod slowly, but then wave your hands in front of you. “You can take it if you want though! There are two more on the board, I can do those without a problem!” But even the combined pay of those commissions won’t be enough. You wince at the thought.

Kinich catches the expression that flashes across your face. “What is it?”

You hesitate for a moment, but under his steady gaze, give in and confess, “Those commissions don’t offer enough of a reward to cover what I need—even if I take both.”

There is no judgement on his face as he listens, only understanding. He nods when you finish talking, then says Ajaw’s name.

The Saurian darts over, still holding the commission. “You’re gonna pick this one, right? That puny human can’t handle this anyway–“

“Shut up,” Kinich growls, the harshest you’ve heard him in a while. He yanks the paper out of Ajaw’s grasp, then grabs the dragon and chucks him into the sky, where he vanishes with a furious yell.

With Ajaw temporarily gone, Kinich’s face relaxes as he turns his attention back to you. “Here,” he says, handing you the commission. “You had it first, you take it. I know you have the skills to see it through to the end.”

His vote of confidence warms you from within, washing away any sting Ajaw’s words had evoked. “Thank you, Kinich.” You accept the paper from him with a soft smile. “I hope you’ll find something good to take on yourself.”

He nods, strands of hair shifting from the movement. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your commission.”

“Yes, sir!” you respond with a giggle. “Well then, I need to get ready for the job. When I’m back, we should catch up sometime! It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. I missed it- missed you,” you add on, a bit shy at the admission.

“That would be nice,” Kinich says. By his tone, you can tell he is sincere, so you can’t stop the grin from growing across your face.

“Alright then, I’ll see you around! Bye, Kinich!”

You turn and walk away, leaving the Saurian hunter to peruse the remaining two commissions on the board. Glancing down at the paper in your hand, you read it over once more to take in the details. When you get to the final line, you stop in your tracks.

The smallest string of words say, “Two or more adventurers recommended for this commission.”

Your lips part. What if- There’s no way. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“Kinich!” You shout his name as loudly as you can, running back toward the commission board. When you’ve almost reached him, you step on the back of your own sandal and trip, a noise of alarm escaping your mouth. Bracing for the impact of the ground, you are instead caught by warm hands and a steady frame.

You blink in surprise at Kinich, who keeps his grip on your upper arm and lower back until you regain your balance—and even then his touch lingers for a moment before he pulls away.

His eyes seem to pierce through you as you look at him and breathlessly ask, “Would, um, would you like to go on this commission with me?”

You hold out the paper, finger trailing along the final sentence.

Kinich huffs out a wry laugh. “Of course Ajaw didn’t mention that detail. Are you sure you want a partner for this? I know you could complete it alone.”

Swallowing, you manage to ask, “And what if I don’t want to do it alone?”

A soft look appears on his face. “Then you have someone willing to do it with you.”

You laugh in delight, and can’t help bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Alright then! I’ll be in good company.”

“And so will I.”

[slowdivinqs]

Golden

Summary: A Sunday afternoon on your farm with Joel.

WC: 4K

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Soft, dorky Joel. We pretend Abby and Joel chatted it out. Joel and JJ moments. Breeding ( ? ) kink. Oral sex f! receiving. PinV. In da farm house we’re in love baby! Joel doing physical labor…yeah. Can imagine Pedro or game Joel. Reader can paint!

A/N: I just wanted to give a HUGE thank you for all the love, kind words and support on Magnetism! You all melt my heart. Thank you! I’m not so happy with the smut in this but whatever :,)

The Sade record crackles before your favorite song on the album begins drifting through the air. The birthday gift Joel gave you last year that made hot tears fall out of your eyes, just like him when you gave him a painting of Sarah and Ellie for his birthday that hangs in his woodworking space. Your birthday last year ended with 8 hours spent in the sheets, passed out by the end of it, Joel with a sore back for a week - yet claims it was worth it.

You look up at him right now, peering outside the large kitchen windows and spotting him pulling out carrots, in a tight shirt and his work jeans, arms flexing at the particularly stubborn ones. Banjo following along and sniffing inside Joel’s wicker basket filled with vegetables, his tail smacking into Joel’s side. Rosie and Posie bleating in the distance, their fuzzy woolen coats glowing in the sun, seeming to also take an interest in watching Joel work, just like you.

You hear Banjo’s excited barks before Joel closes the dog's mouth shut with his hand playfully, shaking Banjo’s head side to side lightly, riling him up. The sun starts to set behind them, past the fence surrounding your ranch, behind the tall Wyoming mountains. Orange, pink, and yellow, exploding in waves. The bees returning to their hives from the flower box in front of the kitchen windows．

You laugh when Banjo manages to knock Joel over lightly, the two tumbling onto the grass. Joel laughs too, holding the border collie back with his forearm as he tries to lick Joel’s face with all his might.

You smile to yourself as you get back to work, just as Sade starts singing about ‘his hands’ and ‘the way the mountains look’. Lost in the haze of measuring out ingredients, 2 and 3 quarter cups flour, a quarter cup of sugar. Feeling the weight of the ingredients slide into the bowl. Just as you see Joel slowly walk towards the chicken coup, Banjo waiting in the grass - knowing he’s not allowed there.

Milk and salt are next, and you drift over to the fridge to grab the milk, your long white skirt, embraced with abstract flowery patterns flows against your bare ankles as your toes feel the comforting wooden floors of your warm farm home that Joel made sure to install after you mindlessly talked about your love for warm wooden accents. Sat a 20-minute walk outside the walls of Jackson, a small distance away from Ellie’s farm, closer to the lush woods atop the hills.

As you settle back by the kitchen counter, lit up by warm - almost honey-colored rays of sunlight, you try to spot Joel amongst the chickens, but he seems to have vanished, Banjo too.

You glance around surprised for a moment, your eyes flitting from the coup to the vegetable patches, to the flower beds he planted for you, the fairy garden that he denies he took part in yet carved all of the little toadstool homes for you, and Ellie to paint, and even to Old Beardy grazing in the distance, yet Joel is nowhere to be found.

You even turn to the back door, yet there’s no sign of your man. How can a big teddy bear like him disappear in less than a minute?

You jump and let out an embarrassing squeak as a sudden flash of salt and pepper pops up right on the other side of the window pane. You clutch a hand over your chest as Joel’s face comes into view, his cheeky smile and scruffy beard. Utterly pleased with himself at his success in startling you.

You glare at him half-heartedly, trying to hide the smile that’s inching up your face.

He reaches into one of the large pockets in his jeans, and your attempt at hiding your smile fails when he pulls out a little yellow chick. He lifts it to your view, the little fluff ball wiggling and chirping, looking tiny in Joel’s large, dirty palms. His smile grows wider and tender as he sees you beam at the sight through the window.

He scratches the chick’s head with one of his fingers before walking back to reunite the yellow baby with its mama.

You laugh to yourself at his antics. At a grown, grizzly man, surprising you with a baby chicken. He’s a dork and doesn’t deny the allegations when they’re thrown his way.

Banjo runs circles around the vegetable garden just as the back door opens, closing softly with a click. Joel’s heavy footfall, accentuated by his boots, sounds behind you, getting softer as he heads to the guest bathroom. The house creaks and groans as the water turns on. You’re back to baking.

“Smells real good.”

He hums, his, now soft, footfall appearing once again as he approaches from behind you, burying his face in your neck and sniffling dramatically, you feel his wet beard and hair drip onto your neck, giving you goosies. He’s splashed his face and washed his hands, probably so he can distract you without your scolding.

“Me or the food, old man?” You ask with a smile, continuing to knead the dough.

“‘Mm, both.” He hums, rubbing his facial hair against your neck like a cat. You suspect he might start purring soon. It’s not unlike him, even though he ignores you when you tell him that he basically purrs while snuggling against your chest as you read whatever novel you two have picked aloud to him in the evenings.

“Cinnamon rolls, bread’s in the often.” You hum, tilting your head to the side so he can keep giving you his beard scratches. He starts nibbling too now. You sway your hips slightly to the music, and the way his hands fall to your hips tells you all you need to know.

“Cinnamon rolls.” He repeats amused, smiling against your skin, nibbling again to make you tut at him, grinning when you do.

“Ellie and Dina are comin’ over later.” You say as you grab the jar of cinnamon on the shelf, leaving Joel to step back and watch.

“They bringin’ JJ?” Joel asks, voice loosing his husky tiredness and instead replaced with a lighter sound.

“Yes baby, they’re bringing JJ.” You say with a soft smile, looking back at him only to find he’s disappeared once more. That man is silent as a mouse usually - a habit you suppose. Although, whenever he walks into the house, he does three stomps of his boots - just to make sure you know it’s him. He may have gone soft, but there are some things time will never strip away entirely. His knack for safety is one of them.

Just as you’re finished adding all the wet ingredients to your dry ones, you hear Joel in the living room lowering a box, a few things spilling out. An obnoxious squeak of a toy - you think it’s banjo’s plastic chicken that Joel hid away after the noise drove Joel so insane he accidentally beheaded a cowboy carving he was working on for a month. You catch Banjo’s head shoot up as if he got a sense that his long-lost soulmate is near. Joel hides the chicken away again quickly.

He’s brought out the small bundle of toys you two own - JJ’s toy box - Joel calls it, even made one of those shape sorters and toy soldiers for the little boy to play with, and asked you to paint them when he was done, as he does most of his carvings.

This is the one thing Joel doesn’t try to hide his excitement about. Whenever he sees JJ, or ‘potato’ as Ellie calls him, they might as well be the only people in the world. You think it’s the sweetest thing, makes you want to beg him to have a potato of your own, your body going into overdrive imagining how he’d look at your child while putting them to sleep, how he’d kiss their forehead softly.

Joel begins to organize the toys, placing the few dinosaurs, soldiers, and stuffed animals in a battle scene. The soldiers are apparently no match for the fluffy bear, as he’s flung them around in defeat.

Never did you think you’d see the day that Joel Miller would organize a battle scene between stuffed animals and wooden soldiers, just to see JJ’s face light up in excitement - like the little boy's face doesn’t already do that when he just sees Joel as the front door opens.

You manage to pull your eyes away and start folding your dough. Smiling to yourself at your sweet sweet man. Your stomach swoops the more you think, kneading the dough mindlessly as you’re painfully reminded how badly you want it. How badly you want him to pump you full, make you swell. You don’t even notice how your eyes have gone hazy, kneading the dough harder and harder until you jump at Joel’s big hands cupping your wrists from behind, pulling them upwards slightly to relax them. His beard tickles the fly always at the back of your neck as he kisses the soft skin there.

“What’s got my lady all worked up, hm?” He murmurs against your neck, kissing down the side and inhaling, almost like he wants to brand himself with you.

“You.” You whisper shakily, squeezing the dough slightly like an anchor. You feel his cheeky, boyish smile against your skin, only for a moment before he replaces that smirk with a nibble.

“Me?” He asked softly, planting his chin over your shoulder to watch as you ‘work’, definitely not to watch the way his calloused hands cup over your tits. The dough between your palms is the only thing keeping you stable right now.

“Yes, you.” It’s a breathy whisper, and although he doesn’t see it - Joel already knows your eyes are drooping when you tip your head back slightly, able to breathe in that perfect scent of him after he’s spent the day working in the sun. The musk that is uniquely Joel, that screams man man man.

“Don’t know what you mean, honey bee.” He hums, his mouth ghosting over your earlobe just as his thumbs circle over where your nipples are unfortunately hidden away from him. He knows exactly what you mean.

“Why don’t you head South and find out then, cowboy?” You tease, expecting a playful slap and pinch of your ass before he wanders off to the shower, but instead, you find his hands, then his whole self sliding down down down until his knees plant themselves on the floor.

“Gonna let me spoil my desert?” He hums, his hands sliding slowly up from your ankles, bringing your skirt with them, until he can see the little cotton-lace panties that are hidden underneath. He bites the soft swell of your right asscheek that the cotton doesn’t cover.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip softly as you arch your back slightly, leaning your weight on the dough, squeezing harder as the soft caress of your thighs leaves you dripping - more so than before.

“You know I’d let you do anything.” You whisper to him, and it’s all he needs before you feel his calloused fingers on your lower back, sinking into your underwear before dragging them down, burying his head under your skirt.

He throws your panties somewhere, with a proper flick of his wrist. You can see them land somewhere in your periphery, the white lace discarded, very Joel-like in the most crude matter possible.

“Joel!-“ you begin to exclaim before his warm tongue parts your slick folds with an obscene sound. Slurping up the wetness he’s found as his calloused hands grip the front of your thighs. Squeezing tightly like it’ll let him get his tongue deeper into your pussy.

You almost want to laugh at what it must look like: his head buried under your long white skirt, like a ghost he probably dressed up as for Halloween. But fortunately for him, you can’t laugh when his mouth has sealed around the hood of your clit, when it’s hot hot hot and wet.

“Oh, Joel-” you moan in a breathless gasp, your head falling back and then forward as his tongue licks the underside of your clit, making you squeeze the poor dough for it’s life.

He groans into your pussy, tongue leaving your clit to lick side to side, sliding down your cunt until it’s breaching your drenched hole. His hands grip your ass-cheeks tightly, eating at you like it’s his last meal.

He pushes two of those thick fingers inside you, instantly curling forward so deliciously you think you might die. You lose your voice, moaning hoarsely as you clench around the intrusion. He starts moving his hand faster, paired with the suckling of his hot mouth on your clit, you’re not going to last much longer.

“Give it t’me baby- let me have it.” He whispers against you, and it’s his words that do it, as well as that final crook of his fingers that hit you right where you need him. You’re cumming with an intensity only he can give you. He slurps up all the wetness he can until you’re whining at him that it's ‘too much, too much’ and he stands. Gripping your chin between his thumb and pointer finger before kissing you deeply. Guiding his tongue into your mouth just as he had done your pussy.

“I love you.” He whispers against your lips, and your chest blooms, blinking up at him as he looks into your eyes with a calm tenderness like you’re exactly what he always dreamed of - like he lay awake at night as a little boy getting giddy at the thought that one day you might be real, and now you are, more importantly: you’re his, and he’s yours.

“I love you too.” You whisper back, kissing him once more before he’s once again lifting your hands from the dough, which now looks positively mixed from your absent-minded squeezing.

“‘M gonna go shower, baby.” He says softly, stepping back from you just as you turn to look at him.

“You’re gonna deny a woman her fun?” You ask with a raise of your eyebrow, looking down as he re-adjusts his jeans. His hands glancing at your ass before smirking at something you don’t see yet.

“You’ll get your fun later, baby.” He says with an amused smile, before he’s turning and heading upstairs. You sigh and look around the kitchen, laughing brightly as you see your panties dangling on the hook by the back door, how he flung them so far, you’ll never know.

There’s a knock at the door at 5pm sharp, and Joel bounds down the stairs before walking to the door, the creak of it sweet before the sounds of ‘hello!’ and ‘how’s it going, old man?’ ring through the house. You move away from the kitchen to great Dina and Ellie as they walk in, JJ already cooing excitedly in Joel’s arms as he hugs Dina, then Ellie from the side. Smiling widely at the little boy.

“Hey Els, Dina.” You say softly as Ellie gives you a tight squeeze, her mullet brushed neatly, most likely done by Dina. The Ellie you know would let her hair stick in every direction like the wild child she is and always will be.

“Smells good.” Ellie says softly, a hand on the small of Dina’s back before she’s walking to the kitchen to inspect what you’ve made. You see Ollie - JJ’s favorite toy elephant that Ellie won in the Jackson Fair at 19 - hanging out of her back pocket. You smile at the similarities between Joel and Ellie, clear that he raised her in subtle ways. The most obvious being her recent taking for boots, jeans and flannels. She goes over to Joel and JJ after that, crouching behind Joel who’s sat on the carpet by his battle scene, giving him a bear hug from behind.

The afternoon is spent chatting away with Dina, Ellie occasionally chiming in, yet all three of you mainly watch Joel and JJ playing on the living room rug. Your home is filled with the delighted laughter of a child. Ellie joins in soon too, taking on the role of the toy dinosaurs which makes JJ shriek with laughter as they attack Joel’s stuffed bear, then Joel himself.

Everything is warm.

You all eat together. Roasted Venison with salad and bread, cinnamon rolls later that JJ tries to devour whole while sitting on Joel’s lap - similarly to Ellie who sneaks an extra two with Joel in the kitchen when they think their respective partners aren’t looking.

They stay in the small cottage outside which Joel made sure was perfect before their arrival. JJ and Dina fast asleep as you, Ellie and Joel find place on the couch watching some cheesy action movie that Ellie picked. Just like old times when she was a young teenager. She still leans against Joel’s shoulder all the same. Both of his girls in his arms as lights flash across the screen. You glance up at his face once, and smile when seeing he looks as happy as can be.

He deserves this, he deserves to be happy. Even if he might not believe it, you do, and you’ll let hell freeze over before you stop trying to make him happy.

Ellie bids you goodnight before going to curl up in bed with Dina and JJ. Similarly to the way Joel follows up the stairs behind you as you make your way to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Smirking at the twinkle in his eye you see as you pull out his favorite night dress of yours

You’ve just finished up in the bathroom when you walk back into your shared bedroom. Joel shucking off his shirt, leaving him in his boxers. You admire his broad back in the low light of the bedroom. The shadows dusting along his muscles like rivers.

You float up behind him this time, your nose pressed to the line down his back, hands wrapped around his stomach.

“I want one.” You whisper into the quiet night, and it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. He turns to face you - you rest your chin on his chest and look up at him.

“Want what, darlin’?” He whispers softly, his thumb running over the apple of your cheek as he breaths softly. You can hear his heart beating, in sync with yours.

“A baby.” You whisper, and it’s so silent, so quiet. His eyes glimmer and brighten, his breath bated as he looks down at you.

“You want that with me, sweet girl?” He whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse and thick.

“More than anything.”

He kisses you deeply, his hand burying at the hair on the back of your head. Cupping the bowl of your skull so tenderly you can feel his love for you pulse through your veins. Your arms wrap rest on his broad shoulders.

“Me too, baby. Me too.” He whispers, and emotion wraps around your throat, as you can tell it does his when you see the shine in his sweet eyes.

You fall to the bed together, his boxers discarded as he makes quick work of your night gown. Kissing along your breasts until you’re driven so positively crazy you need him to soothe it with his mouth.

Your hand wraps around his shaft and you gaze into his eyes as they flutter slightly at the sensation of your fingers, his own meet you there, guiding him inside you until you both gasp softly at the sensation. He lets his hips push in all the way moments after. Your walls grip around him, the thick, hot - length of him, pushing its way through you until he fits into the space he’s made for himself within you. The noise of your wetness clenching around his girth as he holds himself over you on his strong forearms is nothing short of one of Joel’s favorite erotic sound.

“I love you, I love you so damn much.” He whispers, his large - paw like hand cupping your skull as he grinds his pelvis against your pulsing clit, listening to the soft shk shk shk as his cock twitches inside you, pushing up against that spot inside you that turns you stupid.

“I love you too.” You whimper, barely able to think past the way your eyes are rolling. He hasn’t even thrusted yet. You don’t catch the way he’s gazing down at you, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like you own every part of his heart and soul, like you might as well be living and breathing within his ribcage : as if you’re the sole thing causing that glow he seems to have.

He starts moving, slow, deep slaps of his hips against yours. Holding you against him as you arch your back slightly, making sure he digs against that spot that drives you wild.

Your fingers dig red lines down his broad back. His head falling forward as he groans so deep and roughly you think you might die from being overly aroused. This man does things to you that you can’t even explain with words, your cries of pleasure seem to communicate it well enough though. Everything is hot and wet and sticky as he whispers into your ear.

“You’re gon’ be such a good mama- fuck darlin’ - take it, yeah-“ he groans into your ear, and your whole body shivers. You clench tighter around him, making him gasp slightly as his hand finds your clit. “Got me achin’ f’you all day baby-“ he whines - whines - into your ear, the soft skin of his balls drags against the curve of your ass, just like his tip dragging through your walls, taking you higher and higher until you can’t even hear the noises you’re making.

He rubs your clit harder, round and round on that pulsing nub until you open your eyes and see his disheveled face. Skin flushed, hair a mess, and his gaze fluttering as he moves his hips against you- his big strong body shining with sweat.

You’re done for.

You dig your heel into the soft flesh of his ass, pulling him closer and locking your legs around him, trapping him deep inside of you.

“Please cum inside me-“ you whimper, gazing into his eyes as he fights with all his might to make sure you cum first, his hand doesn’t let up on your clit, and you clench. “Please let me have it-“

His groan breaks into a soft whine as he drops onto his forearms, face right in front of yours, his nose bumping into your own. You can feel his harsh breaths against your swollen lips.

When you feel him start to fill you up on a slamming thrust, you cum with him, clenching tighter every time you feel one of his thick, sticky ropes shoot inside you while his cock twitches wildly inside you - his moans even sweeter than the sensation.

“Oh god, I love you-“ he whimpers, his moan cracking as you push him impossibly closer with your heel, his hands gripping the sheets next to your head for dear life. He kisses you messily, tiredly as you both lie there - sweaty and catching your breaths.

“I love you.” You whisper back to him, your hand running through his messy hair as you litter kisses along his damp forehead. He nuzzles into you like a big bear still inside you as he softens.

“You need somethin’?” He asks once he’s found his thoughts again, sitting up slightly before you pull him back down with an ‘oof ’.

“Just you.” You whisper back sleepily, your eyes closing shut as you bask in the feeling and love he gives you. You feel a soft kiss to your jaw. His hand splaying over your tummy.

“You got me, baby. Always.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading ! ♡ please lmk if you enjoyed it and reblog if you did ◡̈

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

I mean snakes have shit vision. Best this man is getting is the ability to 'see' body heat. God imagine if that's the reason everything is overtly opulent with him, it's because he can see it better and it's the reason why paintings done by him use very bright and contrasting colours, because otherwise he has a hard time seeing it.

probably means that Fulgrim relies on his other senses more which means he usually identifies people by smell. Ferrus is easy because ferrus has metal hands. Sanguinius is easy because Sanguinius normally wears a lot of jewelry and I bet you anything Fulgrim has given Sanguinius some very pretty yet very contrast jewelry to wear, especially over his wings to help Fulgrim remember that this brother has massive ass wings and that he needs to do a wider birth around Sanguinius, because he might knock into his wings otherwise.

Thinking about visually impaired Fulgrim again… specifically him beeing born with some vision and loosing most/all of it over time

[bunny-jpeg]

kink-o-ween - day nineteen

lando norris - size kink

cw: smut/pwp, size kink/difference, loving!lando, protective (possessive) behaviour, hand holding, big dick!lando

kink-o-ween master-list

while lando wasn't a mountain, there was still a bit of a size difference between you two. at least in strength, lando liked to feel like the big strong protector to show off that he could easily keep you safe. because he simply loved you so, so much. not that he found you weak or anything, he just liked being your hero.

and you let him, everything from carrying the groceries in one trip to letting him carry your suitcase when you went on trips together. you even allowed him to carry you at times. lando loved when he could just pick you up and start sprinting with you in his arms. it was cute and even though you yelled the entire time he did it, you secretly loved it too.

you really noticed the differences during a rainy day on the track. you both had to get to the other side of the paddock, out in the rain to be with the rest of the team. the issue was that there was only one raincoat.

"you can put it on." he said as he pushed the jacket towards you, "it's just a little rain." he looked out the open door. it was more than a little rain, because of it the race had been delayed for hours now. you thought eventually that there were going to be fish swimming on the track due to the water!

"i can't have you getting soaked and sick, lando. you can take it, i can afford to get a little wet." you replied as you tried to give it back to him.

"you're going to have to let me carry you, and try to cover us with the raincoat. we just have to get over there." lando said as he made sure the coat was still in your hands.

you nodded, there weren't many other options. you were soon on his back, with your weight pressed against him as you tried to hold the raincoat over the both of you. lando counted down before he took off in a sprint towards where you both needed to be. you both yelled at lando held onto you and ran in the rain. he could feel himself getting soaked regardless, and you fared no better.

by the time you got to the rest of mclaren, you were both soaking wet. the coat did very little to protect you both. but lando's feat of strength left an impression on you and it was only fueled by him helping you dry off with a towel, telling you not to catch a cold.

but it wasn't until after the race and back in the motor home for the night that the impression grew into something larger. you were in bed with him, dressed in very little to maximize comfort. lando was on his phone and your hand was on his chest as you cuddled with him.

"i always forget how big your hands are compared to mine." you remarked, "i know they're bigger, but i always forget how much bigger."

lando put his phone down on his chest for a moment, and reached for your hand. he replied with a laugh, "you once said they were like bear paws but they are pretty big compared to yours." he then leans over to kiss you on the lips.

you blushed, "i have to be honest, i thought you trying to protect me from the rain was really hot. seeing you all big and strong. you were like my superman."

lando moved his phone to the nightstand and turned closer to you. his hand in yours, "oh yeah? did that make you all hot and bothered? when i dried you off, you did feel pretty warm."

you swallowed as he leaned closer to you and played with the gold chain around you neck. the one that he got you when you first started to see one another. you blushed when he smiled at you, you admitted to him, "it was really hot. like really, really hot."

he laughed a little, "i didn't know i had such an impact on you." he was lying a little, he knew quite well that he turned you on. because you turned him on quite often.

you held onto his hand, they were really big compared to yours. and it encouraged him to kiss him once more. you shifted a little on the bed as he pressed his weight onto you. the true difference between you two was in his sweatpants. lando's cock was quite big.

you giggled when your boyfriend slipped his hands under your t-shirt. you felt goosebumps from his rough fingertips against your warmed skin. you were so soft and sensitive and it drove lando wild.

"lando." you moved a little more, a small moan left your lips and lando smiled against you.

"you feel amazing. i can't wait to feel your cute little cunt." his dirty talk was unmatched. cheesy one-liners made you hot when they came from lando. it was the type of talking that left you named soon after. and lando stripped you down bare and admired your naked body under him. he got himself between your legs and you swallowed.

he got himself out of his sweatpants and briefs, and his cock was soon exposed for you. a little below eight inched, and he could do some damage if he wasn't careful. he took you by the thighs and pulled you up against him. he groaned as his hard-on rubbed against your achy cunt.

"what if it doesn't fit?"

he chuckled, "oh don't worry, baby. i think it'll fit just fine." then got himself into you with ease. you arched your back as he got it all the way to the base. you felt the hot wash of lust on your core. he moved against you and felt the excitement in his body. there was no one like you. no on e that made him this good. you were a perfect fit for him. he leaned forward and grasped your hands in to his then pinned them onto the bed.

"i want you for the rest of my days." he said with tenderness in his tone, "all to myself, to love and keep. you are mine, all mine." he chuckled before he pulled you into a soft kiss as he continued to rut up against you. the feeling made you stomach twist and you felt extremely hot. only lando could make a ting of possessiveness feel hot.

"i love you." you squeaked.

"and i love you too." he replied as he held you. he thrusted up into you, it was a promise. he knew that he going to propose one day. but until then he'd just have to tell you every day that he loved you. he moved against you, there was a fire in his brain as he held onto you while the two of you made love on the bed. he was so much bigger than you, his cock filled just the right niches. it made you feel an inferno in your gut. it was incredibly hot. your toes curled as he fucked you.

you both fit so well together, "fuck." you gasped.

"so beautiful, angel." he said, "look at my beautiful girl. no one else can ever compare to you." his mouth ran while he fucked you. pleasure thumped inside of him as he continued to move.

"lando, please." you moaned and clenched onto his hands tightly. you moved a little to meet his pace and it made you hotter.

lando licked his lips and he continued to fuck you, "my lovely angel. i'm obsessed with you." he chuckled as he moved, his voice felt tighter the more he dragged his cock in and out of you.

you could feel his cock deep inside of you. it near bruised the deepest parts of you with his sheer size. there was so much you could feel and it made you grip his hands tightly. the noises got louder between the two of you. the kisses became hotter and messier. you moaned between them. lando even licked across your lips which made you roll your hips faster.

"perfect." he groaned as he continued to bully your pussy with his cock, "remember when you'd strain to take al of me. now you're perfection and i love it. fuck, you're amazing." he tensed up.

he knew he was getting close and he pace quickened. you moved quickened as well to meet him pace. he wanted to mess up your pretty insides and that made the heat too much to bear.

"lando. ah! honey!" you cried out a tthe high of list. you could feel his lingering gaze on you, his heated body pressed further against yours as he sloppily made out with you.

"my girl." he said in a tone that dripped with want. he felt you climax around his cock. it made him yearn for you more.

you were both each other's addiction and to share the heat together was amazing. lando worked your body some more and soon he finished inside of you with a heavy groan.

"fuck." he praised as he held on tightly to your hands. he gave you one last kiss and you gave him one last sweet look before he stopped his movements. he rested against you and you lean towards him to kiss him on the lips once more. he melted a little from the feeling. how tender you were. when he pulled away, you only pulled him back in to snuggle one another.

"no one can ever compare to you." he chuckled, you two kissed one another. even with the slight ache between your legs. you loved the feeling of your larger boyfriend <3

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

-

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in. 

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time. 

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor. 

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket. 

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill. 

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway. 

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged. 

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away. 

And then it lingers. 

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside. 

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head. 

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss. 

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.  

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what. 

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night. 

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again. 

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.” 

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. 

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate. 

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking. 

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years. 

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you. 

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been. 

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get. 

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near. 

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting. 

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle. 

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone. 

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs. 

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound. 

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off. 

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake. 

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake. 

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall. 

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him. 

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked. 

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid. 

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.  

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.  

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you. 

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out. 

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else. 

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken. 

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs. 

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft. 

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss. 

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest. 

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it. 

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants. 

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you. 

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming. 

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

[nanamis-bigtie]

more than friends

↬ megumi x afab!reader | lucid love ↬ lucid love masterlist // jjk masterlist // ao3 version

cw: smut, reader has a vagina (no excessive body descriptions), aged-up character, piv sex, creampie, friends to lovers, there was only one bed, mutual pinning, bottom reader, reader is a sorcerer summary: you've known megumi since you were kids, so the enforced stay in a single room with double futon doesn't seem much of a problem. however the proximity has exposed feelings that have been meticulously hidden for years word count: 2k a/n: higuruma was my favorite of the three options but i've enjoyed writing this so, so much. please forgive me those little painful details ^^" please, look out for next voting soon! we're finally leaving the vanilla sphere! tag list: @thesacredfanfics

Futon in your bedroom is spacious even for a double standard but you still somehow ended up squeezed on one—yours—side. Enveloped by the duvet from the top and him from what seems all sides at once, you arouse in seconds. It's too hot for your comfort but you know better than trying to sneak any part of your body outside; fall in the mountains put you through it already and it was still light when you reached the ryokan, at night it can be only colder and worse than any inconvenience and awkwardness crawling under your skin once you fully realize the situation you've fallen into.

Megumi sneaked himself close, his torso flush to your back, crevices of your bodies filling each other with embarrassing perfection. One arm thrown above your head, the other wrapped around your middle, fingers looking for warmth under the hem of your t-shirt, he's cradling his face into the nape of your neck. You can feel his hot breath under your ear, soft and barely audible but deep, filling his chest to the brim as it bears down on you with each draft.

He's not holding you tight but when, in initial shock, you try to shake him off, he clamps the grip until you stop squirming. You're allowed to breathe free again, but he throws one leg over yours for a good measure. You could turn around, you assume, but you're definitely not going anywhere without waking him up first.

"It's not a big deal," Megumi said himself a few hours earlier when the owner of the ryokan apologized in the politest words for the lack of free single rooms. It wasn't a spacious inn in the first place and now, with the main road destroyed by flash flooding, you weren't the only ones looking for last minute shelter.

You didn't protest, hungry, soaking wet and tired. It was a long day, already a pain in the ass before the rain had grown in intensity, as if gods decided to sink the cursed site you two had been called for. You crawled to the local hotel on your last legs, determined to stay in the worst conditions possible, as long as you were given a warm bath and a cup of hot tea.

It wasn't a big deal indeed. Megumi wasn't just a coworker, he was a friend you've known for years, even before you both entered high school. There was even time when he was considered a perfect candidate for your husband—a source of never-ending jokes and teasing from Gojo-sensei—but the project collapsed with the old system of great jujutsu families, and your strong yet relentlessly platonic relationship continued to bloom without the burden of tradition. The label of "lovebirds" clung to you for good, like a ghost of your late teacher cackling over your heads, survived even the graduation and intense focus on your careers for the few years to come. Now both first grades, you haven't been seeing each other much outside occasional contact at work, but nearly intimate closeness remained intact.

As if not a single second has been lost between you.

There was no trace of embarrassment as you shed your clothes to the more or less dry layer. Megumi didn't even blink when you asked him to dry your hair after a shower, your hands didn't budge when you were putting moisturizer on his facial scars as he was already drifting away while still sitting. You crawled on the futon at the same time, with a safe and respectful distance between you, and fell asleep in no time.

But now, a few hours later, a certain border has been crossed, leaving you nearly breathless in front of the horde of possibilities you've had no idea they're within your reach.

It's...somewhat terrifying how, once initial shock has faded, comfortable Megumi's arms feel around you. His touch is not alien to you, but he's never been one to relish in physical contact, yet with just a friend. It has no right to be so familiar and safe. It has no right to open your heart like a barely scabbed wound and soak you with yearning and hunger. You can't complain about lack of physical pleasure, you haven't tasted enough loneliness to be desperate for any kind of bodily warmth next to you. Yet, you're trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and when his hold loosens a little and he rolls to his back, painful spasm runs through you, almost dragging a sob out of you.

You follow his move, now embracing him yourself and nestling between his side and the arm that remained close to you. Megumi takes a deeper breath, immediately scoops you close and hums, as if with approval, when you slot your head on his chest. You can hear—feel—his heartbeat, calm and welcoming, so recognizable even if it's the first time you can witness it from so close.

Rains have ceased, almost full moon pours silver light through the uncovered windows. You can see every crevice of his appearance and the sight takes you a little aback. It's Megumi, without a doubt, but not until now you pondered how much he changed. How long has it been already? His face lost the last remains of androgynous subtlety, his cheeks covered by harsh two-day scruff and his worry lines much deeper when he frowns, your gentle touch ticklish. You trace every single one of them, trace the scars around his eye, trace his jaw, square and manly, dear gods, when has this boy, so pretty that the girls at school constantly bickered behind his back, turned into a man?

When all this time flew over your heads? Next year, the both of you will grow older than Gojo-sensei.

Only his eyelashes remained exactly the same, throwing shadows under his eyes and filling you with jealousy for their length and thickness. You can't help but brush them with a thumb, once, twice, until his eyelids crack open, and he looks straight at you.

"For how long will you keep fondling me?" Heavy with sleep, Megumi's voice is low and coarse, filling you with need both well-known and alien. You have never felt anything like that for him (well, have you really?), and there's a shadow of anxiety behind it—but you can't bring yourself to take your hands off him.

Silence between you is thick like tar but not uncomfortable, rather cautious as you both ponder over the next move, equally unwilling to part your ways. Megumi breaks first when his hand, rather accidentally, brushes yours after he's wiped sleepiness off his face, "Well, I haven't told you to stop."

Duvet falls off your shoulders as you climb his lap, straddling him comfortably and letting the moonlight soak your figure. Megumi inhales deep and sharp under you, his hands finding your hips in no time and nestling you right over the undeniably growing hardness in his boxers. You both ignore it for now, drunk with the sights alone, rediscovering each other from this new, the most intimate angle. He lets you slide his undershirt under his chin, groans deep and low when you squeeze his pecs, soft against your palms with their size. He's always been rather slim, but he's gained serious musculature over the years, still not the biggest guy you've seen around, but so different from Megumi that's somehow, despite everything, stuck in your head for years.

You find more and more distinctions as you explore him further south. Soft hair grazes your skin especially down his navel, a trail leading you to the edge of his boxers and prompting you to peel them away. He mewls, relieved, when you do so, his erection springing free. It fits in your hand just right, leaking for you even before you give him a proper stroke. He must have been humping against you in sleep, his bulge a detail you've missed in the haze of different feelings and sensations, and he's enjoying the sweet relief now, his chest and abs twitching for you in pleasure.

The first itching wave washes over you too and you reach between your legs just to find your underwear to be soaked. You're ready so easily and fast it's almost embarrassing, especially under the weight of his gaze, attentive despite sleepiness lingering in its corners, fixed on thin threads of your arousal glistening between your fingers in the silver light.

"Come here," he mutters, nails sinking in the softness of your ass as he desperately tries to close the last inches of distance between you two.

You follow eagerly, biting on a moan as if your dignity depended on it when his tip slides between your folds. You haven't prepared yourself thoroughly but from what you felt in your hand you assess he shouldn't be a problem. 

You impale yourself in one, smooth move, both of you groaning in pleasure and release, finally sating the hunger neither of you knew it's lingering in you.

Megumi lets go of your hips to lift himself to sitting, wraps arms around your back and pulls you into him so suddenly it yanks air out of your lungs. You return the proximity with your legs around him, ankles crossed behind him to sway yourself steady. The rhythm is lazy, as deep as slow, barely earning some friction for the both of you. Sometimes, his hips thrust up, grazing your core just right and having you mewl in pleasure; every time he hushes you up with slow kisses peppered down your jaw and neck.

His hair is as soft as you remember but his scent is sharper, so manly and mixed with the complimentary shower gel from the ryokan's bathroom. Young Megumi always smelled black coffee to you for some reason and there's still a tinge of it lingering at the back of each breath you take off him. Face hidden against his neck, you soak yourself in nostalgia and novelty alike, surrendering to his touch, greedily wandering along your body. He doesn't spare an inch of it, catching up for years of self-imposed neglect, at times even rough, when he can't stop himself and steals another thrust deep into you, his manly, deep voice breaking when you clench around him.

"I'm gonna cum if you keep doing this," he reminds you of no barrier of protection between you—but you don't care and don't want to think of separating from him for even a second. You've waited for this for too long, it feels so good to finally find a place in his arms, a place that has waited for you since the first time your eyes met with a different intention than a mere look.

You want him to fill you up, you want to feel everything so deep, almost reaching your cervix, and you don't stop even after you reach your peak first, swaying your hips with the same eagerness even if your strength starts to fade away.

Megumi holds you close through it, his arms around you so strong and tight you feel his touch deep in your bones, and finally gives in to pleasure too, fulfilling your untold wish to the last drop.

Your moves slow down and cease naturally, you catch your breaths, snuggled into each other. Megumi's shoulders shake, be it pleasure or tears, and his hands slowly slip down your sweaty back, until he finds your hips—and suddenly sways forward, until you're flat on the futon again, your legs over you, embracing his middle when he finds a new comfortable spot, deep inside and right on top of you.

"More." His voice breaks into begging and he starts to thrust into you without waiting for your answer, with the power of the whole weight his body offers. "Don't let go. Please. I need you more."

"I'm not letting you go," you promise—and you keep it, through this round, and for a few next to come, until the sun replaces the moon and finds your naked, sweaty bodies, entangled with each other in the middle of the only futon left in the last free ryokan in those mountains.

[galactic-magick]

here i come with arcane prompts bestie >:3

but this one might hurt ;-;

also SPOILERS FOR S1 IF ANYONE HASNT SEEN IT YET

/////

how about a reader's reaction to the council getting bombed O_O

their frantic attempts to find their lover(Viktor ofc :3), but who they find may not be the man they once knew TwT

I got a little carried away with this one bestie...

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I Thought You Were Dead: Viktor x Reader

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Smut about halfway through. I put a *** before the smut starts in case anyone doesn't want to read that part. Reader has afab anatomy but no pronouns or feminine specific endearments are used. Also LORE SPOILERS, if you don't know what happens to Viktor in the League of Legends lore then don't read this!!

Author's Notes: This could be read as a part 2 to my other Viktor fic Nights Like This, which takes place in Act 1 whereas this takes place after season 1.

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The explosion was deafening.

You can feel your soul sink as soon as you step outside your house, watching the smoke surround the council building. Your feet start running before you’ve processed anything, pushing through the gasping crowds in the streets with their eyes glued to the same devastating spectacle.

Tears stream down your face against the dusty wind, praying to anyone who will listen that your worst fear hasn’t happened. Running as if getting there faster might change the outcome.

It can’t end like this. Not when you haven’t said everything you want to say. Not when you have so much left to do together.

Not when you haven’t said goodbye.

The truth is, you haven’t even seen your husband in several days, maybe even a whole week. He’s been distant lately, so consumed by his experiments that he rarely comes home anymore. You knew what you were getting into marrying a scientist, especially the finest scientist in Piltover, but it still hurts. It hurts to see him driving himself mad and getting sicker, refusing to let you take care of him like he used to. He doesn’t like when you come to visit him at the lab because it’s too dangerous, and he doesn’t come home because he wants to be in the lab—so you’ve stopped trying. You can’t bear to see him hardly eat or sleep for days. You know he loves you, and you still love him, but right now there’s no getting through to him, and all you can do is wait it out until he either comes to his senses or succumbs to his torturous research.

Your mind flashes back to all the fights you had, begging him to come home, begging him to let you stay by his side. You both said things you shouldn’t have, hearts torn apart in mourning of a marriage that once was so perfect. You miss the nights where you were each other's safe space, where the world didn’t feel so grand and overwhelming. You wonder when it was exactly that you stopped fighting, when you gave up on begging and simply loved him as much as you could whenever you finally saw him.

A large battalion of enforcers encircle the scene, pushing back civilians as they attempt to view what happened. The rubble has fallen into mountains, several of them on fire.

You know he was in there. He must’ve been.

“Where are the survivors?!” you demand, shoving against the enforcers.

“We have not found any yet. Please return to your home-”

You pull out the knife you keep in your pocket for emergencies, pressing it against the enforcer’s throat, “My husband was in there. I am not leaving until I find him.”

The other enforcers turn their weapons towards you, and you quickly realize you’ll never beat them with nothing but a dagger and deep rooted rage.

You drop the knife to the ground and put your hands up, awaiting your fate. Would they kill you? Send you home with a warning? Trial you?

Well, not without a council.

“Please…” the sobs return, their weapons still pointing at you. “I just want to know if he’s alive. Just let me look for his body-”

You’re cut off by hands on your wrists and mouth, handcuffing you and knocking you out.

Several months later...

You should’ve known any retaliation against an enforcer could get you thrown in here.

Back against the stone wall of your cell in Stillwater, you envision that day once again, hating yourself for being so stupid. Without the council, the enforcers have started throwing literally anyone in here. In an attempt to contain the chaos of no longer having a government, even the smallest crime or protest is equivalent to murder. All you did was threaten an officer for information on your husband, but that was enough to banish you from any possibility of ever seeing him again.

If he was alive, would he know to come find you? Or would he go back home to find you gone and assume you died? Would he throw himself back into his research regardless of the tragic accident, not even noticing you haven’t tried to visit him in months?

Most days it’s easier to just tell yourself he’s dead. The man you loved so deeply no longer exists, and you’ll never love again. This is your life now, cold and dark and hopeless.

You sink to the floor, leaning on your side in an effort to get some sleep.

Though your slumber is awakened not long after by terrifying noises down the hall.

A collection of screams, an alarm bell, and loud clanging fill your ears. You jump up, looking through the bars of your cell to get a glimpse. You see nothing, but then begin to hear stomping footsteps thundering towards your end of the hall.

You stumble back to the far wall, shaking as the footsteps get closer.

The first thing you see is a pair of glowing orange eyes staring at you through the bars, and your breath leaves your lungs.

Is this really how you’re fated to die?

With ease, the mysterious figure rips off the door with what looks like a mechanical arm. The dim light hits him, and your entire body trembles. He’s covered in metal plating and armor, his face covered with a thick mask. He doesn’t strike you as human, except for what looks like human hair falling around his head.

He walks towards you, and you cower in his shadow. What does this machine want from you? You have nothing.

He says your name, and you freeze. It’s modulated and echoed from the mask, but you are certain that’s what he said.

And you’re also certain you’ve heard that voice before.

The figure reaches his hand towards you, the cold metal of his fingers touching your face. It tingles, as if there’s energy sparking through. His other hand lifts off his mask and drops it to the floor.

“Viktor?”

Parts of his face are covered with metal plating, but it’s undoubtedly him. Same eyes, same nose, same cheekbones. His hair swooping down the sides of his forehead and the small gap between his teeth.

You throw your arms around him and kiss him, your body hitting his metal torso hard enough to leave a bruise, but you don’t care. You kiss him until there’s not a single atom of oxygen left in your lungs, and even then you risk a few seconds more, his lips worthy of causing suffocation. Your fingers slide into his hair, just as soft as your remember. He gently embraces you back, wary of hurting you with how tightly he wishes to hold you.

“Viktor—I went to find you that day—“ you pant for air. “I thought you were dead—“

“I know, darling, I know,” he kisses your forehead before fervently returning to your lips. “I thought you were dead too before I heard word of people being sent here.”

He breaks apart from you and you let out a soft whine, “Vik-”

“I have to get you out of here now, okay?”

You nod in understanding and grab onto him as he puts his mask back on. He races back down the hall, pushing any leftover guards out of his way. You cling onto him, in disbelief that he moves so fast with ease. So many questions run through your mind, but you know you’ll have to wait for answers.

He carries and holds you in silence until you both get to safety. You don’t recognize the place he’s taken you to, but it’s undoubtedly his space. The tools and gadgets all over the tables and walls, the dim light you don’t understand how anyone could work under, the journals with different equations written barely legibly. You wonder if your old home is still standing or has been taken by someone else. Either way, this is your home now.

With him.

He takes off his mask and you’re once again met with his beautiful face. Scarred and tired, but still more beautiful than you’ve ever seen him.

“I’m so sorry. For everything,” he says. “I know I will never be able to make it up to you, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I am never letting you leave my sight again.”

Your bodies instinctively wrap around each-other, him picking you up and setting you down on one of his desks. The sensation is so new, since he’s never been strong enough to lift you before. Despite the novelty though, it feels as if no time has passed, as if this is a routine you’ve done every day, his hands all over you as soon as you’re alone.

You want to ignore the insanity of all this, how the love of your life has returned to you encased in metal. You want to forego all the questions, letting him continue his kisses on your neck and the wandering fingers on your thigh. You wonder what he feels like now—if it’s different—if what he can do to you now will make you forget every tear you ever shed for him.

You sigh, completely drunk on his touches.

“Viktor…” You look into his eyes, tracing your thumbs along his now metallic jaw. “I want to know what happened to you. Please.”

His caresses slow, his focus shifting to your words, “I will tell you everything, I promise,”

You grasp his hands, “Then tell me.”

He exhales, looking down at himself. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth. He doesn’t want to risk you thinking of him differently or not loving him the same. Without you, he’d have nothing left to stay human for.

After all, he’s more machine than man now.

“I was as good as dead,” he finally says. “My injuries should’ve killed me, but an old…” he hesitates, “...friend found me. He helped me use hextech and shimmer to fix and augment my body. I’m stronger now, I can help more people now, I can protect you now. I’ve evolved beyond my human ailments-”

“Viktor,” you interrupt him. “Who helped you?”

He falls silent, fully aware you already know the answer.

“How could you?” you scold him. “How could you go back to that horrid, vile man? Who knows what he really did to you?”

“Singed may have unethical methods, but I assure you I’d be dead right now without him. You wouldn’t understand-”

“I understand that he sees you as nothing more than an experiment! What’s going to happen when this new body starts to break down? He’ll replace you with more mechanical parts until there’s nothing left of you. He does anything to make his specimens survive, and you know that!”

“So you’d rather me be dead? You’d rather still be in Stillwater, rotting your days away in misery?”

The floodgates of your glassy eyes break, and you let out the ugliest of sobs that have been building up for too long. No, you don’t want him dead, of course you don’t.

But there are fates worse than death.

You clumsily grab for him, pulling him between your legs and surrounding him with your limbs. Your lips crash together once more, this time more carnal and aggressive. Regardless of how angry you are, you can’t deny that you need him desperately. He cradles your face, wiping your tears away as they fall.

“Just promise me…” you beg into his mouth. “Promise me you won’t go back there again. Stay with me.”

“I promise,” he hums. “But you have to promise me something too.”

“What?” your eyes are already fluttering deliriously.

“You have to promise you’ll let me apologize every day of the rest of our lives,” he brushes his lips against your ear while his hands wander up your shirt, “And I think I know how you want me to do it.”

Your eyes widen, shivers already running down your spine.

***

It’s been so long, your body yearning for his as if you’ve been deprived from him for an eternity. You want to feel his new hands everywhere, his new fingers inside you…

Viktor wastes no time stripping you down, your shirt and bra flung across the room. He buries his face between your breasts for a moment before hoisting you up again, carrying you to the mattress in the corner.

“Since when do you ever have a proper place to sleep in your labs?” you laugh, sinking into the unexpected comfort.

“I didn’t get it for sleeping,” he smirks, placing kisses across your chest and shoulders, “I knew what I wanted to do as soon as I rescued you.”

“You’re telling me you got this bed just to fuck me?”

“Of course,” he shrugs, completely matter-of-factually.

You chuckle, a genuine smile stretching across your face so wide it almost hurts. You haven’t laughed or felt the pure joy and bliss of being in love in so long.

“I…” Viktor speaks again, hovering over you. “I don’t know fully what this new body can do. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you smile, intertwining your fingers with his. “Is it...different?”

“Everything’s different,” he leans down to kiss you again. “Let’s just hope it’s in a good way.”

You nod enthusiastically, pulling him down to you. His cold metal torso presses against yours, a surprisingly pleasant sensation. You quickly acclimate to the new textures of his figure, wondering if any skin still exists.

He remembers all the places you like to be touched and kissed, and you grow more impatient by the minute. You’ve needed him—ached for him. You want him in any way he can give you.

He pulls off the rest of your clothes, teasing his mechanical fingers in circles around your clit.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Mmhmm,” you moan, slithering your own fingers into his hair.

Viktor’s always been good with his hands, being an inventor and all. He’s never once failed to satisfy you with his hands alone since you’ve been together, and he certainly wasn’t stopping now. He goes slowly, constantly needing reassurance that you’re alright. There’s nothing sharp about his fingers, a relief to both of you. They move just like his old flesh did, pulsing in and out with the finest precision. There’s moments where you feel a slight vibration, although you’re unsure if he’s doing that purposefully. Either way, he keeps you in ecstasy until you eventually come undone.

You pull his lips back up to yours immediately, craving his taste. His hands run down your body once again before returning back to the same spot.

You yelp his name as he works more fingers inside you. This is unheard of, him going back for more so soon. You had grown accustomed to his low stamina from before, and you never minded multiple rounds being a rarity. But now there’s not a single hint of exhaustion on his face, his augments freeing him from much of the pain that used to plague him. Instead there’s determination in his eyes, a drive to make love to you until you can’t take it anymore.

He builds you up to your second orgasm of the night, kissing and holding you softly as you come down from it.

“Viktor…” you sigh, completely out of breath. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He shakes his head, watching as your hands slide down his body, “Darling, I...I’m not sure if everything works the same. You don’t have to worry about me—“

“Let me try,” you plead. “Does any of this come off?”

He nods, removing the outer layers of metal with clicks and hisses. It was hard for you to tell where the armor ended and his body began, but the more he takes off, the more you recognize his familiar silhouette. There’s still patches of flesh here and there—warm skin to your fingertips, fused with the augmentations flawlessly.

And it seems the area you’ve wanted to see is one of the places untouched.

Well, not completely untouched. It’s covered in glowing purple veins, throbbing like they’ll explode any second. Viktor looks into your eyes nervously, and you reassure him with a kiss.

“It’ll be okay,” your breaths are hot, hovering over his lips. “Now tell me what you want, darling.”

“You.” he moans as your hand takes hold of his hardness.

“Everything seems to be working fine to me,” you smile, lining him up with your entrance. “I’m ready when you are.”

He’s shaking, for the first time since all his enhancements. He’s been so strong—no—indestructible, yet one look at you and the vulnerability returns in crashing waves. He’s still the same man you fell in love with, but now he could too easily hurt you.

He presses in slowly, eyes locked on your expressions for any sign of discomfort, but they never come. Instead, the noises and faces you make could be enough for him to finish right then and there if he didn’t have such control.

“Viktor…” you sigh, pulling him towards you as he bottoms out. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

He stamps kisses on your jaw, then nuzzles his nose into your neck, “You feel even better than I remembered.”

“Do I now?” you chuckle, brushing some of his hair out of his eyes as he looks back up at you.

“Mmhmm,” he begins to thrust in and out slowly, earning more luscious sounds from your lips.

There’s so much of him that feels the same, but the sensation is so new. Is he bigger than before? Is it just the different texture from the shimmer experiments? You’re not sure, all you truly care about is that he feels divine.

You’re both getting close, whispering “I love you’s” until the long awaited release. He holds you tightly afterwards, refusing to let go until you both catch your breath.

“Viktor,” you ruffle his hair. “As amazing as that was, I don’t think I can handle a round four.”

He chuckles, “That’s alright. I’ll only go as long as you want me to. There’s always tomorrow.”

You giggle, kissing the top of his head. You push yourself up on your elbows, looking at the mess you both made, “I think we ruined your new mattress.”

He glances as well, noticing the cum stains, some of them a light purple color, a supposed side effect of the shimmer, “We’ll get a new one. For now lets get you cleaned up.”

He picks you up in one swift motion, carrying you outside. His new lab is conveniently next to the river, and far away enough from other houses to protect your decency. The water is cold, but not unbearably so. The stickiness rinses off, and you’re left to admire your lover once again in the moonlight.

He glistens under the stars, his gaze soft and sweet, just as it’s always been. His hands never leave you, caressing your wet skin gently and adoringly.

He’s still everything you’ve ever wanted. He’s still the man you’d die and kill for.

He’s still the one you’ll spend the rest of your days with, no matter what he becomes.

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymmetrical Symphony - Part 3

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written and GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N.: You are all too kind. This is probably one of the few parts that will be made from Vik's POV. Here is the plan. Part 4 will have some interaction / Part 5: house cleaning / Part 6: onwards and upwards. Should I tag this as a slowburn?

Part 1 • Part 2

• ··········· • ············ •

Viktor didn’t believe in luck. 

If he had done so, all his accomplishments could have been derived from it. So he didn’t believe in it much. Sure, maybe finding some coins on the floor was luck, but not much more than that.

Everything he did and does is to make sure nothing is left to luck—every number on the blackboard, every calculation on his blueprints.

But now, standing in the middle of the destroyed council room, Viktor felt lucky. Extremely lucky.

Some workers were trying to clean the room as best as they could, but the full reconstruction wasn’t going to be quick. He tried to stay out of their way as he walked towards where he sat when the rocket hit.

He stood silently observing the broken remnants of the chair he sat on that night. What remained of it couldn’t even keep the smallest of fires alight. 

His tired gaze turned to where he had landed after the stranger had tackled him. 

A mountain of rubble was strewn about everywhere at his feet, but it was somehow less destroyed when compared to the rest of the room. The stone councilors' chairs were mostly destroyed, but the one Mel sat on seemed to have mostly remained intact. The table was split into several heavy pieces, but the one near them had somehow suffered less, only having cracks where it seemingly separated from the rest of the table.

Viktor stood next to the crack, his cane in front of him. And he swayed left and right.

“Lucky” Sway to the left: “Unlucky”

He stayed like this for a couple of seconds, the motion almost making him think better until he saw something shining as a cleaner swept the dust near his feet.

“Stop.” He ordered suddenly and looked at the small amount of dust the other man had cleaned.

With his cane, he searched the dust until a golden chain shimmered in the light. He dragged the cane and pulled the chain with it.

“This yours, sir?” The cleaner asked, and Viktor took a second to reply. “No, but it could be Councillor Medarda’s. Would you be so kind as to pick it up for me, please?”

The other man nodded and bent down. As he pulled the broken chain, a small locket slid from it. The cleaner huffed at having to bend down again, but he did so, giving Viktor the locket.

“Thank you, sir.” The scientist nodded absently, his mind already focused on another thing. 

He leaned his back against the table, letting the cane rest next to his leg. If his calculations were correct, which they were, he was standing next to where both he and the stranger fell. 

“Is this yours?” He asked no one, turning the small piece of jewelry in hand. 

It was a simple, small, and delicate thing. Engraved on both covers was a mirrored R, with some flourished lines around it and a rose in the middle of the letter. It had a small lip on the side where he could open it. Ever the curious person, Viktor opened the locket. A picture of a woman was inside.

He frowned. It was a faded, sepia-toned photo of a smiling woman. A familiar-looking smiling woman. 

He closed the locket as quickly as he could and went to his lab. He yanked the door open and stuck his head inside, making Jayce’s head snap to him. By the expression on the tanner man’s face, he immediately regretted it. 

“Aaahh… by the gods, Viktor… my neck…” “I told you to keep wearing the brace...Jayce. You've chosen to ignore me.” He paused a moment until Jayce looked at him expectantly. “Right. Do you know if Caitlyn has already spoken with the stranger?”

“Why?” Jayce’s eyes became slits as he tried to understand his friend's line of questioning.

“No matter. Just wanted to know their name.”

“Why?” Jayce fully turned on the wheelie bench.

“Because. Academic curiosity. They should be running out of the building targeted by the rocket...not running in...” 

Jayce sighed, knowing full well that man was going to go around all of Piltover trying to find that person. He rested his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand.

“I haven't talked to Caitlyn since…” he cleared his throat. “But! Mel told me the enforcers had cuffed them to a bed and shipped them off to the hospital.”

Viktor nodded, content with the information. He moved to leave, but his head bobbed back inside the lab.

“Skyward?” He asked, and Jayce’s snort was enough of an answer. ..

He got out of the taxi trolley and looked at the bright white building displeased. He just needed to confirm where the stranger was to then set his plan in motion.

He limped towards the receptionist and cleared his throat. 

“I would like to know any information about the person that was accompanied here by the enforcers from the attack.” He tried to sound professional and solemn. “I’m not allowed to divulge information on patients, let alone on patients that are under the enforcers' care.” The blonde woman looked up at him lazily. “Anything else?” “Eh... Yes... no... well...” Viktor looked around. No enforcers in sight. “I have something that might belong to them.” “Leave it here or give it to an enforcer. I’m sure someone will find them for you and give them back their…thing.”  “I was hoping you could help me find them. You see, I am a...friend." He lied like it was second nature, but when she looked back at him, he knew she didn’t buy it. “Sure you are. If you excuse me, people are waiting in line.” She looked around him and motioned her hand to call an old lady from behind him, shutting down any path to a conversation.

Her loss, Viktor thought; he was about to offer her money for the info.

“Thank you for your help.” He tried to bite back the snark, but he felt it drip like oil, tinging his words black.

He turned around, limping and grumbling towards the exit.

“Hey, Hextech man, wait.” Viktor turned towards the call, to find a nurse jogging towards him from the reception. He had noticed her leaning into the desk as he had arrived but ignored her. Nurses were normal in the hospital.  “Yes?”  “They’ve already been taken to the headquarters.” She whispered and shrugged when his eyebrows raised. “I heard you asking Lilah about the ‘patient with the enforcers’ and since we don’t usually get many of those, I knew who you were talking about.” “How long ago was it?” He asked, and she shrugged again. “About 5, 10 minutes ago.”  He straightened up as best as he could and nodded, turning on his heels and walking quickly to the door. He still heard her say something about ‘being good with the accent.’.

-- 

He turned the locket in his hand as he sat in the comfiest armchair in all of Piltover while looking down at a rousing Piltover. 

This was his favorite part of the lavish penthouse. He was never a jealous person when it came to material things; he always learned to get by with next to nothing, and he prided himself on that. But this living room? This would forever make him green with envy.

It was spacious, wide, tall, and bright. The walls were lined with bookshelves that reached the high ceiling. It was filled with books, music records, pictures, awards, and some clutter that made the space feel lived in. The higher shelves had books that could only be reached by a little golden ladder that swiveled left and right.

In a corner stood a dusty black grand piano. It was closed and mostly used as a table with more books and knick-knacks on top. And next to it, encased in the bookshelf, a three-tier record player.

In the middle of the room was a couch, with wooden frames and green stuffing, with a yellow blanket neatly folded in the corner and two pillows. Beside it, facing each other, are two loveseats of similar color and design.

A long white wood coffee table was perfectly placed in the center of the seats right in front of what Viktor loved the most in this room.

The floor-to-ceiling windows, protruding out from the square room, ended in a dome glass ceiling. A mix of a conservatory and a closed veranda. It filled the whole room with the morning sun. 

The floor near it was lined with greenery, in an assortment of pots. Everything from wall-hugging plants that were slowly making their way up and small pots of smaller succulents. In the middle of the veranda, two armchairs of a night sky blue color and a small but tall round table sat, facing the big windows.

Viktor currently sat on one of those chairs and was making an effort not to melt into them. Between the comfortableness of the cushions, the smell of books, and the sun hitting his face, he could be convinced he was in heaven.

“Viktor?” A bright older voice came from behind him, startling him enough to jump out of the chair and drop his cane. A chuckle came out of the woman behind him. “It’s just little, old me, dear.”

The scientist blushed, grabbed the cane from the floor with difficulty, and stood once more.

The woman was tall, standing proud with her salt-and-pepper hair neatly tucked into an updo, a few strands coming out of it for aesthetics rather than messiness. The kind smile on her face was genuine, and her warm eyes stared at him expectantly. She had a neat stack of paper under her arm, and, Viktor noted, her hands were smudged with black ink.

On her neck, a gold locket sat shining. An almost exact copy of the one in his pocket, but the one on the older woman’s neck was engraved with the correct R. 

“I am terribly sorry to disturb you this early, but I have something you should see.” He grabbed the locket and showed it to her. The small piece of jewelry rested delicately on his pale hand.

She inspected it with her eyes at first and then grabbed it. Much like he had done previously, she turned it in her long fingers, opening it and letting out a gasp.

“Where do you find this?” She inquired, not taking her eyes off the locket. “At the Academy.” He told her, only half lying. “Who was wearing it? Do you know?” “Eh…not personally.” He swung his head side to side, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve only seen a glimpse of them.” “Do you know where I can find them? The owner of the locket?”

His face brightened, the answer on the tip of his tongue.

“The Enforcers HQ.” He said proudly. “Very well, we must go there. Immediately.”

The woman placed the stack of papers on the coffee table and moved quickly, preparing for their departure with swiftness.

“Come now, Viktor. We must hurry.”

…

Both Caitlyn's eyes shifted to the door behind you. She blinked and stood back, straightening her shoulder and getting out of your personal space.

“I am interrogating a suspect. And, with all due respect, I do not appreciate being interrupted, even by you, ma’am.”

You twisted your neck to look behind you. A tall woman stood just outside the door, the dim light of the corridor concealing most of her form, until she moved inside and you gasped.

The last time you had seen that face was in a hospital bed when you were ten. Hollowed cheekbone, sunken eyes, and a peaceful smile on her face. “Take care of your father, dear.” Were the last words she had said to you.

Before your vision got so blurry from tears you could see her face, you mumbled.

“Mother?”

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @adithsaley @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @angelsukiipls @casey8522 @moons-lighttrail @buttermilktea11 @aysluxe @fae-doodle

[empress-simps]

For poly!marauders request (I saw you asked for some) could you do one where the reader faints out of nowhere and the boys get all panicked and worried and fret over her? 🌙

Hii! Thank you for the great request🫶🏻 It’ll be the first time I do a Poly!Marauder fic so pls do bear with me, I tweaked it a bit, hope you enjoy!

Worried Sick

Pairings: Poly!Marauders x Reader

CW: Mentions of toxic habits, Sirius being an arse, reader fainting, and language.

To say that you were tired would be an understatement. You were exhausted- mentally, and physically as you were buried in a mountain of books, flipping through almost a hundred pages an hour as you tried to juggle three essays and review for NEWTS all at once.

You were so immersed in your studying, the sound of pages flipping and scratching of the quill against parchment made you slip into a hyper-focused mode that you don’t notice the passage of time making you effectively miss lunch and dinner.

“There’s my smart darling!”

Sirius grins, sneaking up to you and kissing your cheek. You jolted, looking up as you saw him, and your other boyfriends sit next to you in the library.

“Hey guys.” You try your best to muster up a cheery smile for them. Remus, who was seated beside you frowns as he notices your pale and tired face. “We haven’t seen you today, love.” You smiled sheepishly, “I was finishing up the essays we’re assigned this week.” Sirius shakes his head in a disapproving manner. “Darling, you know we could just copy off of Remus’s essay when he does it, right?” A protest from Remus was heard, making you chuckle.

“I don’t think our moony would appreciate that.” You cracked a small smile, “But he lets us copy off of his essays ever since we can remember!” James defended Sirius who nodded agreeingly.

“What we would appreciate though, is you not missing out on dinner.” Remus told you, pulling out an apple and two dishes that the house elves prepared, (bribed by James) placing it in front of you.

“Erm... I don’t really have an appetite right now, love.” You grimaced, seeing the stern expression of the werewolf. “You need to eat, darling.” James pleads, puppy eyes activating. You looked at the other two, they seemed to mirror James. “Please love, you’re making us worried sick.” Remus gently pushed the food in your direction.

“Alright then…” How could you possibly deny your adorable boyfriends?

This continued for a few days or so, each day got the boys increasingly worried than yesterday. Sleeping for four hours (five if you’re lucky) and studying all day became your new routine, you hardly even spend time with the boys anymore, only during breakfast at the great hall since you mostly skip lunch and dinner to study. If it weren’t for your friends and your boyfriends, you would’ve already starved.

You groaned, plopping down in between Remus and James, taking a bite of the toast in front of you, and ignoring the light headedness you were feeling since you woke up. Marlene looked up from her plate and winced as she took in the sight of you.

“Merlin, y/n. You look worse than a dementor.”

“Thanks Marls, appreciate it.” You grumbled, taking a swig of the pumpkin juice, grimacing as you felt that a huge gulp of the beverage and a small bite of toast was too much for your stomach to handle.

“I’m serious, when was the last time you had a good night’s rest?” She frowns, shaking her head as she gave a pointed look at your boyfriends. “There’s already three of you and you can’t even manage to take care of your girl?”

“Not my fault she chooses to stick her nose into books rather than spending time with us.” Sirius huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his dramatic and petty side surfacing. “Pads.” Remus warns, the light headedness that you’ve felt suddenly worsens as you feel the urge to throw up. Lily seemed to notice, shooting a worried glance on your way as you waved it off.

“What Moony? It’s true! It’s like she forgot she even is in a committed relationship with us.” Sirius spat, getting riled up as James tried to diffuse the situation.  “Sirius, I already said I’m sorry…” She rasped out, trying to reach for his hand but he jerked it away. “Don’t be a knobhead, Pads.” Remus glares at him, irritated by how he’s acting.

Sirius rolled his eyes, it was obvious that he was hurt; You rarely spend time with them anymore, accidentally pushing them away and shutting them out just because of those stupid academics. “Whatever.” He grunts, and stands up, walking away from the table.

You felt yourself get weak; as the great hall spins around you, cold sweat started to form on your temple as spots slowly made it’s wany into your vision. Despite your body practically screaming for you to just sit and stay still, you push yourself from the benches and follow him. “Sirius, love- “He turns to you, frowning. “What now?”

 You opened your mouth, about to say a word when suddenly your legs gave out, the spots grew larger as you tried to look at Sirius before your world suddenly faded to black. You heard screams from the students, the loudest ones you recognized were from your friends, especially Marlene and Lily.

“Shit!” Sirius was thankful for his awfully fast reflexes that he managed to catch you before you hit your head on the cold floor. James and Remus rushed to the both of you. “Bloody hell, Pads!” James kneels in front of you, gently tapping your cheek as a sense of urgency surrounds them. “Darling, please open your eyes, can you hear me?” James asked you, every second that ticks makes the feeling of dread in his stomach grow larger.

“P-prongs, Moony… I promise I didn’t know she was going to faint…” Sirius whimpered as he cradles you, eyes looking frazzled and darting back and forth between his lovers. James felt his breath become faster, as you didn’t respond to any of his attempts. Other students started to gather around to take a peek on what’s happening in the middle of the great hall while Marlene and the other Gryffindor students kept them from nearing. Remus knelt next to James, trying not to freak out like what the other two are already doing. He slowly placed his trembling hand on your forehead. “No fever, but we need to take her to Madame Pomfrey.” He announces, biting his lip as Sirius lifts you up bridal style, the three of them rushing you to the hospital wing.

The bright and harsh light of the hospital wing made you wince, you slowly blink, trying to adjust to the brightness of your surroundings. “Darling! You’re awake!” James tackles you into a hug, almost squeezing out the air from your lungs.

“Prongs! Be careful!” Remus’s tone was harsh, as if scolding James. The boy slowly pulled away, pouting, which Remus had ignored. “How are you, love?” Remus’s gaze softened as he looked in your direction, taking your hand in his as he rubbed circles in the back of your hand.

 “For the most part, I’m fine.” You croaked out, James immediately gave you water. After taking a few sips, you let your eyes wander around, someone was missing- Where’s Sirius?

James seemed to catch on this, “He’s outside, beating himself up for being an arsehole.” You frowned, “Can you please tell him to come in? I want to see him…” You mumbled, James nodded and fetched Sirius outside of the hospital wing.

After a short while, Sirius emerged, darting his eyes anywhere but onto you. “Love…” You gently called out to him; Sirius bit his lip as he finally took in the sight of you. “Darling, I’m sorry. I was such an arse to you.” He sincerely apologized while you shake your head, “I’m sorry too, I was stressing out too much. I barely even managed to take care of myself and spend time with you guys.”

“Just don’t do it again, darling. We almost lost our minds when you fainted.” James told you as he tucks stray hair behind your ear.

“I won’t do that again; I’ll just copy off of Moony’s work.” She chuckled, glancing at the said boy, she saw the twinkle in his eyes as he smiled and rolled his eyes playfully.

The sun’s rays filtered out in the curtains of the hospital wing, encasing the four in a warm glow as they conversed amongst themselves, putting the events behind them; silently promising to love and care for each other, through thick and thin.

[luveline]

I've read your vampire eddie fic and its soo lovely I adore them being weird toghether <3 and I thought how will reader and eddie pass the summer? I totally see her saying shit like Vlad please put on some sunscreen lol and eddie be so grumpy

“It’s not that you don’t like it,” you’re saying. 

“No, that’s exactly what it is.” 

You sit down on the picnic blanket by his hip with a plate of summer fruit sweating in your hands. You’ve dotted a few ice cubes through the mountains of it, water melting, turning pink from the melon and yellow with the pineapple juice as the sun bears down.

“The sun is good for you,” you say, taking a slice of apple with green, bright rind in between two fingers. You have very pretty hands, Eddie’s thought that ever since you met, and they’re prettier still because of how you use them, you’re oh so gentle. “Just like this.” 

He won’t let you feed him, taking the apple as you press it to his lips, juice and water wetting his fingers. “The sun does nothing for me. I’m dead.” 

“Are you?” you ask, a genuine curiosity to your tone as you put the plate in front of him. Eddie, on his front, anticipates your next move before you’ve decided, not just because of his super senses but also because you’re a predictable creature, who loves him very much. Unlikely and true. “I thought you were only half dead,” you say, resting a hand by his ribs and leveraging yourself across his back in a hug. “Well, I thought you were undead.” 

Eddie is regrettably undead. “I forgot you were the expert on my condition,” he says, putting the apple slice in his mouth whole.

“Your condition,” you say, your face slotting into the back of his neck, forcing him to close his eyes and settle into the blanket, grass beneath it crisp from the heat. 

“My vampirism.” 

“Ah, I thought you meant your behavioural issues.” 

“Of course you did.” 

You don’t say anything back. Quiet, your hands slide up in front of his armpits, your head lolling heavily to one side. You mouth a word against his neck, a second and third, but Eddie can’t decipher what it is you’re saying even with his incredible hearing, can only feel the soft curve of your lips as they shutter closed, hot like a fresh bruise beneath his ear. 

Eddie nudges you to slide off of him, turning, cautious of the plate, to offer you his arm, and to see your face more clearly. You’ve forgone any of your fun makeups today, weary of the heat, all your wrinkles and lines in stunning detail under his gaze.

You lay on your side and Eddie lifts the arm that isn’t supporting him with his finger bent into a tight ‘n’ to stroke the skin under your chin. “You’re pretty,” he says, his knuckle rubbing back and forth. 

“You’re beautiful,” you say back. The hair at the nape of your neck is damp with sweat, and as you both lay there in the humidity, a bead of it races suddenly to sink into the fabric of your top. 

“You’re really pretty,” he says, ignoring your deflection —though for you, he doubts it’s a deflection at all, only a thought you’d had and spoken without qualm— in favour of lavishing you with some more love and praise. He opens his palm and touches his fingertips to your cheek, conscious of the heat, stringing the words together slow as the heavy pour of a maple tapper, “I don’t like the sun, it’s hot, and I’m melting, but I don’t think I mind it when you’re here too.” 

Your heart does a jump, to his smugness, an audible caper of your pulse. “Everything’s better when we’re together,” you say. 

He nods severely and lifts your chin just a touch, tilting his head to the side to kiss you. The pressure of his fangs is forgotten, a blood sate too far away to ignore the more nefarious longing that thrums at the centre of his chest, but overpowered anyways by practice, and desire; he’s gotten a thousand times better at kissing you, because you like to be kissed, and he likes to give you anything he can. 

He can’t pretend he doesn’t like this, either. You cover his hand with yours and wade in like a quick tide, pulling back and pushing in, like nips without the pain. Your hand slips into his hair. “I love you,” you say, “but you’re sweating like crazy.” 

“You’re sweating worse,” he says. 

“We’ll have to take a vacation.” 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“Literally everywhere cold.” 

Eddie can’t leave Hawkins. He needs blood, and there’s only one sheriff who’s willing to source it for him. But it’s a nice idea, a fantasy he won’t ruin for you. “Where’d you want to go first?” 

“I wanna go to that place with the Northern Lights. We’d never complain about sweating again.” 

You squint at him. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Where do you want to go?” you ask. 

“Anywhere with you.” 

“Well, you’d have to.” 

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he asks. 

“I’m your only portable blood bag, Eddie.” 

He lays back on his back, covering his eyes with an arm as the other comes to rest on his soft stomach, whirl of a scar thick beneath his shirt. “Never gonna happen.” 

You shuffle closer to him. “One day,” you say, laying down next to him with your face nearly flat to the blanket, the heat of your body a palpable thickness he wouldn’t change for the world, dehydration inevitable. “You’ll give me a nice sharp kiss and that’ll be that.” 

“Never.” 

“Imagine it.” Your voice turns to a whisper. 

“Never, babe,” he says, he promises, the weight of his arm over his eyes like an iron. 

“I’ll just have to bite you instead.” 

You open your mouth and press your teeth to the hill of his shoulder, dull and wet, your breath like a kiss before you let your lips drift shut and give him a proper one. “Love you,” you say. 

“Love you, freakazoid.” He wrestles you into a cuddle he’ll regret sooner rather than later, wishing his vampirism were better at keeping him cool. He’s cold to the touch most of the time. Right now he’s baking. “But I’m not biting you,” he says into your forehead. 

You laugh breezily. “Not today you’re not. That’s why I made fruit salad.” 

[shycoconutt]

you, more than anyone, know that satoru isn't invincible. as his closest friend, you see what those who call him “the strongest” miss.

they don't see him remove his blindfold at the end of the day, rubbing at his tired eyes. they don't notice how he spends each evening at jujutsu tech, staring out the window, watching the sun dip behind the mountains. they never question why his infinity is always active, even when there's no immediate threat. they don’t feel the tension in his muscles that lingers hours after he meets with the higher-ups. they aren’t aware of his sleep schedule, where he barely gets 1-3 hours of “rest” each night. they can’t imagine the countless scars he'd bear if not for his rct. they don’t realize that the only things he consumes are sweets to dull the constant ache behind his eyes, not food to nourish his body.

but you notice, of course you do.

-

after a late-night doom scroll, your eyes light up when you see an advertisement for a cooling gel eye mask. after purchasing one in a pretty pink color and storing it for 24 hours in the office freezer, you hold it behind you as you stroll casually into his room.

“toooooruuuuuuu,” you sing as you walk up behind his desk.

reclining in his chair, he lets his head lull off the back so you can see his face.

“i know you have something behind your back, weirdo. you can’t hide it from me, remember?” he says as he points to his eyes behind his mask with a goofy smile.

“tsk, just go along with it for a second, will ya?” you scold playfully.

not without a dramatic sigh, satoru folds his arms in front of his torso. suddenly, you feel the air around you still, signaling to you the drop in his infinity as he lets you have your way with whatever you plan on doing.

with one hand, you carefully peel off his mask and toss it on his desk.

“keep your eyes closed, okay?”

“mmmmm”

the short walk from the communal fridge to his office was enough time to freeze your fingertips. bringing the gel mask in front of you, you do your best to stretch it as flat as possible before placing it slowly on his face.

“oh! what the- it’s so, ah, cold!”

you smile, tugging the elastic band around his head to hold the mask in place as he jerks around in his chair. your hands naturally fall to rest on his shoulders to steady him in place.

“toru!” you laugh, “it’s okay, just give it a second to get used to it!”

slowly you feel his tense shoulders begin to relax under your palms. as if on instinct, you start to work at them, kneading the muscles between your fingers. satoru’s face flushes a soft shade of pink, probably a reaction to the harsh temperature on his skin.

“huh,” his voice soft, “this actually feels pretty good.”

“of course it does,” you scold, “things like this exist for a reason. it’s called self-care, toru. it’s this wild and crazy idea where you take care… of yourself.”

“sounds like a gimmick.”

a smile creeps to your lips but quickly falls flat. satoru is always dismissive about his health, putting on a playful tone with his signature smile. but it’s a mask covering the ugly truth–there’s no time for self-care when there’s no sense of self. self does not exist in a world where he is merely a pawn–a very powerful, unforgettable pawn–but one nonetheless. he is an atomic bomb in society’s arsenal, labeled the strongest with the security that there is nothing, no one that rivals his ability. we are all protected while he suffers, out there alone in scenarios absent from our nightmares, as none of it is fathomable.

no one cares.

no one knows.

they are all so ignorant.

we are all so ignorant.

“OW,” satoru gasps, snapping you out of your spiral.

“oh my gods, i’m so sorry! did i hurt you?”

he puts on a show for a few more seconds before relaxing again. “not really, but i can read your thoughts and you were starting to get a little intense there.”

bringing your hands off of him, you fold them in front of you defensively, “you cannot read my mind.”

satoru rolls his head side to side on the chair, teasing you. “yes i can, and i appreciate you worrying about me.”

you huff out the air in your lungs as he peels the mask off his face, gets up, and turns to stand before you. his size makes it difficult to take him all in at once–his proximity to you causes you to crane your head upward to look him in the eyes. the skin around them glistens subtly from the condensation there, making them reflect even more intensely somehow. getting lost in his eyes isn’t just poetry, the blue pools of infinity stare right back at you, so deep and real.

it’s selfish to think you have any ownership, any authority over them. but in this lifetime, you’ll be damned if anyone dares to take them away from you.

“but i’ll be okay.”

his tone is so soft. as you search his face for any sign of fallacy, you see now that there is no mask–no fake smile. his infinity remains down, confirmed by the hand you place above his heart. 

“you promise?” you question in a whisper.

suddenly, but not unexpectedly, his hand is placed above yours. 

“cross my heart,” he swears, lifting your hand with his own to draw an x over his chest.

humming in response, you bring your eyes to your intertwined hands. it’s difficult to not pry more, but, unfortunately, you know this has to be enough.

“in all honesty,” you begin, “i wish i could kidnap you to a remote, faraway island. i would chain you up in bed, feed you warm meals every day, and force you to get a solid eight hours of sleep.”

satoru’s laugh rings throughout the room.

“sounds kinky,” he muses with a wiggle of his brow. 

sighing dramatically, you continue “but, alas, i cannot. so taking you to my place tonight will just have to suffice.”

“huh?”

“fine, fine, i won’t chain you to my bed. but i am making you takoyaki and tucking you in at eleven.” with his hand in yours, you begin to lead him out of his office. quickly, he is in your step by your side, a wide grin on his face. 

“you know,” he tempts, “you can chain me to your bed if you want to.”

“don’t tempt me, boy,” you play along, “you know how i can get carried away.”

somehow, the shiver that escapes satoru’s body is even more intense than the chill of any ice-cold face mask.

a/n: i wrote this sometime after i read the thirty-three questions gege was asked about satoru gojo and was sad to learn more about his daily life. our overworked king deserves a little break, yeah?

[chrissv4mp]

𐙚 I'D RATHER DIE ALONE, TOGETHER

(really random scenario... bear with me cus this is terrible 💔)

Smoke surrounded you. The smell of it made you cough, and you took in what you thought would be your last breath of fresh air. The fire was all around you, burning each and every leaf off of all the trees in the valley. There was no escape. Fire was catching onto the dead grass a few inches away from the trail, and it was relentless in its pace.

You couldn't do anything but sit and stare as the flames grew higher and higher. As the heat began to consume your body, beads of sweat started to form on your face. Everybody was gone before you could even process the words that came from out of Billie's mouth, and then, suddenly, you were alone. All by yourself. Surrounded by mountains of flames and ashes.

Where was everyone? Why did the people, who you considered your closest friends, run away and not even take a glance back to see if you were following? Your head feels light, so you release your breath, bursting out into a fit of coughs as you choke on your spit. Another deep breath, but this one is almost full of polluted air. More coughs, your hand bunching up the fabric of your shirt in an attempt to ground yourself.

"Y/N," a familiar voice calls out your name, muffled by the roaring sounds of the flames about to consume your whole, but you still hear it. How could you not? It was the voice of your girl. And as you turn, you're met with the sight of your girlfriends concerned face. It's Billie, "Y/N." She calls again, and this time, hee voice is much clearer. She motions you over with her hand, the other holding her shirt up to her nose as a makeshift mask.

But you can't move. The fear coursing through your veins is almost paralyzing, and the only thing you can do is stare once again. Your mind runs with the fact that Billie was the only one to come and find you. You weren't looking for her. But she found you. She found you. Her eyes sparked with worry, glassy and full of fear for both her life and yours. She couldn't have you dying like this.

"Do you wanna die alone?," She asks, and it almost makes you fearful that she'll leave again. But, she stays, coughing quietly as she cautiously steps closer. Like she's scared that you'll run off into the flames because she really didn't know why you just stayed. She reaches her hand out, "Or watch it all burn down together?" The words ring in your ears, her voice becoming a blur of syllables.

Her fingers lace into yours, and that's when it hits. Billie had actually maneuvered her way through the hot flames, jeopardizing her own life, in an attempt to possibly save your own. Your thumb runs across the top of her hand, soothing both of your nerves as her eyes land on yours, "I'd rather try to hold onto you,"

"Forever." You finish. The corners of your mouth curve into a small smile despite your life-threatening situation. You can see the smoke surrounding your bodies, and tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but you stay strong. Billie sees right through you, though. How could she not after being by your side for this long? She drops the fabric of her shirt, finally breathing in the polluted air just to pull you into a hug.

A hug that she thought she'd never be able to give you again. Her eyes shut, breathing in your scent and getting the faintest bit of your perfume. She whispers sweet things into your ear as you both rock back and forth slowly, crying softly into each other's shoulders, "I love you. I'm not letting go." She mutters, kissing your cheek and cupping your face so that you could look each other in the eyes, "I'd rather die alone, together."

𐙚 tags : @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @afteraftercare @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @karaeilishh @mybluebossanova @hopelessfawn @zayluvss @meliciousmel13

[moonandstarshyuck]

"Always."

lando norris x gn!bf!reader

notes: I haven’t written since 2019, so bear with me. I’ve found myself thinking about a little blurb for Lando recently (actually a lot of ideas, but this one is sticking with me more than the others at the moment).

For some context, Lando’s been receiving a huge amount of hate online (and in-person) recently. I haven’t been a fan for that long—I got into F1 this summer, in 2024—but I’ve grown to care about him. I was there for Lando losing the championship, and while I think we all knew it would come to this (Max winning felt inevitable) but I’m proud of Lando for pushing so hard this entire year.

Still, with all the hate directed at him, I’m seeing a new side of him, and I’m learning that he’s a person with feelings like anyone else. I can tell he doesn’t always have the highest opinion of himself and tends to take the blame for anything that goes wrong during his races. What struck me about this is how much I relate to it. I blame myself for things out of my control or when I mess up. What sucks with Lando is that his small, human errors are what so many people focus on to criticize him—whether it’s why he didn’t win the championship or why they think he’s a bad person (which he absolutely isn’t).

The inspiration for this came from an interview he did after the Brazilian GP. At that point, everyone knew it was almost mathematically impossible for Lando to win the championship, and he talked about struggling in the aftermath: “I literally couldn’t sleep for the first two days…So I did like, what, 36-40 hours straight. So that probably made everything worse. When you’re tired, you’re more moody, and that kind of thing…I was just sat at home alone. It probably would have been better if I had been with my friends. But they don’t live in Monaco. They also have lives and are busy doing other things. And I’m a big overthinker, so like the whole flight home, the whole week, it just played over and over in my head. What could I have done differently? Why did I do that? Why did I not do this? You start thinking of all the scenarios that you kind of blame yourself for, why it’s now not possible, that kind of thing. And yeah, because I overthink and I struggle with that kind of thing, that took a bigger toll in the days after. It wasn’t an easy time.”

And I keep on finding myself wishing someone could have been there for him in person, so that he was okay. So, I wrote this. The reader in this is dating Lando but is written as a gender-neutral character that uses They/Them pronouns. The reader also has a service dog, a Bernese Mountain Dog named Thunder, to help with their own depression and anxiety (I’m not an expert on service dogs, so this many not be 100% accurate).

They woke up that early morning to the sunlight shining on their face, streaming in from the window outside. The bliss of sleep clung to them as they lay there, cocooned in warmth, the covers snug around their body. They stretched lazily, blinking their eyes open.

Instinctively, they turned to look beside them—only to find the space next to them empty. It’s too early in the morning to be anywhere else but in bed, even for training, they thought. Lando should still be here.

The realization pulled them out of their sleepy haze. The past couple of days had been not kind to Lando. They knew that he had a tendency to keep his feelings bottled up and beat himself up over his perceived failures. They understood that feeling all too well—the guilt, the constant sense of disappointment, the nagging thought that were never good enough. They had wrestled with those feelings since they were a child.

It wasn’t something that had an easy fix. If they had found the answer, they would have shared it with Lando years ago. But they had learned that the best way to fight those thoughts wasn’t isolation. Talking to someone, writing feelings down, even simple positive affirmations—thought they might sound silly—could help push back against the negative spiral. They had told Lando this countless times.

But Lando had a problem with not wanting to “inconvenience” anyone with his emotions. No matter how many times they reassured him that they were always there for him, he struggled to let himself. They didn’t blame him—it was human to struggle against your own mind.

What made everything worse was the constant online hate. Every little mistake or sarcastic comment from Lando seemed to turn into an avalanche of criticism. They remembered the first time they’d seen him like a hateful comment about himself on Instagram—the little heart next to a cruel statement, paired with note: “Creator liked this.” It had broken their heart. How could the Lando they loved ever believe such awful things about himself?

After Brazil, it had been clear that he wasn’t okay. He’d barely spoken since coming home, choosing instead to himself. They had given him space, hoping he’d find a way to process his feelings. But by the second morning, when he still hadn’t come to bed—almost forty hours after returning home—they knew they couldn’t stand by any longer.

That morning, they rose slowly from the bed, a plan beginning to form in their mind. Lanod needed someone to step in—someone to remind him he didn’t have to face his struggles alone. They were determined to be that person for him.  They couldn’t take it anymore, seeing the person they loved so badly, punishing himself over his ‘failures.’

The first step was to confirm where he was. Grabbing their phone, they opened Twitch and navigated to Max’s stream. After a few moments of watching, they heard Lando’s voice—tired, strained, but unmistakably his. He was joking with Max, his words clipped, like he was holding himself together with sheer willpower. It was enough to break their heart. They opened their messages with Max.

Thunder's Owner

Lan’s streaming with you rn?

Sent at 7:48 AM.

After a few seconds, Max replied.

Maximilian

Yeah he’s on voice-only.

Sent at 7:50 AM.

Gonna do something about him?

Sent at 7:50 AM.

Max knew. Of course he did. He probably heard the exhaustion in Lando’s voice, the edge self-loathing that came with overthinking. They typed back quickly:

Thunder's Owner

Yeah

Sent 7:52 AM.

Going to unplug his setup and drag him out of there.

Sent 7:52 AM.

Maximilian

Lol.

Sent 7:52 AM.

I’ll keep an eye out for when he disappears.

Sent 7:53 AM.

Thunder's Owner

Thx

Sent 7:54 AM.

They quietly made their way to Lando’s gaming room and eased the door open. Lando sat at his desk, controller in hand, headset clamped over messy curls.  He looked worn down, his shoulders slumped as he focused on the screen. His voice through, muted put playful, as he bantered with Max.

For a moment, they just watched him. Even now, he was handsome, but the tiredness in his expression made their chest ache. He deserved rest. He deserved to feel okay. And he wasn’t going to get that by sitting here punishing himself.

As soon as Lando died in-game and leaned back in his chair, they seized the opportunity. They crossed the room, catching his attention when they came into view.

“Why’re you—” Lando began, frowning, but they didn’t let him finish. Reaching down, they unplugged everything from the wall.

“What the hell—” he exclaimed, spinning around in his chair.

“No,” they said firmly, cutting him off. “I’m not you hurt yourself anymore. Get up.”

Lando blinked, clearly taken aback. “You can’t just do that!” he protested, but they were already tugging gently at him arm, urging him out of his chair.

“Angel, what are you—”

“No,” they repeated, their voice steady. “Get up,”

Lando hesitated for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh and standing. They took his hand, leading him out of the gaming room and down the hall to the living room. He didn’t resist, but he followed like a man in a daze. Once they reached the couch, they turned to him. “Sit,” they said, pointing at the cushions. Lando raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to argue, but they shook their head. “Stay.”

They turned to Thunder, who had been waiting for them in the hallway, and told him, “Thunder, guard,” while pointing at Lando.

The dog immediately moved into position, standing alert in front of the couch. Lando’s eyes widened slightly as Thunder fixed him with an unblinking stare. He shifted as if to get up, but Thunder’s stance didn’t waver.

“Jeez, I wasn’t going to get up,” he mumbled to Thunder, but Thunder just sat there and watched him until he fully relaxed back into the couch.

The thought ran through Lando’s head, how he had honestly forgotten how menacing his own dog could look. He knew Thunder was trained, saw reminders of it daily with how he interacted with his partner, but he was still shocked at how trained Thunder really was at that moment.

Thunder was still staring at him when he pulled out his phone from his pocket, opening up his texts with Max.

LN

I was just dragged out of my gaming room and told to sit on the couch and like a dog.

Sent at 8:05 AM.

Not against it, but how tf did they get so determined?

Sent at 8:05 AM.

Thunder’s watching me right now.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

I forgot how menacing he could be.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

*Picture attached.*

Lol.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

Max (The 1st One)

He’s like ‘try me, I dare you’

Sent at 8:06 AM.

LN

Yeah, I don’t particularly want to try him

Sent at 8:07 AM.

Max (The 1st One)

Lol.

Sent at 8:07 AM.

They told me before they did it

Sent at 8:07 AM.

I just let them. Lol.

Sent at 8:07 AM.

LN

Helpful. What if they were trying to  kill me?

Sent at 8:08 AM.

They wouldn’t have had to if you kept doing what you were doing.

Sent at 8:09 AM.

Lando’s let out a quiet sigh, Max’s words sinking in. He glanced at Thunder, who hadn’t moved, and felt a pang of guilt. He’d pushed himself too far again, and this time it had clearly worried his partner.

A few minutes later, his partner walked back into their living room. He thought they looked beautiful, wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of boxers. They were entirely focused on the bowl they were carrying, and only looked up when they got close enough to hand it to him. He gently took the bowl, looked into it and saw it was one of his prep meals. While not his favorite breakfast, he knew he just needed to eat first, so he started taking bites.

He glanced up every so often, and each time he did, his partner was just sitting there and watching him eat. Lando almost chuckled at his own thought that they looked just like Thunder when watching him, and he smiled into his bowl at the thought. His partner didn’t see his smile, but he continued to eat until he had finished the bowl.

When he was done eating, he set the bowl down, and his partner again pulled him up by the crook of his arm. He just let them do so, having a thought of what was going to happen next.

His partner led them both down the hallway to their bedroom, and opened the door, leading him to sit on their bed, then they turned around and went to close their blinds and draw their black-out curtains to cover up the sunlight from the window. They had turned on their bedside lamp earlier, and the soft orange glow of the lamp permeated the room. They walked past him again, going to close the door after letting Thunder in, then they walked back to their side of the bed, and pulled him to lie down against them.

As he settled against their chest, he felt a bit odd, it being a bit of a difference to feel how much he was loved by them. How much they cared for him. And he finally spoke again, “Thank you.”

“Always, Lan. Always.” They replied, pressing a kiss to his hair.

And for the first time in days, he let himself sleep.

author's note: got inspired to actually write something for once...ty @koalapastries for the inspiration (unknowing inspiration but ty) (also sorry for using your layout outline

comments & reblogs appreciated

and i made the dividers :)

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: The Mysteries

Bill Watterson: what ho, mortals Watterson: it is i the hermit bill watterson Watterson: i have lived up in my cave on the mountain for nigh on 30 years Watterson: in silent contemplation of the mysteries of the cosmos Watterson: but now i descend to walk amongst you Watterson: to speak of the revelations delivered unto me Watterson: thus spake watterson!

Stephen King: oh my god! bill watterson! Watterson: yes King: i'm a real big fan of calvin and hobbes you know Watterson: thank you King: i've got so many bumper stickers of calvin peeing on things i don't like! Watterson:

Watterson: listen, people! i bear important news- Koontz: i have a question! Koontz: is the transmogrifier real? Frank Belknap Long: god i wish the transmogrifier was real 

King: i love the spaceman spiff strips haha so good Poe: i prefer the tracer bullet arcs, funny stuff Barker: hey did you draw frazz? c'mon you can tell us, we're cool Watterson: see this is why i don't come down here much

Bill Watterson: submitted for the approval of the midnight society, I call this the tale of the mysteries Watterson: ok so follow me here Watterson: what if it turned out that man was just an insignificant speck in an unfathomably vast and hostile universe HP Lovecraft: i know the answer to that one

Watterson: so i realized, in my years of meditation, that man is a meaningless blip in the vast nothing of space King: Poe: Koontz: Barker: Lovecraft: Barker: hahaha Poe: clive Barker: did you just rediscover cosmic horror from first principles?

Watterson: what if there were things in the universe that we didn't understand? King: Poe: Koontz: Barker: Lovecraft: King: is there more? Watterson: no that's it

Watterson: see, the thing is Watterson: mysteries exist Watterson: what are mysteries? we just don't know Watterson: i'll leave it to your imagination to fill in the rest Watterson: you know, like the noodle incident Watterson: anyway i'll see you all again in another 30 years

Barker: ya know i was always more of a far side fan anyway King: i always liked garfield, ya know garfield? King: like eating lasagna, hating mondays King: classic strip, classic! Frank Belknap Long: i liked ozy and millie Barker: wow frank big surprise 

[ceilidho]

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[yeyinde]

oh my god, i was just rewatching mandela catalogue when i remembered you were into horror. and adding to my brainrot, i just had the biggest (worst?) idea shoot straight into my head, and i thought:

what if— doppleganger/skinwalker au! for the 141?

a mix of horror and just that feeling of are you truly who you say you are? or is it just another trick in your mind when he touches you oh so carefully, saying sweet nothings but the look in his eyes says otherwise?

goddddd i love analog horror! i haven't seen the Mandela Catalogue, but i'm huge fan of LOCAL58 and Midwest Angelica so i'll def add it to my list!

i really love this idea!!! i could do something similar to the concept art for Toothsayer by Tanya Tagaq—a walrus with a brain floating above it's head, attached by these tentacle-things. you're the only one who can see it, though. this mass clinging to them like a leech. but then the thing— the brain, the mass—opens its eyes and stares at you.

but i've also been kinda wrapped up in the winter soldier au, so maybe a doppelganger version of that would be fun!

like, maybe they go missing in the mountains and you mourn them, visit their empty graves. but on the anniversary of their disappearance, you visit the mountain they went missing on, staying in a hunter's pass/cabin.

the forest is strange. it makes you uncomfortable. you close the curtains over the windows and pretend it's just to keep the chill from getting in, and not the prickle on the nape of your neck that sometimes rears when you know you're being stared at. odd things. unexplainable things, but you make excuses for them, anyway.

until there's a sound in the dead of night. a familiar smell on your pillow. you call out into the dark, but nothing answers you back. just the muted rustle of bushes in the opposite direction of the wind. another excuse: elk. moose. bear. you close the door but it has your voice now.

(you try not think about that. why did you think about that? the thought is foreign and wrong in your head, and you can't deny that it doesn't sound like your own. it chisels in like a pickaxe, something else whispering into the hole—)

there's a knock on the door next. something says not to answer it. leave it. hide. run—

you move to the sound like a moth to a flame, and pretend there's surprise when you see that it's him.

he doesn't speak for a long time, just stands there and stares. but when he finally does, you wish he hadn't because what he says is this:

"did you miss me?"

but it comes out like a cartoonish ransom note. cut up words from a magazine glued down on the page. strung together in sequence but they don't belong. something is missing.

did you. miss me. it's said in three different tones. terror. fear. anger. a recording spliced together.

and that—

that scares you to your core. chills you to the bone.

but it's him.

and when he says let me in—firmer this time, sounding more like himself now (excuses, excuses—he was missing for so long; he's thirsty, he needs to something to drink—)— you step to the side and let it (him him him) pass.

he's back, after all. he finally came home. grief and shock and the cold are all just getting to you. you just need to lay down, he wants you to lay down with him. tugs you toward the bedroom on fawnlegs, stumbling around the room like he forgot how to walk. come, he says. sleep, sleep—

everything will be fine in the morning.

(just ignore the way he walks. talks. and how he stares at you sometimes with a naked, primal hunger on his face like he's trying, with all his might, not to tear you apart—)