#i feel he should have tried to look into it and figured things out

[mothofmyth]

DC x DP

The Justice League summons the ghost king.

Unfortunately, the safest way JLD can find requires a host body to contain the being.

Obviously Superman, Wonder Woman, and Flash are out - who knows what this being would do with a super-powered body. They have no idea how Captain Marvel or Green Lantern type magic would interact with the summoning, so not them either. They need Constantine and Zatanna to perform the ritual.

Basically it's down to the bats.

Batman tries to volunteer - better him than one of his kids if anything were to go wrong.

That gets vetoed. As do a lot of his offspring. The safest options (ie the least contaminated by magic, lazarus water, time shenanigans, and everything else) are Red Robin, Spoiler, and Nightwing.

Nightwing pulls rank.

After a lot of arguing, everyone at least agrees to tolerate the arrangement.

Nightwing removes every possible weapon from himself, allows himself to be tied to a chair in the middle of a summoning circle, and waits for JL Dark to complete the ritual.

It's not long before he feels a surge of cold burning through him.

He expected to be unconscious while the Ghost King took over. That's what Zatanna said had been reported the last time this ritual was performed many years ago.

They had all expected a lot of things.

Pariah Dark was supposed to be terrifying to behold - a massive, cruel, FURIOUS dictator who turned to violence at the smallest sleight.

This was... definitely not that.

Dick was present. He had no control over his body, but he could see and hear in an almost dream-like state. Foggy and indistinct, maybe a little warped, but definitely present.

He felt his heart rate and breathing pick up in panic even though he felt mostly calm (or at least no more anxious than he had been, waiting for an angry deity to possess his body and all). It was a strange sensation.

He felt the vibrations of his own voice as it left his throat, high and confused.

"Wha... Where..." It asked, warbling and afraid.

He felt his eyes blink and his limbs struggle against the bindings.

His head tilted down without his say so, and he looked at his own body as if through rippling water, warped lenses.

"I'm not..." His voice came out, still confused. Still afraid.

"Your Majesty?" Zatanna asked from beyond the limits of the circle.

His head whipped up, and he felt his neck click at the abrupt motion.

His breathing picked up again. Dick felt the ghost (pun not intended) of anxiety, like it was leaking from the other consciousness inhabiting his body.

"We mean you no harm. Our associate has agreed to lend you his body for the duration of this meeting." She continued.

Dick felt the king's anxiety again, stronger this time. Other emotions too, guilt, sorrow, anger, and a strange sort of pressing-tugging sensation.

Suddenly, Dick was back in control. He could still feel the king's consciousness, stronger now than before, but he could also move and speak freely.

"What just happened?" He mumbled, speaking to the ghost, not the audience of heroes.

"Nightwing?" Someone called from outside the circle, but he ignored them for the moment, feeling instead the consciousness inhabiting his body push back fear, guilt, and apology.

"Yeah, it's me. He's still in here, though." Dick frowned, trying to figure out how to interact with the being.

He heard a voice in the back of his mind. It sounded like him. It sounded different. It was younger than him. It was small and afraid. It was neutral and quiet and him. But it wasn't. It was speaking. It was silent. It was emotions and thoughts and nothing.

"Oooookay, this is really weird. I think we're communicating. I don't know how to talk back, but if he's in the same situation I was a minute ago he should be able to hear us just fine. Is that right?" Nightwing tried.

The 'voice' (he figured he'd call it a voice for now. He wasn't sure what else he could call it) responded in the affirmative. Like a hand outstretched, flipping up and down in a 'kinda' type of gesture. Like a nod and a hesitant smile. The feeling of victory by default.

Dick beamed.

"Okay yeah he can hear us." He announced for the benefit of their audience. "Why didn't you stay where you could speak? Wouldn't that have been easier?" He looked at his own chest, as if he could somehow find a way to see the presence inside of him.

Disgust. Guilt. Fear. An unexpected step at the bottom of a staircase. Falling off a pier into tempestuous water. A stranger pinning your hands above your head.

"Oh." Dick breathed. "Thank you, but I can handle it."

Guilt. Guilt. GUILT.

"Okay. It's alright. You can speak through me or we can manage like this." He soothed.

"Nightwing, report." Batman demanded.

"Uhh, right. I think he's trying to be courteous? To me, I mean. From what I can gather, he doesn't want to possess me or take over. He seems pretty repulsed by the idea, to be honest. I think he can see and hear and generally experience everything I'm experiencing, he's just more passenger than driver? I can feel him, and he's communicating, he just can't speak through me without taking my autonomy again, and he really doesn't want to do that." Dick explained, looking at the various states of thinly-veiled bewilderment across the faces of the heroes.

"Ask him if he's Pariah Dark, High King of the Infinite Realms, Ancient of Rage and Destructio-" Constantine begins, before Dick cuts him off

"I just said he can hear everything we're saying. Ask him yourself."

Constantine huffs. "You heard me, mate. Are you him?"

Denial. Contemplation. A battle. Single combat. A crown made of black thorns and green flames. A throne too big for he who sits in it. Victory. Desperation. Insufficiency. A question.

"I think..." Dick starts, trying to understand. "I think he's the King... but he's not Pariah Dark."

Agreement. Apology. Questioning.

"He wants to know if we're looking for Pariah Dark, or if we're looking for the High King of the Infinite Realms." He glances between Zatanna and Constantine, uncertain of the answer himself.

Constantine pales.

"Whatever is inside you defeated the ancient of Rage and Destruction in single combat, Nightwing. It's a powerful motherfucker, and a total unknown." He warns cautiously.

"Get him out of there, now. Send it back." Batman demands.

TERROR. Pleading. Unbearable suffering. Shiny metal dripping with green blood. The end of love. Unfathomable loss. Death without release. Unending torment. Begging.

"NO!" The voice tears its way out of Nightwing without his consent.

Cowering. Apology. Apology. Guilt. Apology.

Dick clears his throat. "I don't think he wants to leave."

"All the more reason to send it back." Batman growls.

"Don't." Dick protests. "I know it's a risk, and there's a chance it's manipulating me. But, something doesn't feel right about all of this."

"Ghosts are well known for their skills regarding manipulation, mind control, and emotion tampering." Zatanna cautions.

"According to those dehumanising rags maybe," Constantine scoffs.

"Every source we have-"

"Two sources, Love. Both of which have a bit of a vested interest, wouldn't you say?"

Fear. FEAR. Frustration. Heartbreak. An unheard voice in a crowded room. A layperson lecturing an expert. Mockery. A spectacle of suffering. Lies. Hurt. Fear.

"He agrees with Constantine." Dick pipes in.

Exasperation. Reluctance.

"I don't think he's too happy about it." He laughs.

"Of course he agrees with Constantine, he's giving him what he wants." Red Robin huffs.

"He's afraid." Dick's voice cuts through the argument and the heroes turn to look at him. "I don't know exactly what's happening, but he's terrified of being sent back."

Zatanna sighs. "Let's do what we came to do, and then maybe we'll talk about letting him out."

(Something goes wrong and Dick and Danny end up stuck like this for a while.

Dick moves back into Wayne Manor while they try to figure out how to remove Danny from Dick's body without hurting either of them.

Everybody starts referring to Phantom as Dick's little passenger.

Eventually they repeal the Anti-Ecto Acts and find out all of the trauma Danny's been through via talking and dream/memory bleeding between him and Dick.

When Danny does finally manage to tumble out of Dick he is promptly adopted into the Batfam (what did anyone expect, he's a traumatised young teenager with black hair and blue eyes and barely any sense of self preservation).

In the meantime, however, Dick is happily going about his daily life with his little passenger, and Danny is still very traumatised but he's also contentedly curled up in Dick's chest, thrumming with happiness whenever Dick takes care of him.

Once or twice when Dick gets into Big Danger while vigilante-ing, Phantom forcibly takes over Dick's body to save him, using his ghost powers to fight the bad guy and escape the scenario. He cries afterwards because even though he needed to save Dick's life, he knows how terrifying and violating it feels to have someone else controlling your body (thanks Circus Gothica) and never wants to put anyone else through that.)

[classyrbf]

um...ugh... um... anal with professor!nanami... teaching you some respect yk... yeah... in his office, scolding you while prepping on his fingers... yeah...

love your works please be happy🫶

PROFESSOR NANAMI #2 — NANAMI KENTO

SYNOPSIS...after unknowingly having sex with your professor before the first day of college, you find yourself avoiding him in attempts to save yourself from embarrassment, but when you fail your first quiz, he���s quick to see you after class

INFO...professor!nanami x fem!reader, anal, first time, nanami is a little mean, rough sex, degradation, clit rubbing, spanking, creampie, no p in v, overstim, panty ripping, fucking in his office, possessiveness (?), not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

read the first part here

it’s been weeks since your first interaction with professor nanami. You were surprised that he hadn’t noticed you or even called you out for being his student. Maybe he just decided to ignore it all together and move on with his life to save both of you from embarrassment. If so, thank god. There’s no way he’s gone a month without grading papers and seeing your name, let alone just seeing you in the crowd of students. It’d be a miracle.

But he does notice, he’s noticed since day one when you tried to sneakily hide your face at the end of class, rushing out the door. Was he shocked? Of course. You never said you were a college student, especially at this college. But what are the odds he’d end up being your professor? He finds it funny. Lately, he’s been finding every excuse to talk to you without making it look suspicious and thankfully for him, you failed your first quiz.

He’s calling down students to his desk to give them their papers, finally landing on yours, a big fat ‘F’ in the corner of it. “Y/n,” he calls out, waving the sheet. Your figure enters his sight, carefully walking down the lecture hall stairs. Slowly, he lifts his head, glasses hanging low on his nose. “See me after class.” He hands you the paper, an expressionless look on his face.

If the ‘F’ in the corner of your paper immediately caught your attention and you felt like you wanted to collapse right then and there. Really? You flunked your first quiz? And your professor, who you accidentally fucked, now sees how dumb you are? Life couldn’t get any more worse. “Okay,” you murmur, walking back to your seat with shaky hands while he calls another student.

An hour passes, and everyone else is gathering their things to head back to their dorms or their next class for the day. Your eyes tread on Nanami carefully, hoping if he’s distracted enough, you can sneak away. He tidies up the papers on his desk, pushing his glasses up. You attempt to blend it with the crowd, leaving, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Miss y/n,” his voice rings in your ears, making you stop in your tracks. “Please, come here.” He folds arms across his chest, leaning against the front of his desk as he intently watches you walk towards him, barely able to look him in the eye. The last student leaves, the lecture hall completely empty, nothing but silence. “Into my office,” he orders, squinting at you.

You thickly swallow, your mouth dry and your heart pounding against your chest as you follow behind him. He shuts the door behind you, the click of the lock making you even more nervous. The smell of his expensive cologne wafts past you, the same cologne he was wearing the night you two met. “You think I haven’t noticed you hiding away from me?” He steps towards you, making you step away in return. “I’ll admit, I was a little shocked to see your face in my class of students,” he chuckled, trapping you between the wall and him. “I feel like some type of pervert. Fucking one of my students in my car? I should feel horrible, devastated even.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I should’ve told you I was—” You can’t even finish your sentence, your nerves making you stumble over your words. How are you so shy around him now, but you weren’t too shy to fuck him?

“Everytime I look at you in class, all I think about is that night. You know how fucking hard it is to try and not get a hard on in the middle of class?” He grits his teeth. His grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes boring into hours. He takes your hand, allowing you to feel his semi hard cock through his slacks. “You feel that? That’s what you fucking do to me.” The warmth of your hand makes him shudder.

“It was an accident, that night was just supposed to be a one time thing,” you tried to argue, but deep down, you never wanted it to be, not with how hard he made you cum while whispering such dirty things in your ear.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, smiling. “You’ve been a bad fucking girl lately. Ignoring me, failing your quiz, what were you thinking? You need to be taught a lesson,” he huffs. His larger hand yanks you over to his desk, a smell yelp escaping your lips when pushes down, holding you there. He lightly traces his fingertips against your skin, goosebumps appearing. He pushes up your skirt, getting a good view of your ass, and the cute lace thong you’re wearing underneath. “Is this what you wear to class?” He question, pulling back the fabric and letting it snap back onto your skin.

A crack in the air breaks the silence, his hand smacking your ass, making you jolt forward. “Ah!” You whimper, your skin stinging from the contact. He wastes no time to swat his hand over your ass again, hitting the same spot. “Mmmph!” You bite down on your lower lip.

His broad chest presses against your back, his lips ghosting against your ear. “You ready to be a good girl yet?” He spanks you again, the sting making you squirm beneath him. “I’ll take that as a no.” He smack the other cheek three times back ro back, a muffled cry escaping from your lips. His eyes wander down to your pussy, noticing the wet spot on your panties. “Is that what you’re expecting? Expecting me to fuck this pretty little pussy today? You got it all wrong. Bad girls don’t get fucked in their dripping cunt.” With ease, he rips your panties off, discarding the fabric to the floor.

“I’m sorryyy,” you whine, hips wiggling in hold as he spreads your ass to get a good look at your holes. Your pussy is glistening, tempting him, reminding him of how warm and tight you are, but he shouldn’t reward you with what you want. He can’t. You gasp, feel his warm spit drip onto your asshole, a foreign feeling to you. Was he seriously going to fuck you in your ass right now? The pad of his thumb rubbed in his spit, his free hand undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. “Please, Professor Nanami,” you whimper, looking over your shoulder to see he already has his cock out.

He smears his precum against your ass, slapping the head of cock against it, growling at the sensation. He spreads your ass again, prodding his cock against your hole. He lifts one of your legs onto his desk, trying to stretch you as much as possible. You’re a whining, dripping mess. He spits once more on your puckering hole, slowly pushing himself in. “Ahhh, fuckkk,” he groans, his tip pushing inside.

“Nnnghh! Slow! Slow!” You cry out, reaching your hand back in attempts to stop him, but he just keeps stretching you open with his thick cock, letting you feel every inch without stopping. If it’s hurts so bad why does it feel so good? He’s already so deep inside you, his pelvis pressed against your ass, letting you feel his throbbing cock against your walls. “Oh my god, I can feel it,” you moan, bewildered by the fact he was actually inside you.

He pulls his hips back all the way, before fully thrusting back into you. “So fucking tight, hah…shit,” he pants, hooking his arm around yours, and holding them in place as he pounds into you. “Look at the fucking ass,” he grunts, smacking it before groping the burning flesh in his palm.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull. You never knew getting fucked in the ass would feel this good. Though, it was still torture. Your pussy was still dripping, eager for any ounce of attention. Each thrust has your mind turning into mush by the second. It’s hurts so fucking good, you’re confused whether to moan or be on the verge of tears. “Please, please, I’m sorry!” You cry out. The duality of this man was beyond you. He so easily can go from whispering praises in your ear to treating you like a complete whore.

“Shh, shh, just take my fucking cock. This is what you get when you don’t behave,” he rasps out, pulling you back on his cock, leaving you no room to run away from the intense pleasure.

“Ah! Ah! Fuckkk! I can’t, I can’t!” Tears prick the corner of your eyes, your hand balling into fists, nails digging into your palms. His cock rams into your ass, you poor pussy clenching around nothing. Your brows furrow in pleasure, completely awestruck by the pleasure. Your skin is hot to the touch, that familiar pit forming in your stomach. “Mmph, I’m…I’m gonna cum!” You whimper.

“Don’t you dare cum. You don’t deserve to fucking cum for acting the way you did. Hold it,” he barks in your ear, breath fanning against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. He’s completely unfair, his cock still fucking you so deep, making it harder for you to keep control.

You shake your head, jaw falling slack as the pleasure builds and builds, ready to spill over the edge. “Please! I’m gonna cummm!” You cry out, looking back at him, desperation written all over your face. “Ah! Ah! Please, Professor Nanami,” your eyes flicker down to his lips. “Let me cum, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he has a sliver of mercy. He smirks at your attempts, his hand reaching between your legs while you’re distracted and rubbing your swollen clit just make you break even more. His rubbing in messy circles, putting just enough pressure to make your brain fuzzy. “No, no! Oh my god, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cummmmahhh!” Before you know it, you’re spasming on his cock, body writhing beneath him, your eyes rolling back.

Nanami is completely aware you couldn’t hold back, he knows you had no other choice but to fully let go and feel the intoxicating high of your orgasm. So he keeps rubbing your sensitive clit while fucking your tight little ass, your body falling forward on his desk. Your pussy drips with your cum, creaming around nothing while you drool over his scattered papers. He hold your head down, fingers entangled in your hair watching the way his cock stretches your hole open. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He snarkily says, shaking his head at you.

Incoherent babbling is all that you muster, heavy eyes barely blinking open. You were being fucked stupid in real time. His cock was all that you could feel and think of. So sit there, taking his cock, trying to right your wrongs and be a good girl for him while he uses your ass. You notice his thrusts growing sloppier and harder, hips smacking against your ass and echoing through the room. “Shittt,” he tosses his head back, licking his lips. He halts his movements, slowly sliding his cock out. You whine at the loss of feeling, looking back at him with pleading eyes. He spreads your ass, taking a look at your gaping hole, pulsing for him. “Your ass looks so fucking good stretched from my cock, baby.” He chuckles, smirking to himself like he’s proud of his work.

You lazily smile at him, biting down on your lower lip as you watch him spit on his cock, easily sliding back into your ass. “Ohhhhh,” your eyes roll back when you feel full of him again, his bruising grip on your hips pulling you back on his cock. “Yes, yes,” you huff, whining and whimpering when he starts sloppily thrusting into you again.

He looks down at you, his glasses slipping down his nose in the process, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Be a good girl and take all my cum in your ass, baby,” he moans, his hand now squeezing the plump flesh of your ass. “Shit, I’m so fucking close,” he breathes, chest heaving up and down with every labored breath.

“Cum in me! I’ll be your good girl, Professor! Want you to fill me up so badly,” you mewl. His abs flex, hips jolting when he pushes every inch of his cock deep inside you, settling there as hot spurts of his cock fill your ass. “Ughhh yesss!” You smile, his moans and grunts making your pussy tingle. His cock throbs inside you as he slowly pulls out, some of his cum dripping out and down to your cunt. “Mmm, fuck,” you giggle.

He spanks your ass multiple times, making sure to give each cheek equal treatment. “I think you learned your lesson,” he gruffly said, pulling you up towards him and pressing a slow kiss to your lips. “That pretty ass is gonna remember the shape of my cock forever, you understand? It’s mine.” He grips your jaw, forcing you to face him. You meekly nod your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Good.” He pecks your lips again. His eyes wander down to his watch, looking at the time. “Ten minutes till my next class. I need to freshen up.”

“Um…I have no panties,” you blurt out, reminding him that he had ripped them off of you earlier. “I can’t go to my next class with your cum dripping out my ass, Professor. What would everyone else think?” You smirk, sitting on top of his desk.

“Fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, stay in here until my class is over and don’t make a sound.” He gives you a warning look, raising a brow at you. “I’ll drive you back to your apartment after.”

“Fine.” You smile, pecking his cheek.

“I have to run to the bathroom, okay? Behave,” he orders, glaring at you.

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[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request something with the Void where reader wakes up in the middle of the night and gets jumpscared when she sees Void standing right beside their bed? He just wants to cuddle with his partner

You felt like you were being watched, like something ominous was having over close by, knowing you had been awake for a while with how unconvincing your act was but was willing to play the long waiting game if it meant you cracking first; biding it’s time as if it had plenty to spare and was in no rush as your room seemed to have gotten even colder, almost frigid.

Something that did indeed end up happening as you opened your eyes only to be met by a pair of pinprick white eyes staring back at you through the darkness of your own room, his silhouette was hard to make out even when you did squint, just barely making out his figure as you were quick to realise what was going on and sigh.

‘Jesus Void, you couldn’t have just woken me up like a normal person…shadowy entity or whatever.’ You said as you tried to calm the racing of your heart as the entity only chuckled deeply at your supposed fright, finding a weird sort of entertainment as though he were a larger predatory playing with his food until he remembered that he was hungry, and the prey wasn’t so entertaining to play with anymore.

‘You were awake, little dove,’ Void began as he reached a hand out to caresses your cheek, making a noise of amusement when you seemingly enjoyed his touch and leant into it, ‘I merely just waited for the opportunity to see you open your eyes.’ He adds before pulling his hand away, forcing you into opening your eyes once more to glare at him halfheartedly, hating how he could easily take his affection away as he could give it to you, making you feel as though you were constantly making deals with a silhouetted devil but you’d rather it be the devil you knew rather then a devil you didn’t.

‘Liar you just wanted to cuddle didn’t you?’ You teased.

Void scoffs, crossing his arms as he looks elsewhere in your room, more specifically the multitude of pictures you had of your fellow teammates doing stupid shit that you didn’t want to not immortalise in picture. ‘Why should a god want such human things, cuddles are far beneath a being like me.’ He stats, trying to come across as intimidating but you weren’t buying it and most would call you insane for entertaining him, but you couldn’t help it as Void was quite frankly easy to tease and get under his skin.

‘Really? No late night cuddles with your partner even if they ask really nicely? How cruel of you.’ You pout as you pulled aside the bedcovers, patting the space next to you, looking at him through your lashes as though you were truly hurt that he would dare turn down the offer to cuddle you, yet you were fighting a smile as you saw his pinprick eyes dart back to you then to the space made available for him. You could see his shoulders slump as he begrudgingly yielded to your whims and burrows himself next to you, allowing you to cover him up before you watched with humour as the all mighty, all powerful shadowy entity made you cuddle up to him with a guiding hand behind your head to rest against his chest as his arms kept you there for the rest of the night.

‘Happy now?’ He asks as though the idea of cuddling you was your idea alone that you’ve forced him into doing, but you felt him tighten his grip on you and how he became comfortable the second he got into your bed, felt how he eagerly reached for you with the intention of hogging you all to himself. You knew he was full of shit and you knew that he knew this too himself as his hands began to rub up and down your back as though it was second nature for him.

‘Very happy.’ You replied softly as you kissed his chest, smiling to yourself as you allowed yourself to finally get back to sleep before you were rudely awoken by your somewhat clingy partner, but you weren’t going to complain especially if it meant being held with such closeness and affection that only seeped out at the deadest of night; indulging yourself in feeling him kiss the top of your head which only had you melting further into him with complete faith that Void will only continue to hold you as though you were some sacred treasure.

‘Whatever my little bird wants they get.’ Void replies as he kisses your head a second time, interlocking his legs with yours as you eagerly cling onto him tightly as though poetically being squished against him wasn’t nearly enough for you, much to his amusement as he’s never known someone so fearless yet so careless in his presence like you before; someone who held him to their chest like a teddy bear during some previous nights. Void didn’t need sleep as much as you did, so he would more then likely keep watch over you as you slept, but he was content and at ease with this ordeal as it meant that he could keep your shadows and your own void at bay while he kept hold of you possessively.

He would keep your nightmares away by becoming a much larger nightmare himself, one where you’d be protected and slept without a line of worry to grace your face, all the while he rubbed your back and utter soft words now and then to encourage a deep sleep within you. Void didn’t mind as long as his beloved got the rest they needed, even going so far as to bring your bed back down to his chest should your body wake you for no reason at all, and hush you back into slumber and continuing with his actions until he couldn’t bare to leave you alone in the land of dreams for any longer; before joining you in a light nap as he still holds you as though you were the last thing keeping him real and tangible.

‘Sleep well my little bird, you deserve it.’

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

Maybe If You're Extra Good

aka the Bunker Bunny Buck coda, inspired completely by @newtkelly's fanart that you should look at forever right here. It's a 6500 word coda (if you can call that a coda, this might just be a sequel at this point) of porn. It's just completely porn. The preview is probably the only part that isn't just porn. You can read it on AO3 here, and here's the preview:

Buck hums to himself in the bathroom of their suite and tries to figure out what the fuck his hair is doing. He’s had a few years to get used to the grown out curls, but they still do whatever the hell they want sometimes. Right now, he needs them to cooperate.

“Get your shit together,” he hisses at them in the mirror before perching the headband over them.

In the next room, he can hear Tommy closing and opening a drawer and feels a thrill go through him.

That’s his husband puttering around. They’re on their honeymoon, they’re in New Zealand, because they want to hike and bungee jump and explore. They’d waffled on different places until Tommy stuffed Buck full of homemade soup when he got the flu while they were wedding planning and turned on the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy while he tried not to die on their couch. Then Buck had started feverishly—literally, with a 103° fever—looking up the actual country it was filmed in, found out it was incredibly LGBTQ+ friendly, and that they could do a bunch of cool stuff outdoors instead of just window shop or eat. He wanted that, too, they both did, but rafting.

And now they’re here, and they’re finally over the worst of their jetlag and went out and ate at a really nice restaurant and spoke on each other’s behalf the entire day.

“I think my husband would like…”

“Can you recommend anything for my husband? He’s a fan of…”

“Oh, my husband was definitely ready for a vacation.”

Now it's time for Tommy's surprise. He snaps the cuffs on his wrists, tugs on everything a bit to make sure it’s all sitting right, does a circle in the mirror while craning his neck, and takes a few mirror selfies for posterity before leaning in to fluff his hair up again, tugging a couple curls forward so he has a whole Clark Kent thing going on.

Not that Clark Kent would ever wear something like this.

Well, he might. He’ll have to ask Tommy, he’s the comic book guy.

“Sweetheart?” Tommy calls from the other side of the door. “You okay?”

Buck sits on the edge of the tub to get the shoes on and smiles. “Yeah, baby, go sit down.”

He gets the ankle straps fastened and wobbles to his feet. He’s practiced the walking when he’s home alone, but going from sitting low to standing is still a little dicey. Once he’s caught his bearings, he walks to the door, wishing the clack of the heels wouldn’t give him away, but maybe it’s building anticipation for Tommy. All he knows is that Buck has a surprise for him.

When he opens the door, Tommy is sitting in one of the armchairs in the bedroom with one leg crossed over the other. He’d shed his jacket and tie as soon as they got back to the room, but he’s still wearing slacks and a white shirt that’s now open at the collar. In his hand is his phone, pointed at Buck, but he’s not looking at the screen. Instead, he’s staring at him. For a long moment, that’s all he does, and then the phone clatters to the ground.

“Surprise?” Buck tries, and Tommy just sort of breathes and blinks. “I thought a bunny costume would be sort of funny.”

Tommy’s eyes move slowly up to Buck’s face, and he looks concussed. “This—no. Not fun—oh. Uh.”

Buck bends slightly to tug one of the stockings back into place, letting it settle against his skin with a light snap. “So you like it?”

“Huh,” Tommy replies, but it’s more of an exhalation.

Buck finally steps out of the doorway and around the bed, and Tommy’s eyes drop to his feet. He makes another noise, and his hand forms a sort of claw for a second before relaxing back on his thigh. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his face so red.

“Tommy?” he asks, and his husband looks up at his face and visibly swallows.

“Mm?”

“You like it?” he asks coyly, running his fingers along the high cut of the bodysuit where it’s laying against his hips.

Tommy nods, making another slightly distressed noise.

[cherryblossms]

he should have known better than to think the conversation about darius was over, especially when he was the one to bring the other man up to begin with. but it still surprised him that angel immediately offered darius up to help install the camera. garam's brows lifted as held his breath, though only for a moment before he started nodding his head. "oh, is he handy like that?" lord knows garam wouldn't have been able to do it. his handiness came in through technology, but not that kind of installation. he definitely wasn't a builder but he'd be able to set up whatever accounts, connect the device to their wifi, and give access to both of their phones. "if you think he can, definitely ask him if he's willing to do this for us. last thing we need is me screwing it up. i'd likely end up breaking something or putting a bunch of little holes in the wall trying to get it in place." garam knew he couldn't stop the two of them from being friends nor would he ever ask that of angel, he'd just have to get over any sort of discomfort he had in regards to darius sooner than expected. "we should probably go with a smaller one, too. if you-know-who tries to come over ever, i don't want him acting all fake nicey-nice because an obvious, overly-jumbo camera is watching him. i'd rather he act on impulse so we'd have physical proof he's dangerous." even if that meant putting himself at risk. he let out a soft, childish giggle before repeating, "my room," as he looked down to the ground. even though he knew his staying with angel was a temporary situation, that it'd still feel like a guest room because it didn't house his own furniture nor decorations, having angel refer it as such made not only his cheeks flush but his ears and the back of his neck as well. garam pulled his phone from his pocket so he could get a head start on ordering the doorbell camera along with other things he would need, so he wouldn't have to be holed up for too long, only to be bombarded with dozens of texts and missed calls when he opened his phone up. he'd completely forgotten to take it off silent, granted he never thought it would have been a bad thing to leave it on. and, of course, they were all from the same person. the man he wished to avoid for the rest of his life; his ex. it made garam question what exactly was going on. axel was supposed to be at work, he wouldn't have had the time nor could he sneak away to try to contact him. he figured that's why axel's brother was there, to keep an eye on garam and angel and act as a makeshift spy where axel couldn't be. so where did all this free time to repeatedly reach out to garam come from? he looked down to see his hand enclosed with angel's, just that small squeeze being enough to calm the anxiety that starting creeping into his chest. when he looked back up to angel, he flashed a small smile— much more sincere than the previous. "i'd really like to go back home." he tried not to sound as worried as he was, he didn't want to give angel anything to worry himself over with, but it was hard to keep it all hidden. no amount of smiling could disguise how he truly felt and he hadn't even read any of the texts yet. garam quickly laced their fingers together, not waiting for angel to take the lead as he began tugging at the taller man. he lead them through seas of people, only looking back to angel once they'd put a comfortable distance between themselves and that store. he figured if they moved quick enough, didn't stop anywhere else throughout the mall, maybe they would lose axel's brother entirely.

“I’ve taken fewer shifts with everything going on…Can’t risk that idiot showing up at the bar.” Angel watched Garam closely, even as he spoke. He gave a soft chuckle, one corner of his mouth lifting. “We’ll leave in a second,” he said gently. “I know you were excited to come, so I don’t want you to feel like we’re rushing out. Besides, I’m kind of enjoying the people-watching. It’s like a zoo, but with worse fashion.” Angel tried his best to make light of it as he did his best to push down his panic. He reached out and tugged Garam just slightly closer by the sleeve, guiding them both toward one of the quieter wings of the mall. The scent of perfumes and coffee faded a bit, giving way to the colder, metallic smell of the floors and distant electronics. Angel didn’t need to hear Garam say it to know he was blaming himself. It wasn’t in the words—never was. It was in the way he kept offering to leave or do the dishes. Angel appreciated the kindness. “Hey,” Angel said, pausing and looking at him, tone suddenly softer. “What about this one? It's simple and it’s one that can’t be easily removed. I could have…well, Darius could install it.” He let the words settle before smirking lightly, trying to ease the weight of them with humor, “Or we could get this massive one. Make it as noticeable as possible.” That earned him a look, but Angel only grinned and walked on. His eyes flickered now and then, instinctively scanning the crowd for signs of Axel—or worse, his brother. Angel hadn’t forgotten the uneasy feeling from earlier, but for now, it seemed quiet. Safe. And still, even through the relative calm, Angel could feel that same desire pulsing through him—not desire for flesh, but for closeness. To protect. To soothe. Garam seemed anxious, and it sparked something primal in Angel, the need to curl around what was his and make sure nothing could touch him. What he needed was for Garam to feel safe, to feel seen. A soft laugh escaped him when he thought about Garam mentioning ordering online. If the man offered to leave, why was he trying to convince him to stay? “Amazon’s the real MVP sometimes,” Angel said gently, brushing his fingers briefly against Garam’s arm.“Let’s go. You can do your shopping in peace from your room, and I’ll make sure to prep everything while you do so.” And that was that. Angel didn’t need grand speeches or guilt-laced reassurances. Just the quiet, consistent way he stood between Garam and the world when it became too much. Angel took his hand and squeezed it, smiling, “Whatever you want, we will do.”

[etherealeowyn]

Making Up for Lost Time - Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader

Word Count: 1,322

When Steve called Y/n with the news that Bucky was alive and no longer consumed by the persona of the Winter Soldier, she didn't hesitate to go and meet up with him. Especially because it had been decades since she had last seen her boyfriend, and she knew he would need all the comfort in the world after the trauma he endured at the hands of Hydra.

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 (coming soon)

“I found him, Y/n, and he’s not just the Winter Soldier anymore. I could tell that Bucky is back in control,” Steve said into the phone, a pang of excitement laced within his words.

“Steve, please tell me you’re not joking,” Y/n replied, feeling her throat tighten up from the news.

“I promise, I wouldn’t ever joke with you about this. I know how much you love him,” he responded, sounding dead serious.

“Okay, well send me your location, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” the woman said, hanging up her phone and running as quickly as she could through the hotel with her car keys in hand.

The empty industrial facility where both Steve and Sam were keeping an eye on Bucky wasn’t far away, and since Y/n was speeding way faster than she probably should have, it didn’t take long to get there. She pulled her car inside, making sure there was no one following her who could threaten the reunion that would happen shortly.

“Steve? Sam?” Y/n asked, her voice slightly echoing through the empty building.

“Over here,” Steve’s voice sounded, and she immediately ran in his direction.

Y/n paused in her tracks when she saw Bucky sitting there on the ground, his metal arm clamped down by some sort of machinery to prevent him from escaping again.

Her hand immediately shot up to her mouth, a mixture of both joy and sadness washing over her. It had been decades since she had seen him in person, the last time being when he fell from the train all those years ago, and she had partially come to terms with the fact that she’d never see him again.

Especially since when she woke up from the ice with Steve decades later, she figured that even if he had managed to survive the fall, which was completely and utterly unlikely, he would’ve already died from old age.

When Steve had sworn to her that he had seen Bucky, she didn’t think he was a liar, but Y/n thought he was seeing things. I mean, how could it even be possible?

But then again, if she could have super serum and survive almost 70 years under ice, anything was possible.

“He’s okay, well physically he’s okay, mentally it’s a different story, but I figured you could help him through everything right now,” Steve spoke, placing one of his hands gently on the woman’s shoulder, snapping her from the hundreds of different thoughts that were circling in her mind.

“Okay, and thank you for saving him,” Y/n responded, smiling softly at him as she tried to fight back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

He nodded at the woman in response, and slowly her feet began to carry her towards the man.

The last thing Y/n wanted to do was startle Bucky, so she moved carefully, not wanting to appear in any way, shape, or form as a threat.

Her fingers timidly reached out towards his back, and she began to rub it very tenderly, taking note of how much more muscle he had gained since the last time she had felt him like this. It broke her heart to think about what he had gone through during the time they were apart, and though Steve explained some things to her, he didn’t tell her everything. Not because she couldn’t handle it, but because he didn’t feel as if it did any good for her to know all the details about his time as the Winter Soldier.

Gasping, Bucky jumped back, his head immediately swiveling to look at his metal arm that was being held in place. His brows furrowed in confusion as he felt the sensation of someone’s hand on him, and though Y/n knew she probably should separate herself from the man as he woke up, she didn’t. Mostly because she didn’t want Bucky to think that she feared him.

He turned his head to the side, and his blue eyes dramatically widened as he scanned every inch of the woman’s face. Blinking a couple of times slowly, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was amid some cruel dream, seeing the woman that he always yearned for but could never have.

“Y/n?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and reaching out his hand towards the woman, who didn’t shy away from his hand carefully cupping her face. “This can’t be real,” he followed up, his voice cracking as he pulled his hand away and shut his eyes tightly, trying to escape the sick joke.

“Bucky, it’s me, I swear,” Y/n replied, tears welling in her eyes, as she desperately pleaded to him, her heart breaking as she watched him fall apart. “Please just look at me, I'm real and this is all real, you’re going to be okay.”

Following her directions, his eyes opened once again, this time less wide, but with even more sadness behind them.

Y/n dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around the man as tightly as she could, borderline scared that if she were to let go, he’d be gone again. Bucky’s free arm followed suit, and he held on to her tightly, burying his head in the crook of the woman’s neck. Sobs wracked his body, and the sensation was something he hadn’t felt in a long time, because for once he was crying tears of joy.

“Shh, it’s okay, my love, it’s okay,” Y/n softly spoke, placing tender kisses on the top of his head, trying to do everything in her power to help the man calm down. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Her hand combed through his hair, tucking it behind his ear so it didn’t get stuck to the hot trail of tears that were running down his face and onto her shirt. It didn’t bother her a bit, though, because it was just a physical reminder that he was, in fact, real, and everything going on was happening.

It took about another ten minutes of consoling him before he finally lifted his head from the crook of her neck, and the pads of Y/n’s thumbs immediately began wiping the remaining tears off his face.

“I-I never thought I’d see you again,” Bucky spoke, his voice heavy and mildly raspy. “But here you are, even more beautiful than the day I lost you.”

“Oh, Bucky, I love you so much,” Y/n replied, this time letting some tears fall down her face. “I never thought I’d see you again either, when Steve told me that you were still alive, both of us have spent every single day trying to find you and bring you home.”

“I love you too, doll, more than anything in this world,” Bucky responded with a small smile on his lips, contrasting the remnants of the sadness that had recently taken over him. “Now, would you please help me get out of this thing so we could get out of here?”

“Of course,” she said, standing up and untightening the machine that had his metal arm secured.

The second he was free, Y/n helped him stand up, grabbing his arm and draping it around her shoulder so she could better support his weight as she got him to the car, where Steve and Sam were waiting.

Even though she wished that they could return to the States and heal together, Y/n knew there was still some fighting in Europe that had to be done. She didn’t have to tell Bucky this, though, because it was clear to him what he had to do, but part of him was happy to fight, not because he wanted to be a part of the violence, but because he finally was able to fight for a worthy cause. Plus, the thought of it was much more bearable knowing that Y/n would be right there by his side the entire time.

[just--mizu]

Dragonets of destiny + Peril :D

Finally figured out how I want to draw dragons and I’m satisfied, notes about each designs below

Clay - I wanted to come up with a cool hc that makes Mudwings born from blood red eggs look different, so I think splotches look nice

Tsunami - I just couldn’t make the sides of her face flat bc it looks kinda weird in my style, so seawings have these wavy shapes for the sides of their face, I also gave her scars because she’s Tsunami… of course she would have scars

Glory - Made her eyes red and green bc omggg like all of the DoD have green eyes so I wanted to switch it up, I also like drawing Rainwings with fangs bc of the whole venom thing, so I feel they should stick out. Glory has a crown made of the birds of paradise flower, I changed the colors a tad bit to match her scales

Starflight - He looks pretty much the same as he does on his wiki, just more stylized, the silver scales on his body are star shaped

Sunny - I changed her colors soooooo many times while drawing her. She is mainly Nightwing shaped, but with some Sandwing touches. I have her some light yellow scales on her body to mimic the silver scales Nightwings have

Peril - Yayyyy my favorite dragon ever <333. She looks pretty similar to how most people draw her, but I tried to make her look a bit unique and cool. She has dark markings under her eyes bc why not, and she has random yellow spots all over her to show her scales glowing or something

[unsuperingyournatural]

endure and survive

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

masterlist

The glow of the TV flickers across the living room walls, casting shadows over the half-empty popcorn bowl and the two glasses of wine resting on the coffee table. You’re curled up at one end of the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, PlayStation controller in hand. Pedro is sprawled on the other end, socked feet up, arms folded behind his head, watching you with that amused glint that means he’s enjoying this far more than he’s letting on.

This all started because of an interview.

He’d mentioned—very casually, very Pedro—that his nephews had once tried to teach him to play the game. The real Last of Us. And he couldn’t figure out the remote, not for the life of him. The interviewer laughed. So did you.

Later, you’d teased him about it. Gently. “C'mon, Joel. You mean to tell me you got outsmarted by a controller?” He’d been mock-offended, which of course only made you worse. One thing led to another. A few playful jabs, a mock-challenge, and now here you were—deep into the level he couldn’t finish, finishing it for him.

Your tongue peeks out slightly between your teeth as you creep Joel past another clicker. One wrong move and you know you're toast.

“Why is stealth so stressful?” you mutter, thumb twitching the joystick just enough to edge past the next overturned bookcase.

Pedro shifts beside you, biting back a smirk. “Because you keep crouching into walls.”

“I’m sneaking,” you hiss, eyes locked on the screen. “Do you wanna do this?”

“Nope,” he says, too fast. “You saw me try. I got Joel stuck spinning in a circle for, like, five minutes.”

You snort. “You blamed the controller. Again.”

“Because it’s a spaceship. There’s like... what? Eight buttons? You need a damn map to figure out how to crouch.”

You pause the game just long enough to throw a look at him over your shoulder. “I figured it out.”

Pedro’s eyes narrow, mock-wounded. “That’s hurtful.”

“You should be hurt. This is embarrassing. You are Joel.”

“I was Joel. That doesn’t mean I have superpowers.”

“Pretty sure even Joel could figure out L3.”

He chuckles, but there’s something proud in the way he watches you unpause the game, eyes narrowing in focus as you slip Joel around a rusted-out truck and silently take down a raider. You don’t notice it, but his gaze lingers—on the way you lean into the screen, on your concentration, the way your knuckles flex around the controller.

“You’re kinda scary when you game,” he says eventually.

“Good,” you reply. “Maybe now you’ll stop making fun of my aim.”

“I’m not making fun,” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m appreciating your journey.”

You side-eye him. “You sound like a guidance counselor.”

“I’m very supportive.”

“Liar.”

He smiles wide. “Okay, maybe a little. But you’re actually good at this.”

There’s something sincere under the teasing, and you feel it settle in low and warm.

“You wanna play now?” you offer after a beat, nudging the controller toward him.

Pedro holds up his hands like you’re offering him a grenade. “Oh no. That child deserves to live.”

You snort and turn back to the game, grinning as you lead Ellie down a new hallway.

“You know,” Pedro says after a few minutes, watching you line up a headshot with alarming precision, “I don’t know whether to be impressed or slightly terrified right now.”

You don’t look away from the screen. “Pick one. You can’t have both.”

“Oh, it’s both,” he says, eyes wide. “I’m over here wondering if I’ve ever accidentally pissed you off.”

“You have,” you say flatly, just as the clicker goes down with a satisfying crunch.

Pedro laughs, full-bodied, and tosses a pillow in your direction. It hits your shoulder and bounces harmlessly to the floor.

You glance over at him with exaggerated calm. “Really?”

“I panicked.”

“You should. I’m Joel now.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, smiling like you just made his whole night. “Okay, okay. You win.”

You smirk, unpausing the game. “I know.”

The level ends a few minutes later, and the screen fades to black for a loading screen. The room goes quiet again, filled only with the hum of the console and the soft hiss of the HVAC kicking on. You set the controller aside, stretch your arms over your head, and let yourself relax into the couch cushion.

Pedro shifts closer, legs brushing yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything—just slides an arm behind your back and lets his hand settle at your shoulder.

“That was actually fun,” you murmur.

“Even with all the bullying?” he teases, voice softer now.

“Especially with all the bullying.”

He smiles, lets his head tip back against the couch, and turns to look at you. “Thanks for playing.”

You roll your eyes. “You make it sound like we just finished tennis.”

“I’m being sincere,” he says, bumping your knee with his. “Let me be sincere.”

You nudge him back with a small grin. “Fine.”

The TV screen shifts into idle mode, the soft blue glow reflecting off both your faces. Pedro doesn’t move, and neither do you. You just lean into his side, letting the quiet wrap around the two of you like a second blanket.

And after a moment, Pedro murmurs, “Still think I could’ve pulled off a headshot?”

You stifle a laugh. “Not even a little.”

He sighs dramatically. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you whisper, and rest your head on his shoulder.

[itseasytoremember]

[[For ease of reading, and so don't annoy everyone with more excessively long posts, I've posted the entirety of the story under the cut]]

Day 2

I feel like I'm going to want to start logging these posts. If for nothing else than a log of Things I Tried that DID NOT work. We will call this day 2 because I started writing this log yesterday. Or not yesterday, but like, last today. Yestertoday. Yestoday. This is dumb. Anyways.

My plan did not go to... Plan.

Let me explain the problem first, and then I'll explain my "plan."

A few loops ago, before I knew it was a loop, I figured I would skip my morning workout in the hopes of getting to work early, because "there was a lot of traffic on First st. these last few days" I hadn't yet realized it was always the SAME traffic.

Anyways I left early and sure enough there was no traffic. I was actually at the red when I saw the guy for the first time, he seemed distracted, he kept looking at his phone and then whipping his head around, clearly he was looking for something and, by the amount of sweat on his forehead, he had been for a while. I only really noticed the guy because every other person I could see was looking at him too. The crossing guard, the kids, their parents, the people at the cafe, everyone was looking at the dude having a really bad day. He wasn't exactly being subtle is what I'm getting at.

All of a sudden he looks across the street and gets this big relieved look, seemed to find whatever it was he was looking around for, and headed toward it. It's just unfortunate that the light had changed while he looked at his phone.

No one had time to react, to even say anything. One second twe were all watching some guy act out the 5 stages of grief at 7:35 am, the next a Ford F-150 turned him into paint.

So, my plan was this; to stop that from happening.

I'll admit it's not the most thorough plan but I figure what it lacks in steps, it makes up for in adaptability.

Today, I made it there just as the man was looking up from his phone, maybe 45 seconds later than the day before, which meant I was still early enough to get out of my car, run into the road and yell "HEY STOP" but decidedly not early enough to then avoid the fucking truck myself. Oh also, the guy still got hit. He ran onto the road, I guess to try to help me, and a BMW took his legs out. The bastard. What was he going to do? Reattach my spine?

Well I'm back in bed at home so I'll take that as suspicions: confirmed re:timeloop.

I'm going to go to work now, after that I'll figure out a plan to get to the intersection earlier.

Day 3: I'm stupid

Why the fuck was I still going to work. Yesterday I TRIED to warn my boss about his paper coffee cup having a bad seam, and when he rolled his eyes and took a sip, thus spilling coffee on himself YET again, he tried to make it MY fault. He said I somehow distracted him? I went back to my office thinking one day I should find a better way to spend my life once I'm out of this loop when it hit me, and man do I feel dumb. 9-5 for the last I don't even know how many actual days. I could have been planning. I could have been doing anything other than finance. So I quit. I mean it won't matter tomorrow but I've decided to stop going in regardless.

I'm going to spend the next few days experimenting. Currently I wake up with my alarm at 6:30, which gives me one hour to put into action my plan, my first goal is to try and extend that time as much as I can.

The morning after my brush with a pickup's grill, my neck and back were achy for about an hour, which leads me to believe that my body remembers something of the last days events, even if after a while they fade. I'm going to first try staying up all night, to see if I can just start the day at midnight, and failing that, I'm going to try the exciting plan of going to bed early and drinking loads of water, because changing my phone's alarm won't do anything as it will reset every morning anyways.

I'll make sure to keep note of anything interesting over the next few loops, but I doubt I'll make much actual progress. Still, this log ensures I remember what happened, every detail, so I can change it. why? Why not spend eternity trying to save a life.

Day 7

Okay staying up doesn't work. The second I pass midnight I pass out, waking up at my usual time, just a little more tired and sluggish than usual. I run the risk of actually sleeping through my alarm and losing precious minutes. Lacey's alarm actually woke me up the first time I tried it.

Chugging water just meant I had to rush to the bathroom when I woke up, but it was still my alarm waking me.

Weirdly, going to bed early was the the thing that did the trick. I didn't have much hope in this working, but Lacey has been going to bed early for the last 20 years of our marriage and she's always up well before her alarm, so I figured it couldn't hurt to try.

Now it's not like I'm gaining hours, but yesterday I went to bed at 9:00 pm and I'm currently writing this at 6:25 am. Is going to bed 2.5 hours early worth it for 5 extra minutes in the morning? Usually I'd say no, but this isn't a usual situation. 5 extra minutes might be the difference I need.

5 minutes does, unfortunately seem to be the max I can get though, two days ago I tried going to bed at 8:30 and all I got for it was a weird look from Lacey. If anything, It took me longer to fall asleep than at 9, and so I ended up actually sleeping in a few minutes before I realized what I was doing.

The guy steps into the path of the truck at exactly 7:35am, meaning I have 1 hour and 10 minutes to stop that from happening every day. That means prep, getting there, and execution of my plan must require a maximum of 70 minutes, including the 34 minutes it take for me to drive there.

Actually I wonder if there is a better route. I'm going to try a few different paths over the next couple loops, and keep note of which one is fastest.

Okay, my alarm just went off, I'm gonna try getting there early and just tackling the guy. Maybe I'm overthinking it and it's just that simple.

Day 8: it was NOT that simple.

So I tried just running up and tackling the guy. Apparently some people don't appreciate being, in bystanders words, "chased by a guy who ran out of his car."

So, when the guy RAN AWAY FROM THE MAN TRYING TO SAVE HIS LIFE, and INTO TRAFFIC, everyone made it seem like it was somehow MY fault, and I spent the rest of the day in a holding cell. I called Lacey to bail me out, but I couldn't reach her at work and they only allowed me one phone call. I suppose I could have sped up the wait by hanging myself in my cell or something dramatic like that but that just doesn't feel right to me.

Maybe if I keep getting arrested, sure, but it wasn't actually all that bad once the processing was done. I did what I imagine you are supposed to do in jail; I thought about what landed me in that position and how to prevent it from happening again. That left me with a few things I'm going to have to consider moving forward if I want to save this guy and also continue on with my life as normal.

Which, is still a time loop, but, again, I'm fine with routine. I'm also finding that I'm perfectly content with this situation now that I've found something interesting to do with my days. "Day". That's still annoying.

Okay here's my list of Things I Considered In Jail:

- I shouldn't resort to anything that can get me arrested, injured (or killed) or otherwise caught up in unnecessary shenanigans.

- If I get caught in a lie, remember what the person said, I can try again next time round. confidence works wonders.

- I should figure out the guys name, what he does, where he is headed etc, you are more likely to look and listen, rather than RUN INTO TRAFFIC, if the guy yelling at you is not yelling but instead calling your name, smiling and waving.

- On that note, be friendly and get there early. I was over thinking my prep and under thinking my follow through. Get up and out of bed, I can speed a little as long as I don't get pulled over, and get there and PARK your car.

Okay writing this out has given me more confidence in my next attempt. I probably won't update this log until I've made some progress.

Day 13

YES! PROGRESS!

First is that the guys name is Ben. The second, and indisputably bigger discovery, is that Ben does something different every day! Different! Meaning not looping! Or not perfectly looping at least. He’s still dying every day, which I’m not crazy about, but he definitely feels like he’s connected to the loop. It’s not anything big, but I’ve noticed he will have his phone in a different pocket from one loop to another, or he will arrive from a different direction. Recently he’s started to have this look of familiarity to me, even though before this he was a complete stranger to me.

I’ve optimised my morning routine and route to the intersection as much as possible, but Ben coming from different directions every loop means I have no way of preemptively stopping him. Just that he shows up on the south east corner looking frantic, checking his phone, he sees something, and walks across the street as the light changes. Honk boom splat and the day resets.

Actually now that I write that down it feels correct to me. I have no idea why I’m looping this one day over and over, maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe this is connected, maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t actually change anything if they are, because I still have no idea what caused this, or is saving Ben will actually do anything at all.

I’m not super proud of how I got his name to be honest. I tried to get Ben’s attention with the, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” line, but he politely excused himself from the conversation right into the path of an oncoming bus.

I was about to just run and call the cycle a bust, but I noticed that, the way the guys jacket fell, I could actually see his wallet in the breast pocket.

So… I pickpocketed a dying guy. TO SAVE HIS LIFE, still didn’t feel great. At least I didn’t get caught and end up in jail again.

Ben Morriston. He has a driver’s license and a student ID. Huh, he’s in med school. Ok doctor Ben. Nice to meet you. How do I keep you alive?

Day 21

I haven't made a log in a while because I haven't really made any progress, that is, until today. made an assumption about this that was absolutely screwing me over, but I figured out what it was and I've fixed the problem;

My mistake was being overly familiar with Ben. My first attempt at calling his name out worked to stop him, but once he asked me how I knew him he immediately sussed out that I didn't actually have an answer to that. That led him to getting really freaked out, he tried to run, he ran onto the street, and a car hit him again.

I realize now that I assumed Ben would be more receptive to someone he knew, which may be true, but I also assumed I had the ability to convince him I am someone he knows, which I don't.

So going forward I'm going to keep lying to an absolute minimum, not only because I'm bad at it, but it's unnecessary. “Hi, you look lost, can I help you?” I should also try to figure out where he's actually headed...

Day 27

Ben is going to the hospital! Not currently, I'll get to that, but that is where he is headed when I encounter him.

Ben is currently very much dead. Turns out traffic is not the only thing I need to worry about.

I had managed to both stop him from wandering into traffic and figure out his desired location, but unfortunately for both of us, we had hardly made half a block when a rogue AC unit fell out a window, filling an area of space previously occupied by poor Ben's head.

The loop before the AC unit, it was a tire that had rolled out of a mechanics shop that took him out. Before that, a falling hammer from a construction site.

The guy has fallen into the sewer because of improperly placed manhole covers, he's tripped on a rolling skateboard and broken his neck, he's been pushed into a pane of glass, and had a pane of glass fall on him. If we are both stuck in a loop he has the much worse deal. I've seen so much blood and death at this point I'm not even reacting anymore. But if I get it right even one time and he lives maybe it'll all be worth it.

Tomorrow I'm going to start wearing an ID badge I got from a conference years ago. The badge is expired but that doesn't matter, what matters is it's on a lanyard from St Joseph's hospital. The same hospital Ben is headed to.

What benefit? No one questions someone 1. With what looks like a hospital ID badge and 2. Calling them by their full legal name.

I'm not fucking around with this any more. Ben is getting in my car and I'll drive him myself to the hospital.

Day 29

Yesterday I got Ben to the hospital. He listened to me, got into the car, and I drove him there without a hitch.

He thanked me repeatedly and ran inside, and I followed him in just to make sure the whole building didn't explode or something.

Turns out Ben needed to get to the hospital because his wife was in labor. He made it just in time. Him, his wife, the baby, everyone was safe and sound.

I was in the waiting room, i didn't want to be in anyone's way but it didn't feel right leaving, so I was just sitting there when Ben ran into the hallway to get me.

Ben thanked me again, he hugged me and told me he was so happy I could be there with him. He looked at me and it was like I had known him his entire life. I told him truthfully that I was so happy I could help get where he was going, and that he should go be with his family. He insisted that he was, and asked if I wanted to meet his son.

It was an odd but beautiful moment, and I'm happy I was allowed to experience it. Afterwards, I went home to Lacey, and we went to bed.

The loop didn't end. I woke up with my alarm to find that everything was back as it was yesterday. That's fine with me. I'm going to go pick Ben up now, and I think after that I'll surprise Lacey with lunch at work. You, the thing they don't tell you about being stuck in a time loop is it's really not all that bad.

---

A newspaper obituary:

Joseph Duncan Morriston, Toronto, age 89, died peacefully at St Joseph's hospital, surrounded by his family and friends. Joe was always a kind soul who, after witnessing a catastrophic car accident, left a lucrative career on finance to become an EMT, where he saved countless lives and developed several procedures himself that are now considered best practices in care and ambulance driving.

Joe is survived by his son, Dr. Ben Morriston, and his grandson, Duncan Morrison, who was delivered at St Josephs just two days before Joe's passing.

Joe will interred at St James cemetery beside his wife, Lacey Morriston (1935-2023).

A public celebration of life will be held at the Etobicoke community centre, with anyone whose life was touched by Joe being welcome to come and share a story with the family.

Joe's family has kindly requested that, in lieu of flowers, those inclined may donate to the Alzheimer's Association of Canada.

---

UPDATE FOR OBITUARY POSTED YESTERDAY JOSEPH MORRISTON:

DUE TO AN OUTPOURING OF FEEDBACK BY THOSE JOE HAS HELPED, THE CELEBRATION OF LIFE HAS BEEN MOVED TO THE HARBORFRONT CENTRE, WHICH HAS BEEN KINDLY DONATED BY THE CITY, TO ACCOMMODATE THE LARGER CROWD EXPECTED.

The Thing They Don't Tell You About Being Stuck in a Time Loop

The first time round the time loop was honestly fine. Same with the second and the third. Honestly I didn't even realize i was in a time loop until day 7 or 8, and that was because the statistical chances of my boss spilling his coffee on himself, while in and of itself is not low, became exceedingly strained as the days went on.

But if it weren't for that, I probably would have never realised I was looping. Mock me all you like, I enjoy routine, I thrive with it, and so, yes, it may have taken me a little longer to realize my day was looping, but I would also argue that I am much less likely to succumb to some sort of mental break due to this situation. To some, I could imagine being stuck in a loop of one day would get boring, or even horrifying, I am not one of those people. Not only that, I was lucky enough to be stuck in a loop of a day in mid May, with decent weather, in my home city, with the woman I love. If it weren't for the fact that it's a work day, It would be perfect.

That and the man who keeps getting hit by cars.

The first time it happened I didn't notice. I feel terrible saying that but the first few days I was still going through things as though it was a normal day, and normally I take about 60 minutes from wakeup to leaving the house for work, which meant that by the time I would make it to the intersection where it happened, the car had been moved to the side of the road, and all I dealt with was a bit of traffic.

It wasn't until I started testing the parameters of the loop, breaking my routine, that I figured out what even caused the accident, but more on that later. For now, I have a plan to try and save this guy. I don't know why, but I feel like that's important. That he's important.

And I mean, what do I have to lose? Some time?

[galaxyofmyown]

THUNDERBOLTS

john walker / bob reynolds one-shot

is my body mine or yours?

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 5244

SUMMARY:

“Please, John. I just want you to feel good,” he says, and John shudders, “let me call someone to help you.”

“Bobby,” John says, and Bob meets his eyes. John looks so strained, absolutely wrecked with need, and Bob is scared to try and interpret the look in his eyes.

---

When John gets a laced letter in the mail, it's Bobby to the rescue!

OR: Not the anthrax sex pollen!

Read below!

“Mail call,” Bucky calls, dropping a pile of envelopes on the table where they land with a slap, “More kind words from our lovely supporters.”

The team winces. Bucky’s voice is flat, and Bob shares a tired look with Walker, who bumps their knees together, producing a tiny electric shock that makes him shiver. John looks good today, better than usual (didn't know that was possible), like he ran out of time to do his hair.

“Why does he keep doing this to us?” He asks, leaning in close. Bob smiles through his blush, reveling in his nearness.

“Maybe he’s the one writing everything,” Bob whispers back, and John snorts, hiding his laugh in Bob’s wavy hair.

Eventually, morbid curiosity takes over, and he and the others start to rifle through the envelopes.

“This one’s for you, Bobby," Ava says, sliding over a pink envelope with heart stickers all over. “Whatever could it be about?” She winks, and he flushes.

“Do I need to have a talk with Bucky?” John murmurs, voice teasing, and Bob kicks him under the table.

“How come he’s the only one that gets good mail?” Yelena grumbles, rolling her eyes at one of her letters and tearing it in half.

“I think even downstairs mail guys hate us,” Alexei says, “Throw out nice letters!”

Walker is fiddling with the corner of his envelope, brows furrowed, and Bob can see the conflicting ideas dancing around his brain. He hopes he’s successful in beaming his thoughts into John’s mind – don’t open it, don’t open it, don’t open it.

“Open it, open it, open it!” Yelena chants, and Bob slumps down in his chair.

Perhaps not, because John is opening his envelope. Bob signs, ready to toss his unread love letter into the recycling. Does he have to remove the stamp first? Is stamp adhesive recyclable?

There’s a small snapping sound, and then a “what the fuck?”

Bob looks up right as a cascading mist of shimmering gold bursts from the envelope and falls over John’s face. John coughs, waving his hands around to clear the air, but the dust is nearly gone before he can even raise his arms.

“What was that?” Bucky says, out of his seat and prepared to fight air. Alexei backs up in his rolling chair, pointing an accusing finger at John.

“Curse! Curse!” he yells, “I am feeling like it’s curse! Yelena, come!”

Yelena does not come. Alexei gets up, lingering awkwardly in the doorway like he’s debating whether to drag her out. Bob kinda hopes he tries.

“That might be dangerous, we need to–” Yelena tries to say.

“No.”

“Walker, let me–”

“No. Whatever it is, no,” John says, voice cutting, and now Bob’s truly starting to panic because John really should get help, and what if it’s some kind of, like, evil anthrax glitter? Stranger things happening, and all that.

“John,” He pleads, and John’s eyes snap to his.

“I have to go,” John says, and stands, quickly slipping behind the back of his chair. His face is flushed red. Does he have a fever?

“We really should figure out what that shit is,” Bucky says, “these people can be fucking crazy.”

“Isn’t our mail supposed to be checked over? Someone needs to be fired,” Ava interjects.

“Fuck, no, Ava, don’t fucking tell anyone, Jesus, please,” John says, voice still harsh but trembling in a way it hadn’t been a moment ago.

He laughs, but it’s bitter and twisted.

“I know what it is. I’ll be fine. I just– I need to go.”

He all but runs out the door. Bob is scrambling after him as fast as he can, but John’s got a head start, and the last inches of the elevator door are sliding shut when he gets there. Bob can hear his heavy steps pacing back and forth through the metal as it starts to descend.

“What does he mean, he knows what it is?” Ava says from behind. 

“I don’t know, but I know that he’s being stupid,” Bucky says, “he’s too strong to be out there with some unknown something running through his system.”

“I’ll follow him, check on him at home,” Bob volunteers, unable to sit still and wait around while someone else does it.

“I go with, protect from curse,” Alexei says like he’s making a great sacrifice. It’s sweet, in a stupid way.

“No,” Bob says, “he was clearly uncomfortable, I think I should go alone.”

“No,” Ava, Bucky, and Yelena say in unison.

“Absolutely not. Bob, no offense, but you’re just the pretty boy of this whole operation,” Ava says, “We can’t risk your perfect face getting punched in.”

Bob preens.

“That’s… not offensive at all. Thank you, Ava.” Bob says, voice earnest, and Ava scrunches her nose.

“No, it was. It was," she insists, affronted, “it was rude, it was…” she reaches for the right word, “reductive!”

Bucky interrupts with “we’ll all go,” his eyes brightening a bit. “Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe I’ll get to shoot him.”

Bob scrambles over to the elevator, blocking it with his body despite knowing any of them could plow through without a second thought.

“Okay,” Bob pleads, “how about this? We can get to his place in, like, ten minutes. You all wait outside. If I don’t text one of you in fifteen, you can come get me. And no shooting.”

Bucky pouts, but they all agree.

After confirming that his fallout with Olivia was permanent, John had moved into a tiny studio a few blocks over from HQ, though he waxes on about moving into a two-bedroom that he can eventually use for his son’s overnight visits. Bob’s been over to his place a few times, even helped him move in, but he’s never been alone.

“You have five minutes, Robert,” Ava says as they linger at the building’s entrance.

“Then we shoot!”

“Alexei, no.”

Bob bounds up three flights of stairs to John’s floor, bolting down the hall until he reaches 315. He knocks politely once. He knocks rudely twice. Nothing. He tries the knob, and is surprised to see it’s unlocked. Memories of Walker immediately losing his security deposit by drilling and attaching three extra locks to his door float through Bob’s mind. Something’s very wrong.

“Walker, I’m coming in,” he says. “Please don’t kill me, okay?”

He doesn’t hear any response at first. John isn’t in the bedroom, kitchen, or living room – trust him, he looked everywhere. It took him three entire seconds.

“John,” He says, seriously freaking out. Bob pounds on the bathroom door, praying that’s where he’s ended up. When he tries the lock and is unsuccessful, he presses his ear against the door and swears he hears soft, pained cries.

Without thinking, he kicks the door clean open, loosening the hinges as it hits the wall with a crack. This time, he definitely hears a whimper.

“John? Walker!” Bob yelps as he takes in the sight before him. John is fully clothed in his empty bathtub, red down to his collar, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead and sliding down the exposed column of his neck.

John mumbles something Bob thinks is supposed to be “that’s me” but sounds more like “thashed smee”.

He looks wrecked, eyes hooded and filled with unshed tears. Most surprising, though, is the wet spot on the front of his pants, the stain turning dark grey to pitch black. John’s cock is so pronounced that Bob swears to god he sees it twitch through his cum-soaked pants.

Bob is frozen in shock for a moment, eyes trailing over John’s writhing body, sweaty blond hair plastered to his forehead and curling around his ears. He shakes himself a bit, willing his cock to behave. John cries out again, a sound Bob recognizes as pained, and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with rage.

“John?” He asks, dropping down next to the tub, his knees hitting painfully against the tile, “John, what did that letter say?” He tries to keep his voice gentle, but it’s difficult. 

John shakes his head, trying to scoot himself into the corner, a few stray tears rolling down his cheeks. Bob raises his hands in a placating gesture, scared he’s made John more uncomfortable than he already was.

“Am I– do you need me to leave?” He asks, and John nods vigorously but can’t seem to manage any words. Bob has never seen him look smaller or more afraid, and he want to track down whoever wrote that letter and rip out their throat. 

“Okay,” Bob says, reluctant to leave John alone (though he’s already decided he’ll wait out front until he’s sure John is safe), but he goes to stand up anyway. Then John whines, loud and desperate, reaching out to grab at Bob’s calf, hand scrambling at his denim. Talk about mixed signals.

“Do you… want me to leave?” Bob asks, quieter. John squeezes his eyes shut with a whine, thrusting his hips minutely against thin air, nails digging into Bob’s calf muscle. Bob is half-hard by now, and he adjusts his baggy button-down as best he can.

“Are you in pain?” His heart aches when John nods, head cast down in shame. John opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled moan.

“Is it your– do you need to touch yourself?” Bob asks as gently as he can, scared to reach out but desperate to do so anyway. He puts a hand on his forehead and finds he’s burning hot. John jerks his hips and moans, the sound echoing filthily in the quiet room.

“Stop–!” John spits out and pulls himself away from Bob’s touch; Bob draws back immediately, but he looks down and sees that John’s erection is twitching again, the wet spot growing the slightest bit.

“Okay,” Bob says, mostly to himself, “Okay, we’ll figure this out, just give me, like, 10 seconds.” 

He pulls out his phone and texts Lena, his most recent contact.

all good safe update soon

Then he tosses it to the side carelessly, trying to catch John’s eyes.

“Johnny?” He asks, tentatively brushing a hand through his damp hair. John squirms into the touch, and Bob notices he’s sitting on his hands.

“Johnny, it’s okay. It’s just me. You can, if you need to. You should,” he continues, and John’s face crumbles.

“It won’t work,” he cries, a frustrated tear slipping down his face, “I tried, I tried, it doesn’t work,” he reaches down to palm himself anyway, coaxing aggravated little moans from his own lips.

“What did the note say, John?” Bob asks, voice as firm and steady as he can manage. He can’t stand this, watching John suffer. Whoever did this had no goddamn right, no right to John’s body. Nobody did. 

John gestures to the countertop, where the folded note lies by the sink. Bob gets up to grab it, unfolding it with shaking hands.

You are a coward and a criminal. You were an affront to the shield from the start, and you’re no hero. So much innocent blood on your hands, and look at how you’re praised for it.

Get fucked, asshole, if you can even manage to find a willing hole, or you’ll be in for a long night. 

Bob makes a frustrated noise, anger propelling him to rip the note in half again and again and again, pieces scattering to the ground.

“What the fuck, Walker, why didn’t you say something?” He asks, and John looks at him like he’s clueless.

“I can deal,” He says, but he says it through gritted teeth, so Bob calls bullshit.

“John, no. We have no idea what this is going to be like in a few hours, and no idea how long it will last. I can’t let you do this,” he says, trying to sound even the slightest bit sure of himself, “There has to be someone I can call.”

John, once again beyond words, makes a distressed sound.

“Please, John. I just want you to feel good,” he says, and John shudders, “let me call someone to help you.”

“Bobby,” John says, and Bob meets his eyes. John looks so strained, absolutely wrecked with need, and Bob is scared to interpret the look in his eyes.

“Yeah?” Bob says, heart thrumming in his throat. 

“I want it to be you,” John whimpers, and Bob doesn’t fucking know what to do. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this horny in his life, but he’s also fucking scared. Most of all, he refuses to do something John will regret. Because he loves John, and he’s long since decided that he’ll protect him as best as he can, despite all the strength John has and Bob lacks.

And truthfully, Bob thinks it would kill him to have John once and then never again. Especially like this.

“John,” is all he manages, anxious to say something but clueless as to what. John reaches out with a desperate hand.

“Please, please, please," John babbles like a dam has been opened, “nobody else, I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else–”

Bob doesn’t want it to be anybody else, either, but he cannot be the best option. God, is John even into men, or is this just the influence of that magic fucking fairy dust? Is it just his body that John is after?

“I can’t,” he says, and it can’t possibly be the hardest thing he’s ever done, but it sure feels like it. John is still crying, his face scrunched up as he digs the heel of his palm harshly into his crotch.

“Please, Bobby, I want you so badly,” John moans, “fuck, no, I’m sorry, you have to leave, I’m sorry, I’m trying to stop–”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bob says, crouching back down to his level, “it’s not– I'm not, like, grossed out by you. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

John’s shoulders relax slightly, but he still looks miserable.

“You would just regret it, Johnny,” Bob explains, determined to make him understand, “I can’t do that to you.”

“Not to me, Bobby, not to me, with me,” John corrects, “want you, always want you.”

And, huh.

That can’t be right.

“You’re just saying that,” Bob mutters, trying not to be hurt over the false admission.

“No,” John grits out, grabbing at a piece of fabric that Bob hadn’t noticed draped half across his chest. Bob helps him pull it out from where it’s slid down, and that’s when he realizes.

When Bob helped John move in, he soaked his shirt with sweat, lugging boxes up and down the stairs. He had been complaining about how disgusting he felt and how unfair it was to be helping a literal super soldier move his shit when a clean t-shirt smacked him in the face with surprising force. 

It was well-worn, from John’s University of Georgia days, and hung loosely around his thighs. Bob still has it today, and wears it to bed more often than not, though he’d never admit it.

This shirt, though. This is the shirt Bob had been wearing. Bob’s mouth goes dry, and he takes a moment to recontextualize every interaction they’ve ever had.

John smirks, just barely, like he knows he’s got him. Then, he takes the shirt in his hand and brings it down to his crotch, grinding up against the bunched fabric. Bob’s cock jumps in his jeans, and he releases a punched-out breath.

“Walker, are you–”

John whines, “god, Bob, just take the fucking hint,” and that’s enough. Bob takes a second to process that this is real, this is happening. 

“Okay, alright,” Bob croons, “I’ve got you, angel, I’ve got you,” Bob says, holding out a hand, “we’ve got to get you in a bed.”

John whimpers when he takes Bob’s hand. Bob pulls, and it’s a struggle to get him to his feet. Then, once John is up, he immediately starts trying to rock his hips up against Bob’s side.

“Wait, baby,” Bob whispers, leading him out of the bathroom and over to the bed, “let me do this right, as much as I can.”

John pouts a little, but he nods. They stand facing each other at the foot of the bed; John’s spine is slightly curved, and he’s panting a little, reaching to grab Bob’s hands.

“It helps,” he says, “when we’re touching. When you aren’t, I can’t fucking talk, can’t think. It helps, but it’s still not enough.”

Bob grabs John’s hips, steadying him, and tucks his body against the taller man, straightening his posture and pulling their hips flush together.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m going to take care of you.”

John smiles in pure relief, and then Bob is swallowing John’s moan in a fierce kiss, their first kiss, dragging his teeth over John’s blood-red bottom lip.

John kisses back with sloppy fervor, dragging his lips wherever he can and letting Bob lick into his warm mouth. John is back to grinding against him, the pressure too good, too fast. Bob pushes him gently to the bed, and John drops obediently, falling back against the sheets.

“Use me,” John begs, “you can fuck me hard, Bob, I don’t need much prepping.”

That is a lot for a guy like Bob to process right now.

“I want to see you,” Bob says, and they work in tandem to get Walker’s gear off, tugging and yanking until they’re down to his pants. Bob positions himself over John, kissing him again, softer this time.

“I’ll make you feel good, John, I promise,” he murmurs against his lips. John lets out a little groan. Bob kisses down his flushed chest, mouth ghosting over his defined torso and biting at hip bones before soothing the skin with his tongue. John makes the most beautiful little sounds, writhing and mewling above Bob’s head.

Bob can’t fucking wait anymore, his mouth dropping to lick and suck at the wet spot on Walker’s pants. John gasps, grasping at Bob’s hair for purchase.

“Jesus f-fuck,” John stutters out, “Fuck, Bob.”

Bob’s breath hitches, and he scrambles to unbutton John’s pants, dragging his pants and underwear down to his knees without preamble.

“Sorry,” Bob says, blushing harder than he already was, “sorry, I should have asked.”

Even still, he can’t drag his eyes away from Walker’s cock, long and thick and dripping, precome wetting the head and sliding down his length.

“Don’t apologize,” John says, and he’s just looking at Bob, “I want this, all of this.”

“But not like–”

John pulls Bob up and kisses him hard.

“Yes, like this,” He says, serious yet pleading, “this is perfect, because you’re perfect.” Another kiss, then another.

Bob drops back down because he needs to taste John right fucking now. He flicks his tongue up, just once, and John fucking loses it.

He wails, seizing against the mattress as he cums, spend landing all over his chest. Bob’s on him in a second, licking over his chest and nipples, lapping up as much of Walker as he can, salty warmth clinging to his tongue. John moans wantonly, and Bob can feel that he’s still rock-hard beneath him.

"Holy shit, John," Bob says, wiping his mouth with a satifisied smile, "is that the serum, or the letter?"

John wriggles underneath him. "I think it's you," he murmurs, and Bob's breath hitches despite the obvious lie.

Bob brings a hand up to caress his face, but John pulls two of Bob’s fingers into his mouth with a moan instead, sucking on them for a moment before Bob slides them back out with a satisfied sigh.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and John shudders, a pleased sound escaping him, “so open for me."

They kiss again, John whimpering at the taste of himself on Bob’s tongue.

Bob, already addicted, turns his attention back to John’s cock, kitten–licking up his shaft and taking his head in his mouth. He works to take as much of John as he can, moaning around him when the head of his dick hits the back of Bob’s throat with a filthy gurgle.

After a minute, Bob pulls off and pushes at his partner’s calves, spreading John's legs far enough apart to slot himself between.

Bob takes in the sight, John on full display, just for him to see.

“You look like a fucking slut,” Bob says, wide-eyed and earnest, before cringing, “sorry–”, but John is nodding, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Yeah, Bobby,” he moans as Bob runs his fingers over the soft skin near his hole, which flutters prettily, “your fucking slut, all yours.”

Bob rocks his hips against the mattress, “don’t move,” he says firmly, “but where’s your lube?”

“Uh, I think the second drawer,” John says, looking absolutely out of it with lust. Bob doesn’t think he’s ever moved faster, digging though John’s nightstand and finding lube and a– Jesus Christ, a fucking dildo, he’ll be thinking about that later, but no condoms.

“Bobby, hurry,” John cries, already feeling the withdrawal.

Bob leaps back onto the bed with a goofy grin, squirting some of the lube onto his fingers, letting it warm before brushing his thumb against John’s hole. John must not have been expecting it, because he has to grab at the sheets to keep his squirming in check. 

“Fuck, Bobby, please put your fingers in me,” John begs, and who is Bob to deny a man in crisis?

He starts with two fingers because he can tell John needs it soon, but he goes slow, making sure John stays as comfortable as his moans indicate he is.

“Just do it,” John grunts, trying to thrust up to meet Bob’s fingers.

“Okay, okay,” Bob teases, pushing in with a wet sound, reveling in John’s ministrations.

He works his fingers in and out a few times, fingers scissoring gently before pulling back out, trying to work him apart as quickly as possible.

“Fuck, go to three,” John says, “I swear I’m ready.”

Bob complies with a soft smile, inserting three fingers and dropping down to mouth at the base of John’s cock as he coaxes his hole open. He hears it when he finds John’s prostate, the high-pitched sound from above encouraging him to tease the spot over and over.

“So tight, Johnny, fuck,” Bob manages, so out of his mind horny that he’s practically humping the mattress, “you are so gorgeous, all spread out and desperate for me. Are you ready for my cock, baby?”

“Fuck yes,” John says without hesitation, “Bobby I’m so ready, I’m ready, let me see your pretty cock.”

As Bob stands to take off his jeans, he says, “I saw you don’t, uh, have any condoms.”

“Haven't needed any, lately,” John says, resting his legs, “too busy fucking my fist. Thinking about you.”

Bob chokes on air. 

“Oh. Cool. Um, well, I’m clean, if you can believe it. Especially after that guy in–”

John makes a dark sound in the back of his throat, “shut the fuck up, and fuck me raw.”

Bob swallows and pulls down his pants. His cock is shorter than Walker’s, but he’s drooling over Bob like he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” John whispers as he sits to help Bob unbutton his shirt.

“You’re a wizard,” Bob whispers gleefully, and John furrows his brow but then Bob’s naked and kissing him and all John can hear is the sound of their breathing and the wet slick of Bob lubing up his cock.

When Bob presses his tip in, John cums again, squirming wildly with his jaw clenched. He cries out Bob’s name, and Bob closes his eyes and begs his dick not to fail him now; when he opens them, cum is still leaking out of John’s cock.

“Mhm, fuck me, Bobby, please,” John cries.

“Look at you,” Bob says, amazed, “and you aren’t even done yet. You have no idea how pretty you are, John, you’re such a pretty boy,” he blushes even as he says the words, even as he pushes back into John.

“Yes, fuck,” John moans as Bob eases his way in, pinning John’s legs back and biting his lip in concentration.

“You’re doing alright, right?” Bob asks, and John squeezes around his cock.

“Yes, Bobby, go faster,” he replies, “you feel so good, your cock is so perfect.”

“You’re perfect, John, and I’m the one that gets to take care of you,” Bob says, speeding up his thrusts and leaning between John’s bent legs to kiss him, swallowing his sweet moans. “Is it okay if I say that I’m close?”

John huffs out a laugh, “Bob, I’ve cum twice already. I think your timing is perfect.”

Bob's giggle turns into a moan as his thrusts grow sloppy, “fuck, Walker, you feel so good, I’m so close.”

“Cum inside me,” John babbles, eliciting a stuttering thrust from Bob, “Fill me up, baby, I’m yours, if you make me yours.”

“I will, I’m– fuck. Fuck .”

John scratches harshly at Bob’s back with one hand and pulls at his hair with the other, but Bob can feel him holding back his strength for Bob, keeping it just painful enough. Bob leans up to kiss him again.

“Holy fucking shit yes, right there, I fucking love you–” John sobs, clamping down on his cock, and Bob cums so hard that his vision fades, trembling at the sensation of filling John with his release. He’s shaking so hard that he has to drop his head down and bite John’s shoulder to steady himself.

And that’s what does John in. He cries out Bob’s name when he cums, squirming as Bob murmurs encouragements in his ear. His hands scramble to pull Bob into a kiss; Bob feels John soften under him, finally able to fully relax, and he smiles.

“Do you feel better?” Bob asks, pulling out softly, the sound nearly enough to get him hard again. John smiles back, lazy and content, then stiffens a bit.

“Yeah, um, are you leaving?” He asks, and Bob hears the soft tremble in his words. 

“That depends,” Bob starts, and John flinches a bit, but he continues, “John, you said you love me.”

John clears his throat, but his voice still sounds rough when he says, “Yeah.”

He almost stops himself from finishing his thought. Bob knows he should remain ignorant and stay with John tonight, even if it’s all he’ll ever get. But he can’t.

“I assume, uh, it was just the, uh, sex-anthrax, making you say that.”

John looks at him for seven seconds (Bob counts), then says,

“Look,”

Bob prays for the first time since he was twelve.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool– Bob, it was the exact opposite of cool, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Bob curses god for the first time since, like, an hour ago. John’s shaking, eyes flitting anywhere else. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“It was terrible timing, but I meant it. I know it’s probably weird to hear, and I wish it hadn’t happened this way, but I love you,” a pause, “In a homo way, to clarify.”

Oh no, Bob’s going to hell!

Worth it, though, for this moment. John’s so brave, in a way Bob will never be. Would Bob have ever admitted it on his own accord, without John saying it first? Or would he have doomed himself to watch John get over him, date other people, get remarried, have more children?

He’s glad he doesn’t have to find out.

“John" Bob says, reverent, and kisses John softly on the forehead. "First, never say homo again.”  John has the decency to look chagrined.

"Second," he takes a deep breath, "I’m in love with you, Johnny. I love you a lot .”

John's eyes widen, then narrow, turning to look at Bob, his expression guarded and cautious. “Bullshit.”

“What do you mean?” Bob cries, affronted, and sits up with a start, draping a sheet over himself. John joins him, knocking their shoulders together.

“Bob, come on. I’ve been flirting with you for weeks. So many weeks that I should’ve said months, ” John says, voice fond, “Where have you been?”

“Oh,” Bob says, breathless, “I’ve been right here.”

_____________

After Bob has taken his time showing John how much he loves him (with his tongue) and John has returned the favor by absolutely devouring Bob’s dick, they amble over to the bathroom to clean up.

Before they shower, Bob retrieves his phone and is surprised to see about 17 missed phone calls from various sources. He calls Yelena back, if only because she’s the one least likely to kill him. 

“Bob?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, okay, he’s fine, guys,” she says away from the speaker, “We have been so bored. You cursed?”

Bob smiles and says “no curse,” and she relays that information as well. It's followed by a sarcastic cheer from the team and an “I’m going home” from Bucky.

“Why is this my fault? I texted!” Bob argues.

“What, so you think we just abandoned you, watch Housewives? No. We said we would give you 30 more minutes. Then watch Housewives.”

“You’re all saints, truly.”

“You promise it’s all okay?” She asks, but Bob is sure she’s already walking down the street.

“Yeah, promise,” Bob says, “Honestly, we should send that guy a gift basket. Except that’s a joke, because we actually should probably arrest him. But also, I think I destroyed the evidence. Point is–”

John snatches the phone from Bob, spits “Fuck off, commie”, and hangs up.

“Come on, baby," he says, wrapping Bob up in his arms, “we gotta shower.”

“If you insist, but first,” Bob bends to pick up the pieces of the letter, then tosses them into the trash, “you know that what they wrote about you isn’t true, right?” 

The bathroom is quiet for a long moment.

"John?" He asks again.

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what’s true,” John answers, and Bob takes his hands.

“I do. You know I get these, like, fluff pieces for letters, love confessions from total strangers. But do you know why?”

“Because you’re gorgeous?”

“Maybe so. But mostly because I'm not in the public eye like you are. I don’t do anything to make people feel anything. You’re the one out there in the field, making the tough decisions, and they’ll never fully understand that side of it. Of course, some people are going to make false judgments. But I know the truth,” he kisses him, “And I’m not the only one.”

“Thank you,” John says, “Though I disagree with your assessment of yourself, and we’ll 100% be talking about that later. Now, shower?”

They shower, and when the sheets have been changed and they’re tucked up against each other in John’s bed, Bob says:

“Can we make a pact?”

“Yeah, anything,” John says immediately, and then flushes a little at his eagerness. Bob smiles fondly and kisses him on the side of the mouth.

“No more mail. I don’t like mail,” Bob says, face grave. John laughs, hard and surprised, but holds his pinkie out without hesitation.

“Okay, but you can’t deny we got one pretty great thing out of it,” he argues, and Bob shoots him a scolding look.

“Promise me, Johnny,” He implores, and John nods.

“Fuck mail, Bobby. Fuck mail.”

They link pinkies and don’t let go for a long, long time.

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b.

chapter two, poncho punch

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: i realized writing this i abuse em dashes so…oops… anyway here is more cute fluffy jake that is hopefully not ooc! (i feel like ive been doing a p good job so far)

prev. series masterlist! next.

The first few mornings of May in Forks arrived slowly, like the sun was still shy about showing its face. Contrary to popular belief, summers in Washington do come—and when they do, the clouds finally pull back and the sun becomes a welcomed guest after months of gray. Today is one of those quietly golden days. You wake to soft light filtering through your window blinds and the gentle tap of birds on the roof. Rolling onto your back, your eyes trace the knotty wood ceiling above you. It smelled faintly of old books and damp earth from the rain earlier in the week–and part of you liked that the house hasn’t tried to be anything other than what it was. Forks never changed much.

But Jacob did. And you still haven’t quite figured that out.

You see him most days now, which you don’t mind—actually, you kind of like it. You never had that many friends in Forks to begin with, and the few you did have moved away, just like you had. Jake would show up with that lopsided grin and some excuse to get you out of the house—down to First Beach, out by Sol Duc, or just cruising around in his rebuilt Rabbit, pointing out every small thing that has changed since you were last here. He makes it feel easy, like old times, but there’s always something unsaid in the air between you. Like every sentence hangs with an ellipsis.

This afternoon, he came by again. You’re both on the porch swing, spending one of those perfect slow afternoons doing absolutely nothing. Your parents are out for the day—visiting friends, maybe, but you didn’t ask. You’re busy…with Jake. Your knees are hugged to your chest, one earbud in, and Jake’s got the other. He’s nodding along to the playlist you made—Beyoncé, Nelly Furtado, and his now not-so-secret favorite: Avril Lavigne.

“It’s getting kinda hot,” he says suddenly, tugging the earbud out. “Otter Pop?”

You grin. “Yes, please. Can you get me—”

“Poncho Punch. Yeah, I know.” He’s already standing, smirking. “Be right back.”

You laugh as he jogs inside like it’s a mission. A few minutes later, he returns with two hilariously oversized Otter Pops. The kind your parents bought in bulk just because they were cheaper than the regular ones.

He tosses you the orange one, keeping the red one for himself.

“You still eat the red ones first, huh?”

“This one’s got a bite,” he says, tearing the plastic with his teeth. “Kinda like me. Fiery. Intense. Unapologetically cool.”

You snort. “Please stop psychoanalyzing your artificially dyed sugar water, weirdo.”

He grumbles but sits down beside you anyway, unwrapping his pop fiercely. You do the same. The earbuds go back in, and you both fall into that easy rhythm again—breeze in the trees, tires on gravel in the distance, his arm warm where it brushes yours.

For a while, it’s like no time passed at all. But you still can’t quite believe the shift in him. The height. The new muscles. The serious way he carries himself sometimes, like he’s older than he should be. When you asked, he’d just muttered something about a growth spurt, but you didn’t buy it. You didn’t change that much, not really. But Jake always insisted you had.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he tenses slightly as he pulls it out. One glance and his jaw tightens.

“Everything okay?” you ask, still eating your popsicle.

“Yeah,” he says too fast, shoving the phone back into his jeans. “Just Sam.”

You tilt your head, eyebrows furrowed. “Sam Uley?”

“Mhm.” He hesitates, then shrugs like it’s no big deal, “The guys are hanging out tonight. You should come.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. Bonfire at the beach. Everyone’ll be there.”

Everyone. You bite your lip. You’d been looking forward to a quiet night settling in, but the idea of seeing Embry and Quil again makes your chest lift a little. You alway loved tagging along with the three of them, even if they were total chaos. Quil and Embry never treated you like you couldn’t keep up–and Jake never loved that. He was always protective over you for some reason.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “Yeah, I’ll go.” Then you pause. “But I thought you didn’t like Sam?”

Jake rolls his eyes slightly, like he expected this question.

“Things change,” he pauses. “I got over it. We’re… cool now.”

You give him a look. “That’s it?”

He shrugs again, but his smile is a little crooked. “I dunno. Sometimes you realize you were wrong about people.”

You decide not to press. Not today, at least.

Your Otter Pop drips a bright orange line down your wrist and you fumble for the hem of your shirt–but Jake’s faster. Without a word, he leans in, catching the melting trail with his thumb, wiping it gently from your skin. His touch lingers, warm and a little too careful. You glance up and for a second–just one second–he’s looking at you like he’s seeing something new. Like he’s remembering something old.

The moment passes. He leans back with a grin that’s too casual and shoves his finished Otter Pop wrapping into his other pocket.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And just like that, he stands, heading down the porch steps like nothing happened–like his fingers didn’t just leave a burning line on your skin.

You spend the next few hours cleaning up, texting your parents (who are, predictably, still out), and trying not to overthink the way Jacob had looked at you earlier.

Because it had been different than anything you were used to.

You’d known Jacob Black since you were kids and had seen every version of him–from the scrawny eight-year old who challenged you to races on the beach (and won every time) to the sulky fourteen-year-old who pretended not to care when you told him you were moving. You don’t remember the exact moment when you met Jacob. He was just there–holding your hand when you jumped off the jungle gym, pushing you on the swing, playing tag. Somewhere along the way, he just stuck.

But the way he’d stared at you today–like he was seeing you for the first time–that was new. You shake your head. You’re probably just imagining things.

At exactly 8:00 PM, the roar of Jacob’s motorcycle cuts through the quiet of the evening. You grab your jacket and head outside where he’s waiting, helmet in hand.

“You sure you’re okay on this thing?” you question, eyeing the bike.

He smirks. “Scared?”

“No,” you lie.

He laughs and tosses you the helmet. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip, but you climb on behind him anyway, gripping the sides of his jacket as the engine rumbles to life beneath you.

“Hold on tighter than that,” he says over his shoulder. “Unless you wanna eat pavement for dinner.”

You roll your eyes but slide your arms around his waist, pressing closer. His breath hitches, barely, before he revs the engine and takes off. The wind rushes past as you speed down the road, the trees blurring into one long streak. Jacob’s warmth seeps into you, even as the cool air nips at your cheeks, his back solid against your chest and despite your earlier nerves, you find yourself relaxing.

Because this is Jacob–with him, you’ve always been safe.

First Beach is just as you remember it. Smoke and salt in the air, the crash of waves blending with the snap of logs in the bonfire. The group’s already gathered–Embry, Quil, Sam, and a few others you barely recognize. You remember their faces from around La Push, though you’d never known them well. The ones you can’t quite recall the name of sit slightly apart from the rest, arms crossed but with a faint smile when they catch your eye.

You didn’t expect to be greeted like someone returning home, but Embry jumps up first, nearly tackling you with a hug.

“No way it’s you!”

Quil follows right behind him, shaking his head. “City life didn’t ruin you after all.”

“Shut up,” you retort, hugging him too. “Barely a city, even.”

Sam offers a polite nod and a small smile. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” you reply tight-lipped, still taking it all in.

Jacob stays close to your side as you find a spot around the fire. You catch Quil nudging Embry and whispering something that sounds like, “She’s basically part of the–” before Sam shoots them both a look that shuts them up. You raise an eyebrow but don’t question it.

Despite the unfamiliar faces, the night settles into a rhythm. The heat of the fire, the low rumble of conversation, the occasional laugh from Paul that always seems louder than it needs to be. You talk with Leah for a while, glad for the presence of another girl. She's blunt, dryly funny, and easy to talk to once she warms up. It's nice—not being the only one. Someone mentions the old Quileute stories, and a few of the guys start joking about them, but you catch the shift in their expressions. Something passes between them.

You smile faintly. “I remember Billy used to tell us those stories,” you say quietly. “You never believed any of them, Jake.”

Jacob doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks at the fire, then at you. “Maybe I was wrong.”

There’s a silence there, brief but thick.

It’s only your second full day back, but you’ve caught Jacob staring more than once—longer than before, longer than friends should. You catch him doing it again now, the firelight reflected in his eyes, something unreadable behind them. He looks away when you meet his gaze. Eventually, the others begin to drift off, pairing up or heading home. Quil tosses another log into the fire with a lazy salute before he disappears with Embry into the dark.

“Bonfires aren’t the same without your terrible ghost stories,” you say.

Jacob smirks. “You were always the one who got scared, not me.”

You both laugh softly.

When it’s just the two of you left, the sounds of the ocean fills the quiet, waves crashing in rhythm with your pulse. Jacob stands and offers you a hand. You take it, letting him pull you to your feet–but when you go to let go, his fingers linger, just a second longer than they need to.

The ride back is quieter. The wind bites a little more than before, but Jacob’s presence keeps you grounded. When he pulls up in front of your house, he doesn’t cut the engine right away. The night hangs suspended between you, thick with something unspoken.

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur, voice nearly swallowed by the hum of the bike.

Jacob finally turns to look at you, his dark, brown eyes reflecting off the porch light. “Anytime,” he says, low and earnest, like he means it in every possible way.

You hand him his helmet, and your fingers brush against his, sending a jolt up your arm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant, like a kid waiting for reassurance.

You smile and nod. “Obviously.”

On the porch as you fumble for the keys, your heart still thuds from the ride–or maybe from the way his hands lingered or the way his voice dipped when he said “anytime.” All these little moments of extra long touches and the loaded glances are building up, and as you close the door behind you, something settles heavy in your chest: something is changing. You don’t have a name for it yet, but it’s there, undeniable as the tide.

[bugofmanynames]

update on the skinsuit guy lore 🔥🔥

uhhhh so i should probably confirm their names so i came up with the names a while ago but i didn't really know which one to give who so i just used the names for them interchangeably and in an earlier post i called this dude here simon

but i decided recently to swap their names around and keep it that way so just to clear up anything that dude's name is now jett and the spooky looking dude (aka young skinsuit guy) is simon

so AS FOR THE LORE simon and jett are coworkers and presumably friends. i genuinly don't know what the hell their relationship is, whether they're best friends, simon is framing his feelings for this dude as unimaginable hatred because he can't even fathom the concept of love, they're some kind of metaphor, or if they just genuinely hate each other, so i guess it's entirely up to interpretation.

basically jett's everything simon isn't, even though simon worked almost twice as hard to get where he was and jett just had it all handed to him on a silver platter, he has a stable, well paying job, a spouse and a daughter, and eventually simon reaches a breaking point and starts gathering as much intel as possible to plot his murder.

one day jett's just going about his day and simon pops out of nowhere and straight up jumps him and drags him into some kind of backroom where he proceeded to skin this dude alive as soon as he regains consciousness and dumps him out in the middle of nowhere, leaving him there to die a slow painful death. Meanwhile simon immediately gets into action, destroying any records or evidence of his own existence and poses as jett, even going under his name and everything.

simon's able to pull himself off as him pretty well, at least for a good bit until his facade slowly but surely begins to slip (quite literally too) and everybody's starting to realize that's there's something wrong, and eventually they begin to figure out that he isn't jett at alll and in the end, he loses everything because he tried to pursue something that was just always out of his reach.

anyway so where redacted comes in, simon/"jett" is miserable as hell but then this sad naive orphan comes into the picture and he sees them as the perfect opportunity to start from a fresh slate (identity theft again) and pretends to take them in, and at first he acts nice to lure them into thinking that he's safe, until they began doubting him as he slowly began to reveal his intentions, but he started emotionally manipulating them into thinking that he was the only one who cared and kept them safe and basically just made them an unhealthy amount of dependent on him. As part of "redacting" them, he basically did the same thing he did to himself and erased any previous information of their existence including their memories, making them literally nobody.

anyways so that's the backstory update and have some other random stuff about the characters

jett's daughter is named Shermy!!!!!!! she's like probably in her 30s in the current time of the story but i thought it'd be kinda funny if when she was a kid when simon took over jett's life he realized that he has a kid. And he just doesn't know how to be a father so he probably just let her do whatever she wanted and she thought that he was the coolest parent ever even though it wasn't even her actual father. doppledad

also i think it's probably important to mention that when simon was a kid he killed his parents by setting their house on fire. He was the only one who made it out alive, so he still has a bunch of scars from the burns he got. He was already kind of a disturbed child, so honestly that whole thing only messed him up more and made him into a deranged adult.

anyway yap over sorry if you read all of this

[minsu-the-cowardly-human]

I know who you pretend I am

16+, swearing & slight references to previous sex but none in here, angst, no happy ending

2.6k words, insp by @/shapeplex's drawing & Rebecca Sugar's drawing of Sadie n Amythest

Summary:

Shapesmith has been 'hanging out' with Scott regularly after the incident but after talking to Kate, he knows something needs to change.

Shapesmith opened the door to Scott’s apartment with a small sigh. He knew what he was doing might ruin everything he had with him. However, after talking with Kate, he realized something needed to change.

Scott was sitting on the couch with masked excitement for when Shapesmith would come, as they met up almost every other day. He looked over at Shapesmith and…

…huh. His eyes widened a bit before waiting a few moments as Shapesmith stood at the doorway awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “So…are you going to…?” He asked softly, twisting his wrist in a circle.

Shapesmith should have figured he couldn’t just show up here and expect him to know everything that was happening in his head. Though, that would make things a hell of a lot easier. He walked over and sat down beside him. He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. Mostly because the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t have much of an explanation or excuse for the way he was feeling.

Scott straightened his back, his hand scratching his neck. The more he looked at Shapesmith…well, not looking at him, the more he started to catch on that something was wrong. “Look…w-we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. I should thank you for just putting up with me for this long.” He said with a giggle before clearing his throat once more.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, even as Scott still didn’t have a clue what was going on. Shapesmith slowly moved his gaze up from the floor, to his hands, and finally his face. His eyes stared into his, scanning for any clue of what he was thinking. Though, he didn’t really know if he wanted to know now.

He gulped, trying to start off light. “...you…you really miss her, huh?”

…what an odd question. I mean, he did, obviously, but they hadn’t talked much about her since…well the incident. God, he was so pathetic that night, crying and wailing like a baby. He jumped a bit but still responded calmly. “Yeah…yeah I do. She was great…” He put his hand on his knee, his hand cupping his cheek as he thought about her.

“Yeah…” He responded, more disappointed than what he had meant to sound like. “I wish I got to meet her before…” He looked down at his hands. He felt filthy enough as is, but just…acknowledging her existence and reveling in her memory…it makes him nearly fall into a pit of total despair, and why wouldn't it? He had never met Becky, and Scott never once talked about her around Shapesmith and yet…

Scott put a hand on his shoulder, looking down. “Yeah. You would've liked her.”

Shapesmith looked at him, really looked at him. He had his eyebrows upturned and despite his slight smile, there was a deep sorrow in his eyes by how he was holding back crying, just barely. That's not surprising given it was only 5 months ago. Still…seeing him so much pain, genuine pain, made his own guilt that much worse. 

During their time together, doing this masquerade, Shapesmith had unknowingly convinced himself that the real reason he was with him was because maybe he was questioning if he was gay or bisexual, or that he hated his wife or that she was awful and he just wanted to rewrite history with him transforming. Much in the same way that people use age regression to cope with their childhoods. To see that he actually cared and loved for her as much as he loves Scott feels…humiliating. He knew he was a Martian and all, but even he should have known the reality of their escapades.

Even with that, though, it felt wrong to be so hurt, since he was mourning his wife. His eyes widened for a moment, like a deer in the headlights whilst he slowly grasped Scott's hand, moved it away from his shoulder and let it go, though his fingers lingered for a moment more. 

This…this is when the alarm bells went off in Scott's head. It should have gone off the second he didn't transform, or brought up his wife, but now they were really going off. But maybe, maybe he just needed a break and he wanted to make sure Scott was doing alright with the loss before continuing, so he didn't shapeshift to show how genuine he was being. But with this, what…happened? Shapesmith was always receptive to his affection, no matter how small. This was unlike him.

“Shapesmith…are you, are you feeling alright?” His hand instinctively went out to comfort him, but he quickly retracted it with a pang of hurt in his heart. “Again, we don't have to do anything tonight…”

“I-I don't want to do it…at all anymore.”  He said softly but quickly, trying to get it out before his body rejected to express what concerns were of his brain. Unfortunately, his heart had a tune of its own, and it was immediately horrified he had uttered that. But his heart was no match for his head, for once.

… “What?” His eyes in surprise. “What…what's going on? Why are you deciding this so suddenly?” He gulped hard as he had a despicable thought. “Did you ever feel forced to…?”

“What? No, no!” He immediately cleared up without even thinking. He put his arms out in front of him, waving them side to side to emphasize how much he meant it. But then he paused. His hands returned to his side before one of them crept up along him and rested behind his neck. “Well…kind of.” He said, barely above a whisper.

Shit. “What...what are you saying?” He loved all their time together but he never wanted it to be something he felt like he was forced to do, like that was his duty as a hero to help a dangerous “villain”-more like vigilante-stay sane by any means necessary. He sat straight up, ready to hear the worst.

“...” He moved his hand, rubbing his arm. God he couldn't stop moving, even if it was his fingertips going along his arm. “Not...not the activity but…the transforming itself.”

Scott let out a big sigh of relief. “Thank God.” Those two words gave Shapesmith more hope than it should. There was a peaceful…enough atmosphere as Shapesmith got most of what he wanted to say out of his system, even if his heart was aching. That was until Scott realized something. “Wait…you're going to…stop transforming into her?” He asked, his voice wavering like that was Earth shattering. His world, at least.

“Yes, Scott. It's wrong…”

His expression was hollow, his eyes losing their shine and his smile dropping. What? What was even wrong with their arrangement? There wasn't a thing wrong, he thought they had agreed to do this together, and that he understood the implications of what that meant. He wasn't about to argue with that though, as annoying as he viewed that to be.

What he would argue, however, would be far closer to what goes against his values. “You're a hypocrite. You say it's ‘wrong’ to transform into her-” He pointed a finger at him. “-but you're always playing the part of somebody else. How is what we've been doing any different than what you do everyday?” His voice was raised and an anger was present in his aura that he usually only unleashed onto…other superheros.

He…didn't have much of a response to that. If he was being honest, that's what his greatest fear and doubts were about talking about this. Maybe it was his anger, but he started to feel something bubbling in him as well. Who the hell was he to talk about morals when he was the one who asked Shapesmith to transform in the first place, despite wanting the “truth” about everything else.

“Well…” Shapesmith started, he didn't want to start a serious argument because he wanted to be with Scott…just not as his wife. “That is true…to an extent. When I'm transformed into Rus, most people I encounter…don't know who he is. When I transform into your wife, you know her. You can directly compare me to her.”

God what a non-argument. Just because he's transformed into somebody that most people outside of the GDA don't know about him doesn't mean that it's right to be him. People knowing who you're transformed into or not shouldn't factor into whether or not you shapeshift into them. I mean if we're going with that, you could argue that it shouldn't matter what you do to civilians, because most people don't know them. 

“And that makes it okay? If he was a celebrity would it be different? And…and you know that's not what I'm doing here. I just…want to see my wife again, is that so wrong?”

“No, but…” He felt awful enough for stealing his identity, especially given how the real Rus was invaded by Sequids. “I'm not…pretending to be him. I don't go by Rus and I don't try to go by Rus, and nobody believes I am him because of how I act. With you…you expect me to be your wife.”

“What? No I don't. I know…who you are.” He coughed awkwardly, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He was living a picture perfect life with a perfect wife and perfect child. Then Invincible destroyed that and instead of picking up the pieces, he, purposefully or not, deteriorated himself.

Shapesmith really, really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He liked Scott as a friend and a crush. He still wanted to view him charitably. However, he knew if he didn't bring this up now, things would never change. If nothing else, at least his fears would be proven wrong, maybe Scott would have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. He just…needed to hear it. “Then why do you call me Becky? Why do you bring up ‘our’ kid? Why do you expect me to remember memories that I never lived?”

“Look, just because I mistake you for her sometimes doesn't mean anything.”

“Then…” He put his elbows on his knees with his hands cupping his cheeks, looking at him. “Why do you want me to transform into her so badly if you know it's me? Why can I never just…be myself around you?”

He gritted his teeth. “But this isn't you! You're flopping around in Rus's skin like it's your own. You can't keep acting like this, like this is your form or that I'm a tyrannical king putting all these restrictions on you, ok! I ask you to be my wife because I miss her, God!”

Shapesmith's throat went dry, a little taken aback by not only his voice becoming even louder, filling up every spot of silence in the room, but also by his response. His frustration for not being understood for what he's trying to say was starting to take its toll on him. He could feel an unfamiliar rage start to build itself in him.

Still, what he said next was said calmly, but the deep rage in him was evident with his teeth gritting and him rolling his eyes. “Does missing your wife make you only calling me when you want to play house right?” He covered his mouth with his hands. Oh god, what was he becoming?

Scott's mouth opened slightly.  What did he think was going on here? That he was trapped in a cage? Forced to perform like a circus attraction? He had as much of a choice in this matter as he did. His eyes narrowed as he stood up in one sweeping motion with a loud boom as his shoes hit the floor. “You can get the FUCK out of here!” He yelled, pointing over to where the door was.  

“Scott-Scott please listen to me! I want to stop being your little dolly you kiss every night!” Shapesmith stood up to join him, both of his hands balled up into fists, slamming down into a nonexistent table. “I want to stop being a replacement for something you'll never get back! I want…to be your boyfriend, not your wife.” His heart pounded as he recognized what he just said. Not only his confession, but the awful hatred he just spewed more out of. It was true, but it wasn't going to help this situation de-escalate.

Scott started actively sparking with electricity from the anger and pain he was going through. What in the world gave him the right to talk about his wife that way? He knew what happened, he wasn't a moron. He didn't need an alien telling him about humans in such an analytical and logical way. It was like he didn't have a heart. And to have the audacity to say he wants to be with him? After being so patronizing toward his wife? He wasn't a baby with no object permanence, just because she's gone doesn't mean he'll just…fall into his arms. “I KNOW that! I'm not a goddamn moron. And trust me, you could never replace her. She was…perfect. I just want to see her face again. That's it.” He felt a pang in his heart for his confession but he brushed it aside. He was straight, after all. 

He put his head in his hands. He's never felt this frustrated before, ever, really. He couldn't help but think he was talking to a broken record and he was starting to fully lose his cool, which was saying a lot, considering he, himself, had to have things repeated to him quite a bit. “Stop lying to yourself! You wouldn't kiss me as her and hold my hand and stuff if you just wanted to see her. Just…just be honest with me. For one second, ok? Can you do that? Please?” 

Scott actually shut his mouth, his sparks dying down in their intensity but very much still being there. He nodded.

Shapesmith sighed. “Would you ever do anything that you did with ‘her’ if I just stayed myself? Or Rus or whatever you call this form?” He let his arms fall to his sides, just staring up at him like he had the answer to everything. Like he was the only hope he had in the world. Despite Scott's responses, he hoped and prayed that when push fame to shove, something would happen, something would change, he would have an epiphany that he did all of this because he was scared to confront the fact that he was bisexual or that he likes somebody again or just…SOMETHING.

…his sparks died down, completely gone now. His fists unfurled themselves as he straightened his back. He tried to think for a moment. He wasn't asking if he would do anything with him now, necessarily. But would he ever get with him, even if he didn't get married…? If he had never met Becky and only knew Shapesmith, would he? But then again, that doesn't matter because he does have a wife. Or, had, it's hard for him to remember with how much he sees a copy of his wife act so normally. He didn't react with a nod or shake, not one expression change, not one peep.

Shapesmith started walking over to the door. Scott wanted to stop him, but both of his options resulted in him leaving. He could either do nothing, or tell him that he wouldn't. 

“I should have fucking known you would have used me like this. You really are a villian.” Shapesmith said with poison in his voice as he slammed the door shut

Scott fell back on the couch, pulling his hair back with his hands. He didn't do anything wrong but then…why does it feel like it?

The end

Hi howdy hello! Thank you for reading, I hoped you enjoyed it but I do accept concrit!! Specifically, I really hope everybody was relatively in character because it felt like a soap opera at some parts, haha ^^; anyways but ye!! >:)

[carltonlassie]

I took today off of work because people I don't know kept on messaging me on slack. Scary stuff out there

[meownotgood]

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close. 

[nezuscribe]

being married to gojo is probably such a weird limbo to be in. he doesn’t talk much, but he watches you a lot. the way you move, the way your head tilts back as you laugh unapologetically, the little way your nose scrunches up when you’re confused.

he’s aware of your past, the way you were raised. he knows how much of a black sheep you are, and the more he spends time with you the more he realizes how much you try to hide that.

the way you joke through awkward moments, or the way you tried to hide your expression when somebody doesn’t laugh at something you hoped to be funny are all things gojo has noticed about you.

he knows how you sometimes come down to the training yard, hiding behind a pillar as if a group of men who are trained to be aware of their surroundings wouldn’t spot you from a mile away.

but a part of him likes having you there, puffs his chest out a little more when he disarms someone, his grin a little cheekier when the men praise him of his talent.

though you never really seem to be there for him, despite gojo being your husband. it almost seems like you don’t even want him to know you’re there, making sure to duck your head if he sees you.

until one night, when the men file out and into their quarters, gojo stays behind, in one of the rooms that lead out into the yard, still cleaning up.

his ears prick up when he hears the sound of footsteps, leaving the sword room, expecting to see on of his men, when instead he sees you, looking at the bows littered on the ground.

gojo watches as you pick one up, looking around to see if anybody were there, missing the way gojo was hidden in the shadows, and sees you look around for an arrow.

he wonders what that feeling in his chest it, the one that contracts and loosens whenever you’re near.

he goes back into the shed, picking out some arrows for you and walks to where you were.

“here,” he calls out, and you whip your head around, a look of surprise and embarrassment on your face.

your lips slightly part, shocked that it’s your husband who caught you, and you duck your head a little bit as you quickly go to set the bow back down on the ground.

“sorry,” you quickly say, your eyes trialing at the arrows in his hand in a curious sort of way, “i just wanted to, um, hold one.”

gojo snorts, rolling his eyes at your lie as he picks the bow back up from the ground, wiping some of the dirt from earlier from his hands on his pants as you slowly accept it.

“do you know how to shoot?” he asks, his sturdy figure towering over yours as you stare at him, squinting your eyes a little, and finally shake your head no.

he nods, expecting this as he picks up a bow that was resting on the wall, cocking one of the arrows in the as he shows you what he’s doing.

you’ve spoken to him a bit more as of recently, but never enough for you to think he’d be willing to show you how to use a bow.

“line up your arrow with the bowstring,” he demonstrates, “use your non dominant hand to hold it,” you watch silently as he grips it with his left hand.

you do the same thing, the arrow clumsily sliding around until your able to cock it, holding it loosely with your non dominant hand like he said.

“your dominant hand should hold the string between three fingers,” his slender fingers take it in between and he stretches it, “but make sure your wrist is aligned with your fingers.”

you do the same thing, feeling the resistance from the bowstring as you pull it back.

gojo looks over at your legs and clicks his tongue, clearly not liking what he’s seeing. he sets his own bow on the ground as he comes up from behind you.

“your legs should be like this,” his voice is deep, breath hiting the back of your neck as he nudges your legs apart, separating them until one is in front of the other.

your heart is pounding so loudly against your chest your sure the bow is about to vibrate along with it.

his hand cups your elbow, carefully pulling it back as the string groans under the pressure. you feel like you’re sweating your entire body weight in water off right now.

his eyes are focused on your wrist, holding it gently as he lowers it slightly, and you feel his nose slightly brush against the side of your head.

“don’t focus on the tip of your arrow but the target,” his voice comes out barely audible, but you swallow thickly, nodding.

you try your best to focus on the target that’s in front of you, trying to center the bow with the middle.

“let go when you’re ready,” gojo says, his lips near your ears.

you give it a couple seconds, trying to aim as best as you can, before your hand lets go of the string.

you both straighten your backs up, watching as it flies into the target.

the arrow nearly hits the wood around it, so far away from the target itself that it’s almost comical, and you laugh, tilting your head back as shake your head in embarrassment.

“it’s your first time,” he says, trying to help but you shake it off, missing his warmth from behind you as you set the bow back on the wall.

“and my last,” you promise, missing the way he seemed to deflate.

you turn back to gojo, only to see his eyes it filled with the mirth they had only moments ago, this time focused on your left hand.

you look down, trying to figure out what was wrong.

suddenly, you remember that you had taken off you ring a couple days ago, not finding any use in wearing it.

gojo swallows thickly, a strange lump in his chest as he stares at the arrow you had shot and then back to your face.

“i just figured…” you trailed off, biting your lips as you tried to find the words, “you know…” you motioned to his own left hand, void of any ring.

his eyes are a different hue, as if a storm was brewing inside them.

you watched as he dug his hand inside his tunic, tugging something out. your eyes fall to a delicate gold chain, his wedding ring hanging off of it.

“i don’t want it to fall off during training,” he bites out and suddenly your mouth feels dry.

you nod once, eyes fleeting away from his as you nod again, at nothing and everything, and silently leave.