#divergent drabble

[carlislefiles]

weight | fushiguro toji ╰►toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words

a/n: honestly, this could be misconstrued as toji just weaponizing his incompetence, but I guess all I can say is that isn't how I meant it? he's just a guy, you know? and so if you see me doing laundry and cooking for a 6 foot tall assassin in his dingy apartment...leave me alone, I'm exactly where I wanna be <3 fr though this is very heavy and much longer than I anticipated it being, talks a lot about self-worth, hating yourself, regret, grief, etc. definitely would not recommend reading if you don't feel like you're in the right headspace for that. I would probably call this angst, but there's also a lot of comfort in here!! (take a shot every time I say 'maybe...' 26 fucking times)

he doesn’t keep much. a knife. a lighter. a photo half-burned at the edges—face blurred, but he knows who it was. a bracelet that never fit his wrist, tucked in the back of a drawer. a receipt for something he tells himself he should’ve stolen, but didn’t. junk, really. clutter he should’ve thrown out years ago.

he stares at it sometimes. doesn’t touch it. doesn’t move. just…sits. breathing slow. letting the weight settle. it’s not guilt, not exactly. he doesn’t deserve that word. guilt’s for people who tried, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it often. this is more of an ache. a longing for a life he might've lived if he wasn't such a miserable piece of shit. who is he kidding? he was never going to be anything else.

before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.

he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.

he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.

he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.

he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.

not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.

you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can. 

and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.

......

it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.

you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.

you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.

he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.

it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks. 

he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.

because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?

he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.

…… 

some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.

he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.

he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.

“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”

he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”

you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.

toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.

you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.

he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”

“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right? 

the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.

the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.

you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.

he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.

grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.

"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.

“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.

and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.

……

he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast. 

but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.

he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.

he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.

it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.

and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.

so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has. 

……

he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”

toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.

you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.

when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.

because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.

……

toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.

and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.

you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.

you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.

because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.

and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.

“what?”

you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”

“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.

“toji…”

"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”

you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”

but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.

and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.

this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.

so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.

……

the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.

but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.

he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.

and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.

he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.

toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.

you could leave him.

that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.

you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.

sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.

he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.

you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.

……

he almost dies. again.

that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.

his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"

but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.

not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.

you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.

he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.

“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”

you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”

and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.

but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.

so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.

later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.

his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.

he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.

……

toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.

he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.

neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.

now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.

your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.

you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”

his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”

you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.

he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.

the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.

toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.

you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.

one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.

the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.

months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.

……

toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.

his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.

the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.

this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.

at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.

……

you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.

this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.

it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.

you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.

he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.

you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?

you hold out your hand.

“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”

he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”

“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”

it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he’s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that. 

he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.

……

the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.

so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.

your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.

“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.

instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.

eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.

and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.

the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”

he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”

you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.

......

toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.

and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.

now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.

toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.

you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.

"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.

"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.

meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.

“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.

“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”

toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?

he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.

toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.

after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.

shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.

then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.

“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.

he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”

the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?

it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.

that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.

……

toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.

you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.

you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.

you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.

he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.

he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it. 

it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.

he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.

by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.

the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.

and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.

[a-hermit-pining]

Gods Who Walk the Earth

AN: idk why I am obsessed with gods, I blame Percy Jackson. I love you guys so much for your comments, they make me smile like an idiot. Maybe I will make this into a series.

Pairing: Sylus x gn reader

Genre: cannon divergence

Summary: The first time he beheld the god of his people, the sight bled into his heart.

(I do not own these characters)

The first time he saw you, he was barely of age. Hidden behind his mother, Sylus bowed before the form of their god.

The power of creation itself lay mere feet away from him. Surrounded by offerings of gold, you slept.

The deity of dragons had been asleep for ages, recovering from the creation of the new world forged with your core. Gods walked the Earth, and you were one of them.

Sylus' palms sweated; it had only been a few years since he'd mastered the art of shifting forms. None dared appear before you in their dragon form, except for younglings carried in by their parents to receive blessings.

And now he stood before you, smaller than your eye. YOUR EYE!

A golden eye stared back at him, heavy with sleep and blinking lazily.

The god gazed directly at him.

An echo filled the chamber as knees slammed onto the floor, all falling into reverence.

The god was awake. But Sylus remained frozen in place. His heart refused to slow, his throat dry.

Then, in a flurry of motion that left him blinking rapidly, you stood before him, in your humanoid form.

"I apologize for startling you." Your voice was clear, like a fresh spring. Ages of slumber had done nothing to dull its resonance.

That was the first time he beheld the god of his people. And the sight bled into his heart.

How does one differentiate love from reverence?

One doesn’t.

Of all the souls in the world, he fell in love with the most unattainable one.

Had he known what his feelings would lead to, he might have turned away.

For gods who fall for mortals are no longer gods, but voids.

And your end was the world's end. The devouring core in your heart retaliated, tearing through your mind, for wanting nothing less than all of your heart. Sylus had dared to make place for himself, where there should only be duty.

Until he took a part of it, a fragment of your heart embedded in his soul.

He became the monster who defied a god. The evil, who pried at your power. A traitor.

Until, consumed by the madness of your people, the world, and the core itself, your sword found his heart.

But his fragment did not rest in his heart.

It lay in the eye that had once beheld you.

Now he looks at you once again. A mortal, who is bound to carry a god's burden.

He is once again the young dragon, staring upon his god.

[deadkraker]

ok had a reblog that awoke the cTommy demons in me so let me just rant for a second about my very specific flavour of cTommy I've made up ok? ok.

you know how like there's stories of kids surviving in the woods by themselves and living among animals? well my ctom is that but with a twist basically.

he spent about his all his early childhood (1 to a 8 year old) in the woods, alone, and like, he was living his best life honestly, I think that he'd sometimes spy on some village kids on the edges of the village but otherwise he was totally content to just frolic in the woods and eat bugs n shit.

but then cwil found him and was like 'oh no whats this child doing running around covered in mud living in a forest' and just kinda picked him by his scruff and carried him home, not really understanding that the kid he just picked up might not be a human child that needed that sort of assistance, all children bite right? like it's totally normal for them to claw at the walls of the home, begging to be released back to the wild for the first week they're inside a home? yeah. and the shiny eyes and claws are just quirks he's sure. this child is perfectly normal and meant to live among humans.

after a while tommy kinda warmed up to wil even when he didn't really understand why he had to do a lot of things, why on earth were shoes necessary anyways? the shirts and trousers he got, they were soft and made him warm in chilly night but god, shoes were his worst enemy. and wil would also develop a fondness for him, and after that they kinda began traveling together.

wil mostly saw tommy's habits as just little odd quirks, and unless it intervened with thing he deemed important he let the boy be.

but then the wars happened and wil became very strict on how tommy should act, how he made the state look bad by climbing trees and walking around barefoot getting his uniform all dirty and untidy, and tommy you have to wear the tie, don't you care what they will think of us if my right hand man won't even dress properly?

and despite all the efforts he made to understand why the things that his brother- no, his general said were important and should matter, the uniforms made his skin itch and the long depatings and peace negotiations made him miss the vague memories of the days where all he had to be was himself in the forest. at least he had tubbo, he'd never leave him.

woops, wil dies, other shit happens, tubbo becomes the president and then exiles him, leaving him, cdream's abuse makes him both regress and progress with his masking, he's never been so much of a starved animal and a obedient follower as he was now, a wild thing kicked and tortured until any form of affection got his complete trust. only for it to be blown up like everything else.

he escapes, finds a safe place, get betrayed, flees again, holes up away from everyone else, because apparently this people thing that everyone seemed to be so in on just wasn't his thing.

some people offer to try and help him, and he accepts. once again.

they say he needs closure, which sure, he'll get closure, dream's in prison now right? it'll be safe right?

one cracked skull and revival and he's proven wrong.

but is it just me or is he kinda..odd now? a boy that once couldn't stand still to save his life, now just watched in the background, with those creepy dead eyes that were nowadays covered by those bangs of his. he seemed more like a ghost than ghostbur ever was.

he just wanders around in the woods, and the claws that had been clipped short by wil now were untrimmed, I swear I saw him hunt a bunny and kill it with his hands alone one time!

he doesn't really talk to people like he used to, mostly he sticks to chatting with tubbo and cranboo, cphil's tried to talk to him, tried to apologize for how things turned out..but he doesn't really get anything back from tommy. he seems more busy with collecting bugs and skinning small rodents for their skulls to try and unpack years worth of complicated feelings towards everyone in his life, maybe things would've been better if he'd stayed in that forest of his, at least he sometimes wishes so.

[localcanadiancreature62]

My Thoughts on Fiddlestan

Okay you people are literally all or nothing with these mfs,like it's either all gut wretching angst or all tooth rotting fluff. So i raise you,"what if it was both?" aka i made them have a good time but they also have Issues ✨. @misteria247 you might wanna see this one cuz i know you love Fiddlestan lol.

So first things first,their first meeting. They would meet soon after the portal incident when Fidds' sanity is slowly starting to slip from the first several usages of the memory gun and he ends up going to Ford's house after having a vague familiarity with the place as well as a desire to make amends with his friend while he still remembers him,only for him to see Stan at the door. A man wearing his best friend's face. Stan lets the guy in while still keeping the ruse of pretending to be his brother after he just faked his death,trying his hardest to pretend that he knows what Fidds is talking about regarding the portal and Ford's time in college.

A few weeks pass,and Fidds get the slight suspicion that he's not actually talking to Ford as "Ford" brushes off his science-y ramblings with "I don't understand" or "I'm too tired to hear about it maybe later",when he knew that the real Ford would know exactly what he's talking about regarding his ideas for modern computers or Schrodinger's cat as well as gladly ramble along with him even if it's 2am at the time instead of ignoring it. He also realizes that "Ford" surprisingly knows nothing about anomalies and either tries to shoo creatures away or just beats the hell out of them rather than studying them whenever they have an encounter with gnomes or something,plus the fact that he gets jumpy whenever an eye-bat appears. Fidds is still sane enough to notice these "tells" and so he confronts the man about it despite Stan already being nervous about not being able to keep up the act. Stan decides to come clean after the southern man literally backed him into a corner while interrogating him about who he is and where the real Stanford is,he explains the truth about Ford's disappearance and that he's trying to fix the portal while having no idea about how his brother's science mumbo jumbo works. Fidds' expression of anger and fear changes into guilt sympathy and even intrigue as he regrets trying to aggressively gouge the man for answers,when the grifter turned out to care about Ford all along instead of selfishly stealing his life for success. He wondered about Stan's relation to Ford and the man explains that he's Ford's twin brother and that they had a rough patch in their brotherly relationship which lead to this whole mess. Fidds then offers to help fix the portal since he's the one who co built it and Stan couldn't be more than happy,although with the condition of no more lies as that impersonation fiasco genuinely scared him which Stan agrees to. They didn't get along at first with Stan's stubborn personality and tendency to tease others at random while Fidds was just really tired and he wanted to get Ford back so that he can get out of this whole mess,but they managed.

Throughout the building of the portal,the two begin to bond regarding their history with Ford and how the man inadvertently screwed them over with his ego. Then talking about how they always felt inferior in comparison to everyone else (Stan with Ford,Fidds with his rough and tumble ranch family who roughhoused constantly while he was a scrawny nerd),discovering that they weren't so different as they thought. Stan ends up taking his partnership with Fiddleford more seriously as he soon realizes that they only have each other,while Fidds starts to humor Stan's teasing and occasional goofing off since he doesn't have anyone else to turn to with Emma may and Tate still refusing contact from him ever since the divorce (just so that Fidds wouldn't yknow. cheat on his wife). They soon become friends who often look out for each other with Stan trying to stop Fidds from overworking himself while Fidds teaches Stan about quantum physics as he tries really hard to understand despite being the "dumb" twin.

Fidds' use of the memory gun becomes less frequent as he didn't have a reason to blast himself with it anymore due to finally having someone that understands his troubles with Ford and the darn triangle feller,no longer feeling as though he had to forget everything as he had someone to talk to about all of this (i mean in canon he wouldn't never went insane if Ford fucking talked to him and explained why he's still going through with the portal with his desperate desire for approval). Stan sees his steadfast love and support be appreciated by someone besides his ungrateful brother,while Fidds sees his unwavering loyalty and handmade gifts be cherished by someone who cares rather than ignored by his egotistical friend.

The fact that the two found someone who cared even when they have their own troubles means a lot to them,this steadfast love and concern was what made Fidds and Stan slowly fall for each other. Stan finally found someone who appreciates him and sees him as worthy even with his many mistakes or occasional stupidity while Fidds finally found someone who won't waste his loyalty and kindness in favor of their own selfish wishes (*cough* Ford *cough*). They're finally happy,after dealing with so much pain. They had their happy ending,or did they? 😏.

While they WERE in a healthy and loving relationship,things weren't all sunshine and rainbows. Stan outright refuses to talk about his problems in fear of being a burden to his nerd plus the emotional walls he put up were too strong even when he tries to be open toward the southern man which always ends in him not wanting to talk about it,meanwhile Fidds opts to metaphorically run away from his issues by using the memory gun to forget every argument and misunderstanding he had with the drifter (which were mostly caused by the memory gun in the first place). Whenever they have a problem with something that the other does that isn't related to the portal,they don't set boundaries they don't talk about it they don't confront the other about it,they do NOTHING.

Fidds slowly starts to go insane again as he starts forgetting about Stan at times with his use of the memory gun whenever they have an argument which is a LOT of arguments as every couple doesn't always agree with each other,he lashes out and has a paranoia episode over either imagining Stan being a stranger that wants to hurt him or him being Ford that wants to take revenge on him for quitting the project which obviously upsets the drifter but he doesn't do anything about it as he cannot afford to lose the one thing he has left because of his dumb problems (little does he know,is that he's already doing it. he's already losing Fidds cuz of his issues). Stan on the other hand,starts treating Fiddleford with the same codependency that he gave Ford with him expecting the hillbilly to always be there for him and always put HIS interests at heart despite the man having his own wants and needs with his Mcgucket Labs project. Thus Fidds is being taken for granted again while Stan is confused and angry over why this hick is ignoring him and trying to abandon him like Ford did (Stanley your brother issues are showing).

It only gets worse in the moments culminating to Fidds' insanity,where Stan doesn't even know who his hillbilly partner anymore while Fidds is completely unaware of the torment he's putting Stan through with his erratic behavior and amnesiac ramblings. Stan was there for the tapes,he was behind the camera with every transition as the southern man told him it was a little experiment regarding the memory gun and he believed that at first only to soon realize that Fidds was literally frying his own brain with that gun after reading his notes about the electricity that erases the memories plus the side effects of prolonged use. By the time Fidds had that car crash,he quit the project again and stopped seeing Stan as he left the drifter alone to fix the portal by himself albeit with more knowledge of how it works due to the various quantum mechanics lessons the man drilled into him. He just needed to figure out the elaborate codes to actually activate it. Stan missed Fidds as he was guilty about their last interaction being an argument about the memory gun and even encountered him but with a new red robe while the man went on and on about some memory cult,but he knew that the man is too far gone for him to make amends with.

Stan then ended up using Fidds' Mcgucket Labs money to support himself but then he realized that it won't be enough as that business was just a start up gig that didn't had the chance to become successful due to the portal and the memory gun,so he had to come up with another way to survive all alone. Then he went to the Dusk 2 Dawn convenience store and saw that everyone was interested in Ford's weird mad scientist house,taking everyone there as he saw that people's interest in the freaky things in that house would make great revenue for him. The Mystery Shack (originally the Murder Hut) was born,and Stan had finally left his life of being a miserable grifter behind. However.. he still saw his Fiddleford rummage in the trash or make killer robots in the news sometimes. He yearns for what could've been yet he shakes his head as he knew what he had with the nerd was currently unsalvageable in his current insane state.

[lihhelsing]

Waiting on You

written for @steddiemicrofic, Promtp: ‘Pin’ | wc: 388 | rated: M | no warnings

Eddie was on his stomach, head resting on the pillow and his hair pinned up on top of his head while Steve's fingers slowly traced his spine up and down.

Steve liked to do that. His fingers moved on Eddie's skin feeling the different textures of it. The softness of most parts and then the roughness of his scars. 

Eddie didn't like them, but Steve loved them. They told Eddie's story. They proved Eddie survived.

They made it possible for Steve to know what Eddie meant to say to him at that last second before the biggest battle of their lives. Even if Eddie still hadn't said it, Steve could wait.

So he did. Waited as he and Eddie danced around each other. As each touch seemed to hold so much meaning even if neither of them said it out loud. 

Steve wasn’t pining over Eddie. He wasn't. He was just... waiting. For him to be ready for Steve to love him. And Eddie was getting there, Steve knew it.

So he waited, and he traced the lines of Eddie's body when it was just the two of them and he ignored Robin's constant teasing about how badly he was pining over his best friend. 

"At what time is Robin getting here?" Eddie asked, pulling Steve out of his thoughts. 

It was their weekly scheduled movie night and Robin would probably complain a lot about third-wheeling but Steve knew she secretly loved seeing them like that, all cozy and domestic.

"Not for another three hours," Steve said, hand sliding to the side of Eddie's torso. 

"Good. We've got plenty of time, then," Eddie said, and before Steve could ask what he meant, Eddie was wiggling his hips in the way he did whenever he wanted Steve to do something about it.

It made his body hot and his fingers slip down until he could press it between Eddie's asscheeks. He was still loose from the night before and Steve was taken by all this need to feel Eddie's body under him. 

Steve draped himself over him, pressing his dick on the swell of his ass and kissing his neck. Eddie shuddered under him. They hadn't kissed yet, but Steve didn't mind. 

He didn't mind waiting because he knew Eddie was it for him, and they were almost there.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

SAME

for the @sterekdrabbles 12.04.24 challenge. the prompt words were: lush, wakeful, and lethal.

.

Stiles was in for a long, wakeful night. 

He was devastated when Derek left after Mexico, but had been doing okay for a while now.

Then the werewolf came back—a lethal blow for Stiles moving on.

It'll always be him.

A huff from his open window had Stiles looking from his bed to see unnaturally blue eyes. The wolf padded silently over, resting front paws on Stiles's comforter, waiting. 

Stiles sighed, then sunk his fingers into Derek's lush fur.

Fuck it. 

He said, “I love you,” and when Derek whined and licked his face, Stiles realised maybe that was okay. 

.

[ilcantodelsoleil]

i like to imagine gojo realising that geto is the only one in the world who has ever understood him earlier. they are two parts of a whole, the right and left atriums of a heart that cannot function without its adjacent side. so in this timeline, gojo sees geto getting haggard and pries just that tiny bit more, holds onto him just that tiny bit harder, in between his endless stream of solo missions post riko's death. sleepovers become regular again; there are whispered conversations veiled by the whirring of geto's obnoxiously loud ceiling fan about grief and purposelessness and isolation and regret, but the cicadas chirping through his open window are a constant reminder that the world continues to turn with them, around them, in spite of them. this was still the happiest summer of both their lives.

"are you the strongest because you're gojo satoru, or are you gojo satoru because you're the strongest?" geto asks at some point, and this time the conversation isn't laced with the cyanide of a bitter almond, and there is no shinjuku crowd to keep them split apart like a river from the sea. instead, they are connected by a blanket and barely brushing fingers, hanging in the delicate balance gojo is battling to maintain. he forbids the iron of the world from sharpening geto's golden heart into a knife's edge; gojo himself may be a perfectly polished weapon, but he'll be damned before he allows geto to become void of his gentility and morality, his unwavering humanity.

"i'm okay with righteous bullshit as long as it's coming from you," gojo murmurs, just a minute before they fall asleep. the vulnerability in his voice seeps into the inch of space between them like blood on his hands, which he will soil time and time again if it means he can preserve the pearl of their youth for which he will die before it loses its lustre.

"and one day we'll change the world– because we're the strongest, and i can't do it without you. so we're stuck together from now on, 'kay? let's go kfc tomorrow, fuck yaga."

and just like that, it is not hard. it has never had to be hard. how sad that it ended up so.

[voidofthevoidmv]

What Journal????

(A gravity falls AU-> Name pending)

(Simple idea, what if Dipper never found the 3rd journal. Maybe when he switches that secret switch, a wire got crossed or the electrics were faulty. What would happen to canon if Mabel and Dipper never had Journal 3 as a crutch? Would it be a detriment, or possibly a good thing? What would they do instead of investigate the secret of the author, because how would they know? That is what I plan to explore in this little whatever… I just think it would be funny that everyone would be talking about these journals, or like whatever and meanwhile these two 12 year olds are sort of just winging it the whole time. Surprisingly enough, not a lot changes… That much.)

Tourist Trapped: (Prologue)

On the cusp of the wooded thicket bordering the forests of Gravity Falls, a young boy by the name of Dipper Pines could be seen hammering up signs. He didn't seem all that enthused by the idea, and his expression really said it all.

“Stupid Stan... Making me do all his dirty work...” He murmured under his breath, brown eyes narrowed while he made his way to yet another tree. He began lifting a hammer to plaster yet another terrible advertisement towards “The Mystery Shack.” The place which was supposedly going to be his home away from home for the next upcoming few months- If he even survived long enough to make it that far.

So, he continues to grumble to himself, despite his clear discomfort and presses the nail against a tall pine, truly selling the look of distaste with a very fashionable rolling of the eyes and a furrow of his brow.

“...Nobody ever believes anything I say...”

TING!

“Huh?”

How peculiar, he tests the waters once more to ensure he isn't hearing things. But after a few more taps with his mallet, it was clear by the ringing sound of metal on metal that this tree was apparently made of tougher stuff than that of your average spruce.

Very strange. The 12-year-old could sense an almost excited feeling stirring his gut.

He smooths a small hand over the seemingly slick face of the not-tree- And to his surprise his fingers found a sort of hatch-like lip, to which he was quick to attempt in prying open. He succeeds after a few good tugs, and the sound of old rusted over hinges squeal over years of neglect.

Dipper takes a moment before peering within the unknown chamber, to wipe his hands on his shorts and wave away the cloud of dust that came with the containers pressure release. He also had to bat away a few disconnected cobwebs as well, which billowed in the nonexistent breeze. Once the dust clears, the boy finally gets a decent look at the hidden compartments' contents. It’s a little mechanical box, rusted and clunky. The top part of its dusty face has two small activation switches. It’s clear that the device has not been touched in quite some time. It’s likely it doesn’t even function anymore.

Even so, of course, the 12-year-olds first instinct is to mess around with the device. He at first attempts one of the little switches, flicking it a few times but to no avail. Nothing happens. So, he tries the next one, though this next switch has a more volatile reaction than the one prior.

“Ow! What the-”

There was a sharp spark this time, and he flinches back harshly whilst clutching his once hovering hand. In the process in this motion, he drops everything he had been carrying, and it all lies in a small scatter beneath the not-tree. The tip of his pointer finger and thumb are both reddened and buzzing from the short burst of electricity, that had stuck him whilst he had been flicking the other switch. Brow furrowed, he places the stinging fingers in his mouth to soothe them as he glances around again. Almost hopeful.

But alas, other than giving him minor electrical burn that felt like they were beginning to blister, nothing had happened at all by flicking the switches. Whatever those activation doodads had been meant to do, Dipper would never know, because the box was clearly faulty. That was a shame. Maybe it could’ve had some answers as to why he’d been feeling so extra paranoid lately. There’s a beat of silence beyond the ambient forest noises, and while itching his mosquito bites from earlier Dipper suddenly feels a little self-conscious- And almost ridiculous.

“Maybe I am overthinking this stuff…” He murmurs sullenly to himself.

A short distance away, the goat named Gompers bleated quite unhelpfully. Dipper couldn’t help but sigh again, and while nursing his very slightly blistered fingers, he began towards his dropped tools and signs.

However, before he could grab the last of the signs leaning on the not-tree, a blur of fur and teeth whizzed past his nose making him let loose a very not-masculine scream- something along the lines of “MONSTER!”- and the shock causing him stumble over his own feet and collapse onto his bottom. The stuff he had been holding now scattering once more.

After a few minutes of catching his breath, Dipper glances upwards only to find some kind of squirrel family had made themselves at home in the once sealed shut secret compartment. He couldn’t help but feel silly, cheeks reddening as the embarrassment sank in and the adrenaline died down.

“Great. Just great. Maybe I really am going crazy…” Dipper stumbles to his feet in order dust himself off while glancing around yet again, and for a moment he chuckles awkwardly.

“At least nobody saw that…” Suddenly, a blur of color jumps out from behind a nearby log.

“GET EXPOSED!!!”

“AAGH!!!”

Once again, Dipper lets loose a very girlish scream, causing the colorful interloper to burst into obnoxious laughter. Though, the interloper happened to have less beast like features, and more middle school, preteen girl features. Very FAMILIAR features.

After a few moments to collect his bearings, Dipper tried to ignore his embarrassed pink cheeks and glowered harmlessly at his twin sister, who now seemed to be wiping a stray tear away and recovering from her laughing fit.

“Mabel…” He groaned irritably.

“…Oohhhh you should’ve seen your face! You were all like- AH! And I was like- BOOM! And you were like AH-” However his twin sister Mabel seemed more intent to reflect on how great of a scare she got out of him. It was humiliating really. Dipper began to pick up the dropped signs and hammers and nails AGAIN, still gazing at his giggling sister.

“Har-har-har. One of these days Mabel, you're going to give me a heart attack.”

“Yeah right, that’s if a squirrel doesn’t do it first. You heard me bro-bro. I saw the WHOLE thing!”

“Greeeaaat…” His sarcasm was practically palpable in the air, but Mabel clearly either couldn’t tell or just didn’t care and continued onward. Though if it counts for anything, she did wordlessly liberate a couple signs from his hands to lessen his load. It helped to temper his annoyance with her in the moment. He couldn’t really blame her; he was sure that it probably really was funny to spook him like that.

Still annoyed though. Still annoyed.

They began to walk together through the woods, with Dipper tacking on a sign here and there without much care or enthusiasm in the action. Unlike Mabel, who happened to hold enough energy to power the entire state of California.

Twirling around in front of him, Mabel had that look on her face that spoke volumes of what her current mood was in the moment. She was sort of an open book, and Dipper could tell that this was the kind of love-struck expression he recognized- Which was beginning to be more trouble than it’s worth nowadays.

“Ohhh Dipper, you're NEVER going to BELIEVE the MAGICAL day I’ve had!” She nearly trips on a tree root this time in her twirling but catches herself just in time. Dipper could only shake his head. Here we go…

“Let me guess. You harassed another kid to try and date you?” He inquires, to which Mabel giggles rather forcefully, chopping a home-made sweater sleeve in the air.

“Pshhh! NOPE! Well, close.” Dipper rolls his eyes this time, though the corner of his mouth tilts upwards with almost amusement as his sister continues to yammer on about her latest attraction.

“-SO BASICALLY- At the cemetery today-”

“-Wait, you were at the cemetery? When did you have time to go to the cemetery??” Mabel only waggles her long sweater sleeves in his face as an immediate response, making him splutter and stick his out his tongue. She takes before continuing without any lack of enthusiasm.

“That’s not IMPORTANT. So BASICALLY, I was walking, you know, like I DO, and then-”

“Bleat!!!” Both twins are then startled by the goat Gompers again, who had chosen that very moment to start chewing on the back of Mabel’s sweater again. After a few moments of wide-eyed staring, Mabel’s eyes softened and her rosy cheeks puffed out as she started to coo over the goat. The GOAT of all things.

“Awww… I guess this isn't the kind of thing we should be talking about with prying ears around, huh?”

“What? Why, did something happen?” A flash of alarm strikes Dipper, and he glances over at his sister uneasily- Who only guffaws at his reaction before hovering over the goat even more than before.

“Pssshh, nah nothing like that!” Covering Gompers ears, she poorly stage whispers with a faux look of sympathy. Or it could've been completely genuine, it was hard to tell sometimes. “I just don’t want Gompers to feel jealous.”

Dippers worry quickly dropped to zero, and he leveled his sister with an unamused stare.

“Of what? You breaking the world record of quickest restraining order?”

“Guh! It’s called TRUE LOVE!!! I’ll tell you later…” In that moment, a flash of cheekiness crossed the glitter obsessed 12-year olds’ face, and she dropped the signs without much care.

“Hey, last one to the shack has to be on Stan waxing duty!!!”

“What!” The boy screeched with barely restrained terror. Let it be known that Mabel has always been good at bringing out others enthusiasm. Dipper certainly was no exception to this rule, so without much of a grand flourish he too casts the signs aside and with earlier horror melting away, he grins competitively at his twin.

“Yeah right! You're on!”

With that, the race was on and as the two twins sped off along the outskirts of the forest and back towards the ramshackle cabin in the distance. Good natured laughter resonates in the air, as they hop over logs and try to trip the other up, oblivious to the futures they left behind. Perhaps in another timeline, in another world, that switch would've worked the way it should.

Perhaps in that timeline, they would've found a mysterious journal, speaking of the great wonders that reside in this fair town. A journal that would be their crutch during danger, that would save their lives on many an occasion, and risk them just the same amount.

-But that is not what happened. Maybe a few wires had been crossed wrong, or something more external, but that switch never worked and thus the old book is never revealed...

Yet somehow, this changes everything and nothing all the same.

No cheating and no hints, but the Pines always did have a knack for getting wrapped up in the paranormal. It might be a genetic thing, but whether they like it or not, they could never live a life mundane.

...It's time for the blind to lead the blind, and let it be known that a Pines has never gone down without swinging...

They'll figure it out. Probably.

***

Thus it begins… I have the next little part ready to go, but I kinda wanna see how people react to this and if folks are interested in the concept. I just think it’s kinda funny- And it gives me a chance to look over the transcripts again which is sort of like watching the show

(I can’t go on Disney cuz I’ve been logged out and don’t remember the password lol-)

[mollywog]

Complicated

They've finally made it to a place where they’re stable enough that he doesn’t need to spend every Sunday out in the woods. The girls have stopped outgrowing their clothes and with the spring, Katniss’s morning hauls bring what they need for the week. He still loves it beyond the fence, but after years in the mines, six days a week, even a favorite pastime can make a man weary. So lately he’s forgone his hunts for time on the porch rocker.

But this morning he’s back in the woods at his wife’s insistence. She’d said she was worried about Katniss in an unusually cryptic way that suggested she wanted him to judge for himself. Katniss and Ruth are both headstrong, two peas in a pod, though he knows better than to speak it to either aloud. As a result, the tough conversations come better from him.

He’s paid particular attention all morning, but can’t seem to pinpoint the source of his wife’s anxiety. Though she has only just turned eighteen, Katniss seems to have grown into a woman overnight. Or maybe this has been a long time coming and he’s missed it in the dim light of evening. If anything, she seems to be alight from within.

It isn’t until it’s time to dress their kills that he understands his wife’s concern. Katniss’s glow vanishes, replaced by a palid green hue before she loses her breakfast behind a bush.

Shit.

He crouches beside her, his water flask in hand, “let’s sit down and talk Catkin.”

“Do we have to?”

“I don’t need the particulars, just a few questions,” Where her mother would lecture and fret, he knows there’s no use in the would’ve/should've - what’s done is done. “How far along?”

“Not long, but I’m keeping it, if that’s what you’re after,” she says, clutching her midsection protectively.

He nods, “and you know who the father is?”

“Of course,” she snaps and he’s glad to see she’s still got fire despite her exhaustion.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize you had a boy. Does he know?”

“Not yet.” He lets his silence speak for itself. “It’s complicated,” she adds defensively.

“Is he free?”

“One final reaping. Same as me.”

“That’s not what I meant. Is he free?”

She scowls, “No papa, he’s not married nor bound.”

He tisks, “Then I can’t figure what could be so complicated about it. Unless you don’t think he’ll do what’s right? Or maybe you don’t want him?”

She sighs, “it’s not that either,” she rubs her eyes, “I’m gonna tell him, but if I do it now he won’t want to wait to get married and that would ruin things for him.”

“Hmm, Is he a fool?”

“What? No!”

“If you trust him, you should tell him. If he respects you, he’ll heed your concerns. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can figure it all out. If not, you'll always have a home with your mother and I.” He means it, but he feels ten years older than he had just this morning, with the thought of their present security gone.

“Thanks papa,” she says, and he smiles despite his concerns. “I’ll think on it.”

Their trip to town is made in silence as he tries to imagine the man and the circumstance but comes up blank; not even a guess.

Their first stop is the Mayor’s, then Cray’s, then the butcher’s. He stands back and watches Katniss handle the trades. It fills him with pride.

When they arrive at the bakery, she falls in step behind him, and he takes the hint to lead. He’d bet she’s looking for a buffer if the baker’s witch of a wife is around, but fortunately for them one of the sons answers today; the youngest if he recalls. “Is your father in?” he asks.

The boy straightens, “Yes sir, but I’ll be handling trades from now on. Come summer, I’ll be the new baker.” The kid’s eyes flit to his daughter then back to him, “I just got word that my loan was approved. I close on the bakery July 5.”

“Really?!” Katniss’s voice catches him off guard and he turns to find her open delight at this seemingly trivial piece of town news, before she drops her eyes to her bag. He looks back at the boy who’s still beaming at his daughter and the pieces fall into place.

‘It’s complicated’ - hadn’t that been what Ruthie’d told him all those years ago when he’d asked her to marry him? He supposes it might have been even more so if her parents had been considering selling her the business and she’s been expecting his child.

The pair regain their composure enough to complete the trade, though neither quite successful at hiding their giddiness.

“Complicated huh?” He says as they walk back towards the Seam, “let me guess, a little less complicated come July 5?”

“Maybe so.”

He hums, “just don’t wait till then to tell him.”

What If?

[waywardsou2]

Post Movie Head Canons: Wade x Logan and the girls - Part 2

I've made a part 1 that you can find here. I love found family and there is no force on earth that will stop me from creating content for it.

All of this is written with established Logan x Wade btw

I said before that I think that Wade and Logan would try and get an appartment of their own down the hall from Al (Wade's too attached at this point to leave her) For a while I think Laura would live with them. It would be two bedroom with them giving Laura full control over everything in her room. Wade earned a decent amount of money from his job in car sale, and though it's not much it's enough to slowly work their way up to filling the appartment

I know Wade said at the end of the movie that he was done from his job but I still think that him and Logan go find a job so that they can support each other and now their daughter Laura. So they probably go find some other jobs.

I think Wade goes into working at some local store. Somewhere where he can chill but ultimately still be useful and get paid. Maybe he's a custodian at a gym or even a shelf stocker at Wallmart. Something that adds to their finances but doesn't run him down like the car sales job did. Logan probably an Engineer or something, working down at the local garage. He's had a decent number of cars in his years so he's had to learn

Both of those jobs pay well enough that they can slowly buy appliances that they didn't have. Their appartment originally had a couch a dining table, microwave, oven and a dishwasher. Wade was affronted by the lack of TV and Logan was affronted by the lack of kettle for his morning coffee. So they were first on the list. Their respective rooms had a bed and a bedside table.

When they told Laura that she was getting her own room she kinda just went slient. Her "own room" had been four white walls and a metal stretcher with a raggedy old blanket. But when she saw that she had a full bed. Wooden frame, soft matress and a quilt. As well as some small beside draws she didn't know what to say. She just sat on the bed with her hands lightly tracing the small embroydered battern on the quilt.

Laura had never really met any mutants her age since the labs and after she got pruned she never saw anyone else like her afterwards. So the night she met Yukio and Ellie she became very attached very quickly and so did they they often came to visit. I'm unsure of which timeline Wade's universe is in, in accordance with the X Men timeline so I don't really know what that situation is but they more or less move in with Wade and Logan. Neither of them have families that accept them (hence why they are at Xavier's school) and they are still learning to X-Men and control their mutations but they also just want to feel normal. Wade and Logan give them a place to do that.

Ellie and Yukio share the bed with Laura and the three of them vibe throughout the day whilst Logan and Wade work

I think that Wade and Logan decided that if Laura want's to live a normal life she can, so they offer to send her to school. Give her the modern, boring life of any other human. And she decides to give it a try. Gabriella told her about things like that after they escaped. And so did her Logan. But she never got the chance.

I like to think that Logan and Laura would trade stories from their worlds with Wade. Logan would talk about Kayla and what happened to the X-Men and all the little moments and missions they had. Laura talked about the life she had with Logan before he died and she got pruned. Eventually sharing their backstories and Wade would share his. His upbrining (or lack of) and how he got to know Al.

I also think that at least once a week the Wilson-Howlett family go and have dinner with Al, they cook together and joke and eat and at the end of every night as the Howlett's walk back Wade stops to talk to Al and says "Don't die before me. You gotta outlive me you crazy bitch" and Al replies with something like "Not if I kill you first mother fucker" Which is just their way of saying 'I care about you deeply'

[yujos-artfiction]

Can I request a drabble where Kagami sacrifice himself against the Gold & Silver Brothers? With a happy ending

Anon, I just want to say I'm so sorry if you're dissatisfied with this. I kind of struggled with this one

----

It was so easy…

Kagami looked back as the Nidaime Hokage and his friends ran towards the fire country, towards Konoha, leaving him behind. But that was fine with him. This is how it should have been from the beginning.

He just hopes that they forgave him for using his Sharingan on them.

When Kagami spoke of a decoy he didn’t expect that the Hokage would volunteer to be it. He understood his reasoning, he really did. But it didn’t mean that the Uchiha would accept them. So he did the only logical thing he could think of: Casting a genjutsu without any of them knowing.

But Kagami was no fool. The Nidaime Hokage fought against Uchihas half of his life; he would notice sooner or later that he was under an illusion. Which is why he had to use his Mangekyo Sharingan. No one, not even his own clan, knew that he awakened them. And that was his advantage.

Taking a deep breath the Uchiha headed towards the valley to meet the Kinkaku squad. Letting his chakra out freely Kagami made sure that every enemy ninja could find him. He had to make sure to play the lure perfectly. For Konoha, his friends and for…

Kagami couldn't help but to lower his head as his eyes softened and the corner of his lips turned down slightly.

He had to do it for the man his heart belonged to as well. 

“Well, well, well. Seems like an Uchiha has been left behind.”

Snapping his heads up again, Kagami saw how several cloud ninja’s appeared in front of him, led by the infamous Gold and Silver Brothers. Hardening himself the Uchiha felt his chakra shift in his eyes activating his Mangekyo.

“Who says I have been left behind? Nidaime-sama doesn’t need to waste his time with you all.” Kagami taunted with a mocked grin and pulled out his tanto. “I’m more than enough to deal with you all.” 

“Hahahaha! I don’t know if you have guts or are just plain stupid!” Kinkaku laughed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Once you’re dead, the Hokage is next.”

Kagami narrowed his eyes at that. He knows that he won’t survive the battle with the odds against him that large, but it didn't mean he would let them come out of this unscratched. As white chakra started to envelop him they started to form a ribcage of giant monstrous being, he pointed with the end of the blade towards the group of enemy ninjas.

“You can certainly try,” Kagami started, swiping his gaze through them. “But you should stop your comrades from killing each other first.”

Just as these words left Kagami’s mouth several cloud ninja who caught Kagami’s gaze started to attack each other or killed themselves. The moment of surprise worked fully in his favor as many met their end quickly.

“You bastard!!!”

A powerful punch hit the body of the half formed Susanno, but the Uchiha didn’t move an inch, just let his gaze fall onto the transformed form of one of the brothers. 

“We will send you to hell!!!” the brothers roared, causing Kagami to smile. A single tear of blood fell from Kagami’s left eye as Susanno raised his arm.

“And I will take you with me.”

The battle was long and gruesome, but Kagami managed to hold his ground. Despite losing the light in one of his eyes. Even when one of the brothers manages to get past his Susanno, wounding him gravely. He didn’t stop as his body was protesting.

Eventually it had to end.

Kagami found himself on the ground coughing up all the gore gathered in his lungs. Everything was hurting, his vision red from all the blood. Yet he still tried to raise himself up.

“Look at this.” Ginkaku cackled as he pressed his foot onto Kagami’s back. “So much for taking us to hell as well.”

A groan escaped from the Uchiha as his face hit the ground, struggling to breath. He managed to turn his head to glare at the brothers, noting that their injuries were grave as his. Unfortunately they manage to stand unlike him. But it didn’t matter much for Kagami, he managed to annihilate all the other members of the squad leaving only the brothers. And with these injuries it would only be their death sentence to go after the others.

Kagami can die with peace in mind then.

“Now go t-” One of the brothers never managed to finish his sentence as a flash of light appeared, slitting his throat. The other brother didn’t have much time to react as his throat had been cut off as well.

It was suddenly easier for Kagami to breathe now that the foot went off his back. He tried to see who saved him, but his vision suddenly whirled as his whole body moved and he found himself in someone's arms.. No, it wasn’t just someone. Kagami came face to face with Tobirama.

“You fool.” Tobirama whispered, eyes full of grief. “You complete fool.”

The Uchiha just continued to stare silently, lifting weakly his arm and placing his hand on the other man’s face. He slowly caresses his face with his thumb smearing some blood on it.

“I couldn’t let you die…” The Uchiha breathed out. Tobirama just placed his own hand onto his gripping it softly.

“And I won’t let you die as well.”

Kagami couldn’t help but to smile at that knowing that Tobirama would keep his word.

[tikapaprika]

Finally.

He finally caught her.

Shikamaru didn't want to be here. If it were up to him, they wouldn't be participating at all. But he couldn't break it for Ino and Chouji, not when they looked so excited and filled with hope.

The entire situation was troublesome, he had more important business than avoiding death without break.

Throwing people into an arena to watch them kill each other, all in a desperate attempt to salvage the pitiful political skills and lack of rationality among shinobi. Yes, it was fun, how entertaining.

"Chunnin exams my ass." He whispered, not understanding the hype, the urge to win and bother with more responsibility.

But the raging stare before him definitely did.

His opponent wasn't having it.

Shikamaru glanced at his shadow, following its path, it connected to fishnet socks and a form-fitting purple dress. Her cheeks were red, hot with pure anger.

She clearly wanted to win. Shikamaru didn't understand. He didn't understand the mad eyes watching him as if he had shattered their whole reality, obliterating every possibility in life she ever had.

She wanted that win. He could see it clearly.

Everyone watching them still in their seats, they shut their previously offending mouths, now fascinated with good performance. They watched her raised hand, eagerly anticipating her next move. Shikamaru didn't care, their amusement wasn't all that interesting. He shifted his focus to her hands, his gaze gliding from the raised one to the other.

The other hand was supposed to be relaxed, non-threatening, and stuck into his grasp.

It wasn't.

It took a different form than his own.

Shocked, that's what he was as the side of her leg oozed red. Her nails dug, making it worse, scratching, digging inside what appeared to be a shallow scar.

The green, filled with anger, changed. He noticed its little secret.

Fear.

Behind it hid hardly visible fear. It yearned to win, to crush him so badly, almost childishly.

He must've had so little chakra left to allow her hand to move. Or did she have so much willpower? Was her fear purely so powerful?

"I give up." He said, yawning afterwards. But he secretly wondered why anyone would do such a thing because of a simple loss.

[localcanadiancreature62]

Fiddlestan au memory tapes quick drabble

@maya-custodios-dionach this one's for you.

"So Mcgucket,are you ready to see your memories?" "I don' know. What if ah don't like what i see?" "You have to,it's your only chance of knowing who you are" Mabel remarks as Mcgucket then nods and watches as the braces girl puts in the memory tapes. A young Mcgucket appears on the TV screen as the twins hear a familiar raspy forced cough. "Fiddlesticks,are ya sure that you wanna do this?." Young Stan asks in the background of the video as he holds onto the camera while Fiddleford glares at him. "Of course i'm sure,darlin'. Now get the darn camera rolling. Anyway. My name is Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket,and i made this new invention so that i can unsee what i just saw. Something terrible. Test 1. Subject name,Fiddleford Mcgucket." Fiddleford remarks as he closes his eyes and blasts the memory gun on himself. The scene then switches to an amazed Fiddleford as the second test comes around. "It worked!. I don't remember a thing!." Fiddleford exclaims as Stan rolls his eyes behind the camera as he does NOT want to do this although he compromised for the sake of his southern nerd. "But ya still remember me,right?." Stan asks as Fiddleford looks at him once more. "Course',Stan sweetheart. Now onto the next test." Fiddleford replied as he left the frame but then before the next tape plays,Mabel gasps in shock from discovering that Stan was actually dating Mcgucket. "GRUNKLE STAN WAS BOYFRIENDS WITH MCGUCKET?!. WHY DIDN'T HE SAY ANYTHING?!." Mabel yells as Fiddleford looks at her confused,as he too doesn't remember being with the con man. "Now i've seen everything. I can't believe it. Grunkle Stan,and the town kook?." Dipper says as he shudders in slight disgust. Fiddleford then expectantly looks at them both. "Look children,ah don' know about me datin' yer uncle either. But before ya start jumping to conclusions,let me see the rest of my memories first " Fiddleford remarks as the twins nod and play the tapes again. A more deranged Young Fiddleford appears onscreen with various crossed out eye symbols in the background. "I made a community where people can use my invention to unsee the things they saw!. The experiment is a success!." Fiddleford exclaims happily as Stan sighs in disbelief in the background. "Fidds,isn't this getting a little out of hand?. This sounds kinda nuts with the whole 'community' thing." Stan asks as he refers to his southerner's cult while worrying for his sanity. "You're nuts!. I'm finally picking up mah life again after that insufferable bastard ruined it and now you're going to get in the way too?!." Fiddleford shouts as the grifter starts to grip the camera harder,if the audible static-y sounds of him playing with the camera are anything to go by. "Jeez. Relax. I'm just worried for ya,y'know?." Stan replied as the southern man ignores his comment and the scene switches to an even more unstable Fiddleford. "I did somethin' bad. This was a mistake,i'm forgettin' my name my job and everything!." Fiddleford says as the scene quickly switches to Day 189.

"I accidentally hit someone with mah car. I feel tegible,t-terrible. Terrible. I've been forgettin' words lately. And Stanley.." Fiddleford remarks as even in his slowly slipping sanity,he holds onto the memory of the grifter whom he has already abandoned at this point. "I seen something!. Something big!." "I realized that i've been losin' mah hair,so i got this hat from a scarecrow!. Get outta here ya darned critters!." Fiddleford says as he tries to shoo various animals away from his place at the dump. Fiddleford then utters incoherent gibberish as he makes a triangle symbol with his fingers over one of his eyes as the tape ends. "Oh, McGucket, I'm so sorry." "Aw, hush. You kids helped me get my memories back, just like you said." "But did you want those memories back?" "After all these years,I finally know who I am. Maybe I messed up in the past, but now that I seen what happened, I can begin to put myself together again." "I won't be able to put MYSELF together again after hearing that you and Grunkle Stan were apparently lovers." Dipper remarks in disgust as Mcgucket and Mabel laugh. The rest of the episode goes exactly as canon,with Mcgucket saving the gang from getting their minds erased by using his own empty mind as a shield as Dipper then erased the Blind Eye Society's memories of their own cult as he and Mabel go home after happily helping the town kook.

[sorrowfulsidekick]

"Forever useful" Antag au waow

his mind is busted but it'll be okay, his boots make him feel tall

[phaticserpent]

Hello! I know you are very busy so if you don’t want to write this I don’t mind at all! :) But if you can could you please write a Ultron x reader where the reader takes the place of black widow in the scene right after Clint flys off with Visions body and the same thing kinda happens, like we wake up Ultron tells his sob story but something changes in the reader where before they felt only bad things towards Ultron but know they feel so much sympathy for him especially after he says “I don’t have anyone else” because the reader knows what that feels like. You can take it from there wherever your imagination takes you! Have an amazing day/night!❤️

Hi hi! Yeah finals have been really kicking me down, but thank you for this prompt! I've done something similar if you haven't read it

Prompt 1 , Prompt 2

With a start, you woke up, delirious; and you glanced around in confusion.

"....I wasn't sure you'd wake." A voice came. Confused, you turned to the source of the voice to see Ultron. "I hoped you would, I wanted to show you something.....I don't have anyone else."

You inched closer, your heartstrings pulled at the sadness and desperation. "W-wait.....Ultron, please." Your voice was husk and rasp, so you swallowed your spit. Ultron paused his activity, presumably walking away for a split second to pick something up. Cautiously and slowly, he headed towards you; a little wary and afraid, you inched backwards.

".....I'm not going to hurt you." Ultron assured. He had a cup in his hand and placed it a couple of inches from you. "I don't want to hold you from the bare necessities. I'm not that evil."

You reached out for the cup, eyeing him carefully before drinking the entire cup. Then setting the empty cup down, "Thank you."

".....There we go, you sound better with your voice." Ultron nodded solemnly and your face flushed. He grabbed the handle for the door and gently closed it, leaving you to stare at him as he walked away.

"......I suppose we're alike then." You sighed. "I never belonged with the Avengers....I think they pitied me more than anything."

"Ah," Ultron started. "I guess that makes the two of us. Except, they had higher expectations from me that were too much."

".....I don't know anything about what Stark does up there." You peered through the bars. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

"......I don't." Ultron sighed, pausing his activities to meet your gaze. Although his eyes were piercing, filled with hatred but also a look you know all too well. "He created me as a peacekeeping program....wanted me to bring peace to a violent world. I splurged through the internet to find everything he was responsible for."

"Oh....." You slumped against the metal bars. "I'm sorry, burdening another to fix it all....that's a selfish thing to do and ask for."

"You....understand." Ultron stared at you, his eyes searching in your confused eyes.

"....I mean....yeah. It would be the equivalent of a person raising a child just to burden them with selfish gains or just for care." You shrugged. "I think you have every reason to be upset and angry.....but I don't think the way you're doing it is.....pardon me, morally correct."

Ultron blinked at you before letting out a soft chuckle. "You have some galls to point that out, and rather directly as well."

"Thank you." You smiled. "I try, I guess. Or don't, I don't know."

".....I can never understand humans. Or....I understand them but the concept is just....." He waved his hand around, a signal you knew too well of searching for a word.

"Difficult? Complicated? Bizarre?"

"Heh, something like that."

"....I wouldn't recommend racking your brain trying to understand us or figuring humans out. We don't know either, so if we don't know, how would you? What I'm saying is, don't stress it." You smiled. "But if you want, I can help with the human side. I may not be the 'ideal' human citizen.....but I've dealt with people a lot more than the Avengers."

"How can I trust you?"

You leaned your head back, before cracking your neck. "You don't have to. I just want to help you, but if you feel like I'm not to be trusted, you can keep me locked up. I am being genuine." You smiled. "Don't keep be locked up for too long though, humans like to be outside."

Ultron barked out a laugh. "Of course. I wouldn't do that, it's rather inhumane. Plus, it is pointless to run so I see your point."

You cracked a grin. "So? What do you say?"

Ultron slowly walked over to where you were, staring down at you before unlocking the door. You smiled and held out your hand, gesturing for him to shake it. He took the hint and shook your hand.

Smiling up at him, "You probably already know, but nice to meet you. I'm (Y/N)."

[bardic-tales]

Sometimes I like to explore an enemies to lovers trope with them, but this would happen in their dreamscape.

possible trigger warnings: Abuse dynamics, Coercion, Dark romance, Dubious consent, Manipulation, Power imbalance, Psychological abuse, Sexual content

Leaning in, she licked against his neck, trembling as his fingers curled around her belt. "I hate you."

Sephiroth's eyes fluttered shut at her touch, and his grip on her tightened. "Hate," he murmured, his voice laced with pleasure. "Such a strong emotion."

His hands moved to explore her body, tracing the curves beneath her leathers. He leaned in. His lips were just a breath away from hers.

"But even your hatred, Bia, can be twisted, can't it?" His eyes opened, blazing green, and met hers. "I'm going to make you love me just as much as you hate me. Even if it breaks you."