#i think its the occasional Punctuation perhaps! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherrrydragon · 3 months ago

Text

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER NINETEEN: INTERTWINED, SEWN TOGETHER

← back to chapter list

SUMMARY ↳ And the universe said, "I love you." You stare at them. "Infinite universes. Infinite possibilities." pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none wc: 4.6k

It’s nighttime in Gotham, a city of shadows and contrasts that you've come to know well. The skyline is a jagged silhouette against the dark canvas of the night sky, punctuated by the occasional glimmer of lights from skyscrapers and streetlamps below.

You swing gracefully through the city, the rhythm of your movements second nature after months of navigating these streets. The cool breeze brushes against you, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and distant echoes of Gotham's perpetual hustle.

Arriving at a familiar rooftop, you land softly and take a moment to survey your surroundings. Oftentimes this is where, Damian and Jon often met you, a secluded spot where you can discuss plans, share moments of quiet, or simply enjoy each other's company away from the chaos of your nightly duties.

Tonight, however, the rooftop is empty when you arrive. The absence of their familiar presence gives you a moment to reflect on everything that has brought you to this point—the life you’ve led, the friendships you cherish, and the burgeoning feelings that have taken root in your heart.

You find yourself replaying conversations and moments in your mind, Jon's warmth and Damian's complexities intertwined with your own thoughts and uncertainties. The city seems to hold its breath around you, as if waiting for your next move.

You don’t get to, because you feel a sudden and violent gust of wind, and then there’s someone right behind you.

“[Name],” Jon breathes, pajamas and all. You turn around slowly, senses buzzing at his presence.

He takes two half-hearted steps towards you, before using his speed to get right in front of you in the split of a second. He reaches out a hand, almost instinctively, as if to steady you or perhaps himself. His gaze searches yours, his expression a mix of relief and something more complicated, something you can't quite decipher in the dim rooftop light.

“It’s you. It’s really you,” he says, reverently. His eyes trace your face, taking in every feature. “There’s no one else with that heartbeat.”

And, fuck, if that doesn’t just completely do you over.

He places his hands on your arms tightly, pulling you to him. As if you’ll disappear if he isn’t holding onto you. “What happened? Where were you?”

You try to speak, but no words come out. “You were just gone. I couldn’t hear you at all,” he whispers. He spots the Web-Watch. “What is this? Did whoever took you put it on you? Is it hurting you?”

His hand wanders over to it, and you suddenly remember how you first got stuck here in the first place. You snatch your wrist out of his range, because his strength is no joke. He looks at you confused. “It’s mine,” you choke out.

Jon's eyes narrow slightly, searching yours as if trying to unravel the mystery that surrounds you. He grabs your hands in his, gently bringing them up his face. “[Name], [Name][Name][Name],” he mutters. His lips move against your fingers, breath warm. “We’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

“I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes tight and shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.” Jon's grip on you loosens slightly, his eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and lingering worry. "We missed you," he admits quietly. "Damian's been impossible, you know. He wouldn't rest until..."

You sigh deeply. “I honestly… didn’t think you’d care all that much,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the city's distant sounds.

“Why wouldn’t we care?” he near growls, looking at you fiercely. “With how we feel–” he cuts himself, breathing deeply. Jon's expression softens, his gaze holding yours with a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet rooftop air. His hands remain on yours, a gentle warmth that anchors you in the moment. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks, hands moving to run down your sides. It feels nice.

“No.” Your hands lay gently on his, not moving them. “I need to tell you something. You and Damian.”

Jon's hands pause their gentle exploration, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that reflects both concern and a hint of apprehension. The rooftop seems to hold its breath around you, the city's distant sounds providing a muted backdrop to this moment of intimacy and vulnerability.

“Can you take us to the Den? To talk?”

"The Den," he repeats softly, as if testing the idea. "Yeah, we can go there. Whatever you need." His voice carries a reassurance, tinged with an unspoken question. "Are you sure you're okay to talk about this now?" Oh, Jon. Ever the sweetheart.

You nod, taking a moment to steady yourself. "You deserve to know.”

He scoops you up in his arms tentatively. His eyes linger on your form wrapped in his arms, almost longingly. He sighs when he feels your arms wrapped around his neck. He flies you across the city, urgent but at the same time leisurely. Trying to savor whatever time with you.

As you arrive, Jon gently sets you down, his concern apparent and his touch gentle. The Den's interior is familiar and comforting, the place a testament to your resilience. It looks just like you left it, like it was frozen in time. The sight of it makes your heart squeeze.

His hands gently cup your face, turning you to him. “I’m gonna go get Dami,” he says, not making any move to let you go.

Your gaze is filled with infinite amounts of fondness for the boy. “I’ll be here,” you promise. You bring your hands to his face and angle him so you lay a sweet and cherished kiss on his cheek. “I promise.”

His eyes fall to your lips for a few aching seconds before he nods. Jon lingers for a moment longer, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek before he reluctantly pulls away.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance as he turns to leave the Den.

You watch Jon go, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness settle in your chest. Alone in the quiet of the Den, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. . The soft light from the fairy lights cast gentle shadows around you, creating a cocoon of solitude.

Minutes stretch into a timeless space, each second filled with the weight of anticipation. You find yourself replaying moments with Jon—his earnest concern, the warmth in his touch, and the unspoken emotions that seemed to hover between you both. Damian's complex presence also flickers through your thoughts, his sharp wit and guarded vulnerability leave an undeniable mark on your heart.

Finally, the soft sound of footsteps heralds Jon's return. He enters with Damian in tow, the atmosphere shifting subtly with their presence. Damian's expression is a mix of relief and something harder to define—perhaps a blend of concern and guarded hope. He approaches with a measured stride, his posture betraying a readiness to hear whatever you have to say.

Jon moves to stand beside you, a reassuring presence at your side. His hand finds yours, offering silent support and encouragement. Damian's gaze flickers between you and Jon, his demeanor a mix of curiosity and a hint of apprehension.

"Where have you been?" Damian demands, his voice edged with a mixture of relief and frustration.

Jon looks at him sternly, and, surprisingly (is it really, though?), Damian’s demeanor stutters. The silent signal calms his initial intensity. His gaze softens fractionally as he looks back at you. Damian contemplates for a moment, before sighing and approaching you. He takes you in with a mix of guarded concern and curiosity, his usual stoic demeanor softened slightly by the relief of seeing you safe.

“Beloved,” he mutters without constraint. His use of the endearment catches you off guard, a rare display of vulnerability from someone so often guarded. It almost makes you want to cry. He takes your face in his hands, the same way Jon did.

You feel his fingers trace your lips, a gesture that speaks volumes in its tenderness. Damian's gaze searches yours, his usually sharp eyes softened by an emotion you rarely see openly displayed. "Where have you been?"

"I thought... we thought..." he continues, voice faltering for a moment, as if grappling with the weight of his own emotions. "Are you hurt?" he asks quietly, his concern palpable in every word.

You shake your head slowly, overcome by the intensity of the moment and the flood of emotions that threaten to spill over. "I'm okay," you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the Den.

Damian exhales sharply, a mixture of relief and lingering tension leaving his frame. He pulls you into a tight embrace, surprising you with the strength and earnestness of his hold. His arms wrap around you protectively, as if to shield you from any harm that might dare to approach.

"I wasn't sure if you would return," Damian admits quietly, his tone tinged with a mix of vulnerability and something deeper, something you're beginning to recognize as a bond that goes beyond mere partnership or friendship.

Jon's presence beside you feels like a grounding force, and as Damian's arms wrap around you, you realize just how much you missed this—missed them. You close your eyes, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of their concern and the strength of their embrace. It's a moment that transcends words, a silent affirmation of the bond you share with them.

When Damian finally releases you, his gaze still holds that unspoken question, the need to understand where you've been and why you were gone. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to share the truth with them, to lay bare the secrets that have kept you apart.

Silence stretches between you, filled with words not said and emotions too raw to name. Finally, Damian breaks the silence, his voice steady yet filled with a quiet plea. "Don't disappear again."

You squeeze his hand gently, a silent promise passing between you. "I won't," you assure him, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to share the truth with them, to lay bare the secrets that have kept you apart. Jon and Damian's eyes remain locked on you, their concern and anticipation on display in the quiet of the Den.

"Where do I even start?" you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, things I’ve kept hidden because…well, because I thought it was for the best." Jon's hand tightens around yours in silent support, while Damian's expression remains intense and focused, waiting for you to continue.

“I’m not from here,” you state, hesitant be damned. You’ve spent far too long hesitating. “I’m from Earth-143258 in an alternate universe.”

Jon and Damian exchange a glance, their expressions shifting from confusion to curiosity. Jon's grip on your hand tightens slightly, while Damian's intense focus on you doesn't waver.

“A universe where you, where the Justice League and Gotham and Metropolis don’t exist…” you look at them, “...outside of a series of comics.”

Damian's brow furrows, and Jon's eyes widen with a mix of intrigue and concern. The weight of your revelation hangs heavy in the air, the enormity of it settling in their minds.

"A different universe," Damian echoes, his voice filled with a blend of skepticism and curiosity. "And in this universe, we're...fictional?"

You nod, feeling the intensity of their gazes. "Yes. In my world, you’re all characters in comic books, movies, TV shows... You’re heroes in stories, legends. But here, you're real."

“A man named Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man of Earth-928, made an autonomous multiverse jump using a device like this.” You lift up your wrist to show them the Web-Watch. “Using it, he amassed an elite force of others like him from different universes. Including me.”

“Karen, would you mind?” you ask. Suddenly, a hologram forms, showing the intricate base of operations that is the Spider-HQ. “Our purpose is to protect the multiverse from anomalies and threats that could destroy entire realities. Sometimes people end up in the wrong universe, and we send them back to their home universe as well.” The hologram casts a gentle glow on their faces. “We call it the Spider-Society.”

The hologram shifts, changing into a bright tree. An intricate veil of webs expands around you, filling the space. “This is all of us. All of our lives woven together in a web.” You take a moment to admire the image. “The web of the multiverse.”

Jon and Damian stare at the hologram, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. The tree of webs illuminates the Den, casting intricate shadows that seem to weave the narrative you’re sharing. Jon's grip on your hand remains firm, a silent anchor as you delve deeper into your explanation.

“All of our stories are pretty much the same. We get bit by a radioactive spider that gives us powers, and we use those powers to help people.”

Damian listens intently, his usual skepticism softened by the gravity of your words. He glances at Jon, silently exchanging a look that conveys both their shared disbelief and the realization that your story, no matter how fantastical, is being delivered with sincerity.

“Was there an… anomaly in our universe then?” ask Damian, looking at you.

“No,” you sigh. “I was never supposed to be here.”

Your legs carry you closer to the hologram, Jon following in an effort to not lose his grip on you. “I found a particle accelerator. Most of the time that means nothing good. Turns out, an alternate version of me,” you emphasize, “[Name] [L.Name], had gotten stuck in my universe and was just trying to get home. But seeing me,” you pause, taking a breath.

“All they saw was someone trying to get in their way. They activated the particle accelerator and threw me in it.” You turn to look at them. “That’s how I ended up here.”

Damian and Jon exchange a glance, their expressions a mix of disbelief and concern. Jon's grip on your hand tightens slightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and determination.

“So, you’ve been… lost all this time?” Jon asks softly, his voice carrying the weight of the revelation.

“The whole reason I wanted to create the badassium was so I could use it to power another watch,” you say, looking down at it. “Since other me destroyed it.”

“A while ago, they visited me. In this universe.” You look at Jon. “On New Years.” You watch as recognition flickers in his eyes. “You can imagine how well I reacted.”

“That’s why you were crying,” he says softly in realization. “Suddenly seeing the reason you were… stuck.”

“I told them to find Miguel O’hara. And he did, a week ago.”

Jon's hand brushes your cheek gently, his touch a comforting presence amidst the weight of your words. Damian stands nearby, his expression unreadable as he processes the implications of your story.

“So, this entire time,” he begins, voice hinting with disbelief, “while we have been over ourselves with worry that you were somewhere hurt–”

“Damian,” cuts in Jon sternly.

Damian ignores him. “You were enjoying yourself, finally home and away from this cursed place you got stuck in? Somewhere we couldn’t even begin to look for you? Is that it?”

Your heart sinks at Damian's words, his anger and frustration cutting deeply. You can see the mix of emotions in his eyes—relief, betrayal, confusion—all battling for dominance.

“No,” you whisper desperately. “No, it wasn’t like that. In fact, the whole time I was home I couldn’t focus on being happy because I was focused on you,” you state. “On how I left things and how I wished I could explain everything to you but who could I when there’s such a disconnect between us–” you choke, cutting yourself off.

“Didn’t you think we cared? That we deserved to know?”

You flinch at his words, the truth of them hitting harder than you expected. “I… I didn’t know what to think,” you admit quietly, meeting Damian’s gaze with a mix of regret and vulnerability. “In my world, you’re… different. Fictional. I never expected…” Your voice trails off, unable to find the right words to express the complexity of your emotions.

“I would’ve never even considered the possibility of your existence before now,” you whisper. “I really should’ve known better.”

You stare at them. “Infinite universes. Infinite possibilities.”

“Then why didn’t you stay?” Damian asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you were finally home, why come back?”

You take a deep breath, the weight of Damian's question hanging in the air. Your gaze shifts between Jon and Damian, their eyes reflecting the depth of their concern and the complexity of their feelings.

“How could I?” you ask them. “After everything, how could you expect me not to feel the way I feel?”

"When I first got here," you continue, "I felt lost, out of place. But then I met you both, and everything changed. You became my friends, my partners, my family. The thought of leaving you behind... pretending everything that happened never happened. It was unbearable."

“You're real,” you say softly. “Everything about you, and everything I feel about you is real.”

Silence descends upon the Den, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Damian's gaze remains fixed on you, his usual guarded demeanor momentarily faltering under the weight of your sincerity. You feel Jon’s grip on you tighten, a constant presence of support and understanding at your side.

You breathe in. “I’m telling you this now, because you deserve to know. And if you’ll have me..”

Looking at them now is like looking at destiny. “I’d like to stay in your lives.”

Damian's expression softens imperceptibly, his gaze lingering on you with a mixture of contemplation and something deeper that you can't quite decipher. Jon squeezes your hand gently, a silent reassurance that speaks volumes amidst the unspoken tension in the room. They look at each other for a heart stopping moment.

"Beloved," Damian murmurs softly, his voice holding a rare vulnerability. "You've been missed."

Jon nods in agreement, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that mirrors your own. "We want you here," he says quietly, his voice a steady anchor in the midst of uncertainty.

You nod, a weight lifting from your shoulders as you step closer to them. Jon's arms wrap around you first, pulling you into a warm embrace that feels like coming home. Damian joins, his embrace steady and reassuring, his presence a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

You take a deep breath, feeling the warmth of their embrace resonate deep within you. "Thank you," you say, your voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you for choosing me.”

Jon presses a gentle kiss to your temple, and Damian's hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "We always will," Jon vows, his voice steady.

“Well,” starts Jon, grabbing your shoulder to turn you to face him. “If it’s no trouble, I’d really like to kiss you now.”

Your chuckle breaks the tension, and you nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. Jon's eyes light up with a mix of relief and affection as he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss.

It’s different from Damian’s kiss. His lips move in tandem against yours, intertwined, sewn together. His hands rest on your waist, squeezing lightly.

Jon's kiss is a symphony of warmth and tenderness, a stark contrast to the urgency and passion that often defines Damian's touch. You can feel the depth of his emotions in every gentle movement of his lips, the way he holds you as if you're the most precious thing in his world. The kiss is a promise, a reassurance, and a declaration all at once.

Damian watches the exchange with a soft, almost imperceptible smile. He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your chin, tilting your face towards him. "Beloved," he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "My turn."

His kiss is different from Jon's—more intense, a reflection of his complex emotions and the guarded vulnerability he's allowed himself to show. It's a kiss that speaks of his longing, his relief. When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, seeking reassurance.

Later that night, you sit between Jon and Damian, cuddled up on a worn-out couch in the Den, the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a warm light around the room. Small talk fills the space.

“Wait, so, Wonder Woman doesn’t exist, but Thor, God of thunder, does?” asks Jon. You’re not paying all that much attention to him since the feeling of his fingers caressing your side is quite distracting.

“I guess the universe picked and chose,” you hum.

“So there’s no Justice League?”

“There's the Avengers,” you say. “Just as cool as the Justice League. And they’re my friends,” you grin triumphantly.

Damian listens quietly, eyes lidded and content. “Were you a fan of these comics you mentions earlier?”

Your grin turns a little shy. “Maybe just a little bit.”

Jon's fingers trace idle patterns on your arm, a comforting gesture that grounds you in the present moment. "Does that mean you know all our secrets?" he teases lightly, a playful glint in his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow, matching his playful tone. “I don’t need pre-knowledge to figure out all I need to know about you.” Your hand flattens against his chest, rubbing along it.

Jon sighs at your touch, eyes fluttering. “Smooth,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to yours. You melt into the kiss, the warmth of Jon’s lips against yours sending a shiver down your spine. His hand moves to cup your cheek tenderly, his touch gentle yet filled with a quiet intensity that speaks of promises and shared moments.

Across from you, Damian watches with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, his gaze lingering on the intimacy between you and Jon. He clears his throat, drawing your attention. “As much as I appreciate witnessing this... display of affection,” he says, voice tinged with a hint of dry humor, “perhaps now is not the time.”

Jon presses a few more kisses to your lips before breaking away. “You’re just jealous,” Jon teases, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin.

Damian rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitch upward in a rare display of amusement. “Hardly. You two are insatiable.”

“Insatiable is right,” you mutter, staring at Damian’s lips.

Damian raises an eyebrow at your comment, a hint of amusement coloring his expression. "I beg your pardon?"

You shrug, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I mean, you're not exactly innocent in all of this," you tease, leaning closer to him. "The way you kissed me back then..."

You turn back to look at Jon. “Did you know he picked me up and pinned me against the wall?”

Jon’s eyes widen in mock surprise, his playful demeanor matching yours. “Did he now?” he asks, leaning closer with exaggerated curiosity. “You have to tell me all about it.”

Damian's cheeks color slightly, but he meets your teasing with a smirk. "I don't recall you complaining," he retorts, his voice laced with amusement.

You move, placing yourself on Damian’s lap, and wrapping your arms around his neck. Damian's hands settle comfortably around your waist as you settle on his lap, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of amusement and something deeper, a warmth that lingers beneath his usual stoic demeanor. Jon watches the exchange with a playful grin, leaning back against the couch as he enjoys your dynamic.

Damian’s expression softens slightly, his sharp features betraying a hint of the turmoil beneath. “I… I apologize for my earlier insensitivity,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a rare humility. “It’s… difficult to process.”

You lean forward, your hands playing with Damian's hair as you look into his eyes. "Don’t apologize," you say softly. "I get it."

Damian's gaze softens as he meets your eyes, his usual guarded demeanor giving way to a vulnerability that speaks volumes. "Thank you," he murmurs quietly, his voice holding a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet of the Den.

Jon watches the exchange with a soft smile, his hand finding yours once more as he leans in closer. "We're here for you," he says gently, his voice a steady reassurance amidst the lingering tension.

You smile warmly, leaning in to press a kiss to Damian's forehead. "We're in this together," you assure him, your voice filled with sincerity. Jon leans in from his spot beside you, pressing a kiss to Damian's cheek with a fond grin.

Oh, you remember something. “You know what I found out?” A small grin spreads across your face. “I went to have a talk with alternate me.” Your finger gently traces patterns on Damian’s chest. “Found out something really interesting.”

“And what would that be?” Damian mutters, subdued by your touch. Jon’s hand comes up to rest on your back.

“Most of us Spider’s usually have the same people in our lives,” you begin, voice dropping. “A Gwen Stacy, an MJ, maybe a Felicia Hardy,” you lift your head to look at Damian. “AKA, the Spider’s very own cat burglar, Black Cat.” Damian raises a brow at that.

“However, they didn’t have any of those people. You know what they did have, though?” you ask, pausing for dramatic effect.

“They had you two,” you say softly, gaze shifting between them. “Damian Wayne and Jon Kent. Not Superboy or Robin, just completely normal people.” Jon and Damian exchange a glance, their expressions reflecting a mix of surprise and contemplation.

“I love you,” you say, smiling softly. “I love you in every universe.”

Jon stares at you, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and affection. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a silent affirmation of his feelings. Damian looks up at you like you're a thing to be worshiped, face one of awe. “We love you too,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that resonates through the quiet of the Den.

Jon sighs contentedly, leaning back into the couch with a smile. "I don't think I'll ever get used to hearing that," he admits, his voice smitten.

You laugh softly, the warmth of their affection enveloping you in a cocoon of happiness. "Get used to it," you tease gently, resting your head against Damian's shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Damian's hand finds yours, his touch grounding and reassuring. "We wouldn't want you to," he murmurs, his voice a soft whisper that echoes through the room.

Jon nods in agreement, his gaze never leaving yours. "You're stuck with us," he says with a playful grin, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.

The three of you settle into a comfortable silence, the Den filled with the quiet intimacy of shared moments and spoken promises. As the night stretches on, you find yourself surrounded by the warmth of their presence, knowing that in this moment, and in the countless moments to come, you've found who you truly belong with.

Wrapped in their embrace, you let all your worries wash away, the echoes of their voices and the steady rhythm of their hearts lulling you into a state of peace. In the quiet darkness of the Den, amidst the city's distant hum, you find solace in the knowledge that you are home—at last, and always—with Jon and Damian by your side.

notes: see you guys sunday for the epilogue :)

#damian wayne x reader #dc x reader #jon kent x reader #robin x reader #superboy x reader

191 notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 6 months ago

Text

Tangled ropes

Pairing: Sailor!Bucky x reader

Summary: A new sailor arrives at the docks amongst Captain Barton’s crew. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself, or perhaps it’s the way his eyes are the echo of the ocean in color and depth. But something about him makes you want to untangle the ropes that seem to choke his spirit.

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: allusions to death, slight mentioning of illness, scared reader, a dog in distress (he’ll be fine)

Author’s note: okay so, I actually wanted this to be a one-shot, turns out that’s not gonna happen. I'm working on a second part, but I also didn’t forget about my series 'breaking chains'. So I can’t say what I'll be focusing on next. Let me know what you think, and please be kind because I love this! <3

Masterlist

The docks always held a special place in your heart. It was lively. The air hung heavy with the scent of brine and tar, a salty tang that clung to your clothes and hair long after you left, but you never really minded it - you embraced it. It was the scent of home.

Sun-bleached wooden planks groaned under the constant foot traffic. Wooden stalls lined the piers, their colors all varying and mismatching but it held an undeniable allure.

Fishmongers stood side by side, with hoarse voices from hawking their glistening displays of cod, oysters, plump lobsters, and perhaps the occasional octopus that writhed in wicker baskets. The lovely woman with the sun-kissed skin, who sold vibrant bouquets of wildflowers always greeted you with a beaming smile when you went to get some florals for your mother.

Dockworkers always bustled around, wrestling crates and barrels, their shouts punctuated by the rhythmic creak of ropes and the groan of timber under heavy loads. You held admiration for those men, watching them work all times of the day and weather, muscles sculpted and faces etched with sun and sweat.

Women in billowing skirts and sensible boots bartered with vendors or gossiped with each other, their baskets overflowing with fresh bread, glistening food, and colorful bolds of fabric; sometimes even some seashell jewelry or iron cookware.

You loved to watch the children running around and weaving through the people in glee, chasing after stray dogs or climbing rickety piles of rope, all while their laughter and shrieks echoed off the wooden planks. Seagulls cawed raucously overhead, swooping down for scraps or squabbling over morsels.

The best part, however, was the open ocean stretching before you, a cerulean expanse that mocked the limits of your vision, blurring into the hazy promise of a horizon forever beyond reach.

Your legs often guided you down to the docks on their own accord with an unbidden pull to let the untamed wind whip through your hair, nothing in its path to hold back, carrying the sharp and salty scent of the sea that would fill your lungs. You would usually close your eyes to take it in.

The rhythmic lap of the waves against the wood was a lullaby, a constant that soothed the ache in your heart. It was the closest you could feel to your father, the only connection that remained after the years of his absence.

But it was a strong connection.

Though time had dulled the edges of his memory, the warmth of his presence lingered in these salty breezes. You couldn’t recall the exact color of his eyes anymore, or the way his laughter crinkled the corners of them.

But the feeling of safety when he held you close, the love he held for you, and the endless blue expanse were etched into your soul.

Here, on the docks of your small port town, which had been a mere dot on the map for your father, a different kind of memory took root.

The sea became his domain, and so it became yours too. It was the anchor that held you fast - that vast emptiness that both echoed his absence and held the promise of a connection that could never be broken. It was a poignant yearning, a bittersweet symphony of salt and sorrow, that bound you to the rhythm of the waves and the memory of your father.

The sea held its secrets and you guessed it would hold your father's fate for eternity, ingrained into the indifference of the waves. He was a sailor even before you were born, exploring the ocean and the islands and cities that lay in their wake.

Every few months, sometimes years, he would return, his warmth and laughter filling the short gaps between his journeys. But those gaps grew longer, the laughter strained. Until the docks remained absent from his ship altogether.

Whispers and rumors had filled the void, twisting into conflicting narratives.

Some spoke of a terrible illness, a plague that had swept through his crew, claiming life after life until it finally took him too. Others muttered of a violent raid, your father perishing while defending his hard-earned goods. The most outlandish tales painted him a traitor, a man who’d abandoned his family and his life for the thrill of piracy, a black flag now his banner.

Your father was a well-respected sailor, having kissed the shores of countless countries, his name a murmur of respect in taverns across the globe. You had the evidence of that in souvenirs that cluttered your small home. A carved jade dragon from the East, a woven dreamcatcher from the West, polished seashells once laying on a beach - all from beyond the horizon.

So it was expected that people would talk and spread stories as to what might have happened to him. But no matter what they said and told you, your memories of him remained untainted.

He had shown you the art of knots, his patient hand untangling your fumbling attempts. You had practiced fiercely during the times he was gone. Perhaps he had wanted to give you a distraction. It had worked, because you one day helped him secure the ship to the dock, in recalling how to wove the ropes while he followed your instructions, since you weren’t able to do it on your own with your small and weaker hands. A triumphant grin had spread across your rosy cheeks as the ship was secured and your father had hoisted you up in the air, pride radiating from him in waves.

You would forever cherish the times he took you down to the docks, letting you wander around on his ship. You remembered his calloused hand guiding yours across the weathered deck. Your soft fingers had traced the grooves and marks in the wood, wondering how they made it there.

His voice was a blur in your mind, the cadence of his tone lost in time but you remembered how he would spin tales of adventures that made your eyes widen and laughter ring out across the open deck. He exaggerated monstrous waves, how he outsmarted the Kraken which was likely just a seagull, and described the creak of the ship as he fought a sea serpent - or so he had claimed.

All he wanted was to hear you laugh.

You had noticed how hard it was for him to leave every time, missing out on his daughter growing up. He carried around a heaviness, an ache burning in his eyes that mirrored the one in your mother's gaze whenever he set off again. It made you cling to him tighter when you could.

The image of him boarding deck and watching the ship shrink, shrink, shrink, until it was swallowed by the horizon had been a constant in your life. Unlike your mother, who couldn’t bear to watch him vanish, you had stayed until the last sliver of his ship disappeared, a tiny speck against the vast, indifferent canvas of the sea.

Those goodbyes had carved a hollow ache into your chest, a sorrow that had seemed to tear into your flesh and bones. You had felt his loss, mourned him even before the rumors of his death made their way to land. Yet, you had always wondered what really happened. Nightmares used to haunt you, showing you visions of him swallowed by unseen monsters lurking in the depths.

But as the years rolled by, a sense of peace bloomed alongside your grief.

The town itself became a living testament to your father. You had those souvenirs at home and the stories they came with. The people of the town spoke of his courage and kindness with a reverence that warmed your heart.

You even had him here, at this very moment, standing at the docks and watching the vessel of Captain Barton appear over the horizon.

Earlier, you had immediately perked up at the shouts and clanging from the lookout boy, announcing the arrival of the ship; dropping the unfinished basket you were weaving.

You had rushed down to the docks, joining the throng of merchants, ventures, dockworkers, and townsfolk already buzzing with anticipation, voices rising. The arrival of Captain Barton’s ship was an event, a chance to stock up on exotic goods your town wouldn’t otherwise see.

For years, Captain Barton’s crew had filled the void left by your father’s disappearance. While your father had ventured into the unknown, charting uncharted waters and bringing back exotic rarities, Captain Barton stuck to well-worn trade routes, providing your port town with silks, spices, tools, and trinkets.

You had never once missed the arrival of the crew, because it gave you a glimpse into the lifeline your father had sailed, even though it now was shrouded in mystery. It felt like a bridge across the endless of blue, strengthening the connection you had with him.

The ship grew closer and details came into view. It was nothing like your father’s had been, you could tell from the way it cut through the waves, a touch less weathered, a hint less daring. Captain Barton’s vessel boasted a newer sheen, the paint brighter, the sails crisper. But it carried the spirit of the open sea, the same spirit that had called to your father.

A smile spread on your face.

The wind whipped at your hair, carrying with it the tang of the sea and a thrill that danced in your stomach. You barely registered the young boy rocketing past you, your skirts billowing around your feet.

With each passing moment, the ship inched closer and your focus narrowed on the sailors scurrying about, mirroring your anticipation. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as a cannon boomed - a salute to the town.

Your heart thrummed inside your rib cage, matching the relentless pounding of the waves against the wooden piers. The shouts of the dockworkers, the excited chatter of the townsfolk, the thudding of feet on the weathered planks all became background noise for you, as you kept your stare on the ship.

Your intense focus shattered as you felt a tug on your hand. Snapping your gaze away from the approaching vessel, you looked down to see a small hand nestled in yours. “Papa is coming back!” Morgan shouted, her high-pitched voice ringing out in the din of the docks.

She tried dragging you through the sea of people, getting closer to where Captain Barton’s crew was about to dock. “Do you think he has something for me?” she asked you, blinking at you with wide eyes, laden with childish excitement.

You let out a soft laugh, squeezing her hand gently. “I’m sure he got you something, pumpkin,” you reassured her, laughing harder when she let out a delightful squeal, her eyes sparkling with pure joy as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

Morgan was like your little sister in all but blood. Her father, Tony, was amongst the crew mere feet away from the docks. He had once sailed alongside your father more than two decades ago. They grew up together, starting as cabin boys on the same vessel, and shared adventures for the years to come.

But a fickle wind that steered the course of lives had scattered them. There was an attack, one that had left Tony battered and scarred, physically and emotionally. He got away with his life, but only barely, and it was enough for him to choose calmer waters, a life under Captain Barton, away from the relentless call of the open sea. He had craved the security of a routine, in comparison to your father's love for adventures.

You never learned the exact details, never dared to asked, but your father never stopped speaking of Tony with a deep respect and a touch of melancholy, although they might have never crossed paths again.

Since your father's visits had ceased altogether and more people than not were sure he died on the open waters, Tony quickly became a second father figure to you, spreading warmth whenever he stayed on port.

Watching Morgan now mirrored your own childhood - a little girl waiting with wide-eyed wonder for a father who brought the world home with him, even if it was just for a fleeting visit.

You looked around for Pepper, Morgan’s mother, who likely stood amongst the bustling crowd. Like your own mother, she bore the weight of a sailor's wife; sharing whispered stories, anxieties calmed with the sight of a returning ship, and a love that stretched as vast as the ocean itself.

Thunderous cheers and shouts erupted around you once more and you couldn’t suppress your own cheers as they bubbled up in your stomach, watching the ship getting anchored. It loomed large now, its imposing shadow stretching across the docks. The rhythmic creaking of the ship as it settled against the pier exhilarated you, shivers running down your spine in waves.

Morgan craned her neck and you lifted her high in your arms, making sure she was able to see the spectacle. Her joyful excitement blended into the crowd.

You watched the crew on deck scurrying across the rigging, securing lines, and lowering gangplanks. The sails were being expertly furled.

You knew the process of the arrival by heart. As always, a team of dockworkers charged forward. Some were armed with thick ropes, attaching them to sturdy bollards lining the dock. Others used large hooks and secured lines flung down from the ship, ensuring it wouldn’t drift with the current.

Captain Barton stood on the quarterdeck of his vessel, waiting for the approach of the port officials, clad in crisp uniforms. They exchanged briefly, a verification of the ship's manifest - a detailed document listing the cargo and passengers onboard.

Then followed the health check. Another official, his demeanor seeming a little more gentle, stepped forward. He carried a satchel filled with vials and basic medical instruments. You didn’t hear what they said, but you knew the questions he would ask the Captain.

It were the same questions your father got asked, about any illnesses encountered during the journey, and if it were necessary to perform cursory examinations on some crew members.

Your father had always held his stoicism when talking to the officials, but you'd known him better than that. His eyes had shifted, subtly searching the crowd of onlookers for his family. His impatience was in the way his foot tapped on the wood and his hands adjusted his hat.

The curt nod of the official was the final permission for the sailors to enter the dock and once again, loud cheers went through the crowd. Captain Barton raised his hand in acknowledgment, a smile gracing his face and the gangplank was lowered, a sturdy wooden bridge connecting the ship to the dock.

The familiar crew began disembarking and you had to tighten your arms around a squeaking Morgan as her father stepped on the solid ground of the docks. You scanned the rest of the crew with a smile on your face. Years of Captain Barton’s arrivals had etched these men into your memory, their stories woven into the fabric of your life by Tony’s tales.

There was Bruce Banner, the ship's healer, always looking a little awkward at the attention they all received. He walked in the shadow of the hulking frame of Commander Odinson, who held the wisps of his long, blond hair in a red bandana. You spotted Gabe Jones, Dum Dum Dugan, and Jim Morita, who seemed to playfully wrestle with each other as to who would reach the docks first.

Other midshipmen followed, such as Steve Rogers, a gentle smile on his face as he looked out into the crowd. He looked stronger, you noticed. The shirt he wore was looser the last time you saw him, his shoulders now broader, and he carried himself in a way that made him look more masculine.

Joy bubbled within you, as you spotted the perpetually enthusiastic cabin boy, Peter Parker, bounding down the gangplank. His youthful grin was wide enough to split his face as he waved at the townsfolk.

Your smile faltered.

Behind Peter, an unfamiliar man descended to the wooden planks. He still looked younger than most men of the crew, maybe about Steve’s age, but in comparison to Steve’s gentle spirit, he carried himself with a quiet, almost stoic calmness. He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the docks, as if he was used to it by now, though he also didn’t look like he acknowledged anything around him at all, seeming indifferent. He wasn’t part of the crew the last time, you were certain.

There was a subtle tautness to his movements, a hint of a muscular build beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. You studied him as he disembarked to meet his crew. He wasn’t really smiling, you noticed. He wore more of an unreadable mask. It wasn’t a frown exactly but it looked detached, that made you wonder what burdens he might carry.

He barely even lifted his face to watch the crowd but you still caught glimpses of the sharp jawline and the contours of his nose. His hair looked a little unruly and windswept as a few brown strands fell onto his forehead.

As his worn boots met the solid ground as well, he clapped Steve on the shoulder, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. But before you could glean anything further, the throng of people surrounding you shifted, momentarily blocking your view.

A pang of disappointment burrowed in your stomach at the lost sight of the stranger. You craned your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse, but Morgan wriggled in your grasp and you managed to set her down gently before she launched herself at an approaching Tony.

He scooped her up effortlessly, her giggles muffled against the rough fabric of his slightly torn shirt as he twirled her around. With the unfamiliar sailor momentarily forgotten, you stepped forward yourself, a smile so wide on your face, it ached in your cheeks.

Tony beamed at you; shifting his daughter to one arm, her tiny fingers wrapping around his neck like a lifeline, and pulling you to his chest with the other.

“Well, well, look at you, all grown up, eh young lady?” he teased, his voice a warm rumble over the din docks. He leaned down, his salty beard tickling your hair as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

You rolled your eyes, though laughter spilled from your lips, despite yourself. “Grown up for years now, Tony,” you protested, your smile ever-present. Relief and a deep sense of contentment filled your chest and you took a deep breath so as not to let your emotions overwhelm you.

He smelled of the sea, with the hint of dust, wood, and sweat - a heady concoction that somehow felt like home.

He released you slightly, but not before holding you at arm's length for a closer look. “Still, you seem to have spouted a good inch or two since last I saw you, dear one. Are you eating properly? How fares your mother?”

“Mother is well, Tony,” you replied, your voice a gentle reassurance at the worry you read from his eyes. “And we are both well-fed. We manage to keep the food cupboard stocked.” His concern tugged at your heartstrings and you reached out to gently squeeze his arm. “No need to fret over us,” you added gently, though, with a hint of a playful drawl and it eased the lines on his face.

As Pepper joined you, hugging and kissing Tony with tear-filled eyes, you decided to let them have their moment and started pacing the docks, taking in the usual frenetic energy. Old Hughes, the gruff-looking but fair cobbler, unfurled his work canvas awnings, displaying a colorful array of boots and shoes for the sailors. Mrs. Cook, a stout woman with a booming voice, set up tables laden with fresh bread, glistening cheeses, and plump, juicy fruits.

The dockworkers had already swarmed the ship, lowering large wooden crates filled with the cargo. The gentle breeze carried the sweet perfume of exotic spices right over to you as you took another deep breath. The sailor's crew helped unload the crates. Some were hauled onto large flatbed carts pulled by dockworkers, while others, the smaller and lighter ones, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the sailors.

You watched with fascination how they all seemed to joke and tease each other while still working efficiently. Their grunts and laughter carried over the lively chatter of the townsfolk.

Your eyes swept through the crowd on their own accord, trying to find the unfamiliar sailor, not knowing exactly what made you so interested in seeing him again. But you also didn’t put much effort into trying to suppress that nagging curiosity that tugged at you.

Lost in your search for the guy, you completely missed the treacherous snag lurking beneath your feet. A thick hemp rope, used to secure a nearby crate, lay coiled and unsuspected. You were about to take a step forward but your boot promptly caught on its rough weave, sending a jolt through your leg and nearly toppling you over.

A startled gasp escaped your lips as you lurched forward, flailing for something to break your fall. Your hand quickly grasped a sturdy wooden post, one of many supporting the overhead awning of a nearby vendor. The worn leather of your boots met the worn wood of the planks with a resounding thud, echoing through the bustling dock.

You held your breath, bracing yourself for a painful collision with the ground. But luckily the post held firm, helping you regain your balance. A wave of relief swept over you, quickly followed by a pang of embarrassment.

You glanced down, wincing as your gaze fell upon the culprit. The hemp rope, still tangled around your boot, had caused a small tear in the fabric of your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you knelt down, fumbling with the coarse rope until it loosened its hold. With a sigh, you inspected the damage. The tear wasn’t major, but it was certainly noticeable, and your mother surely wouldn’t like it.

You rose to your feet and looked back up, just to meet the eyes of the brunette sailor, the unfamiliar man. You stilled in your movements, staring back at him. He still stood a little in the distance, a half-hoisted crate resting precariously on his shoulder as he was slightly turned in your direction. His gaze was pretty clear, but his expression was unreadable.

He didn’t seem to feel as uncomfortable as you, though. The way his eyes flit over your form, lingering on the part of your skirt you had just ripped wasn’t intrusive, but rather a quick assessment, as if gauging whether you were injured. He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary and you almost could have believed he was able to hear your heart pounding over the distance. Perhaps he could see through you, watching the blood rush through your veins and up to your cheeks as they heated up.

He turned away then with a curt and subtle nod you wouldn’t have picked up if you weren’t watching him so intensely. You might even interpret it as satisfaction at seeing you regain your footing, or simply a confirmation that you were alright.

His gaze very well may have lasted for mere seconds only but you were flustered. You weren’t sure why his brief scrutiny had sent a jolt through you, or why you felt a curious mix of embarrassment and intrigue. Perhaps it was just the fact that you weren’t used to seeing a new face around here. Especially as handsome as his.

Absentmindedly, your hands brushed over your skirt as they had gotten a little clammy and you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him.

The mysterious sailor had returned to his work, carrying the crate on his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt strained across his back, revealing those broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms, with a few veins running up and disappearing behind the fabric. Pale pink lines seemed to be marrying his left arm - scars, undoubtedly - though the details were blurred by the distance.

Your attention caught the couple rips in the fabric of his shirt, revealing skin on his shoulder and a little on his side. All your father's shirts had been adorned with similar tears. One day, you had asked about them and he had granted you with one of his gruff laughs. “Keeps the pirates at bay, my sweetheart,” he had said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

It wasn’t true of course. You always knew that, but your father's playful answer had instilled a sense of comfort back then, making you feel like he was safer out there than he actually was.

The brunette navigated the bustling docks with a practiced gait and you narrowed your eyes at him as your gaze followed him weaving between towering crates and barrels, his destination likely a designated storage area near the harbormaster's office, depending on the nature of the goods he carried. Your gaze remained fixed on him until he disappeared behind the market stands.

****

You had finished the basket you’d been weaving as the boy on lookout had announced the arrival of Captain Barton's ship - a sturdy work of woven reeds, perfect for carrying fresh bread or plump vegetables.

Your mother had insisted you could finish it tomorrow, but you still had a lot more to do and you needed the money.

The day had bled into dusk by the time you had sold it for a few coins down at the marketplace, the fiery orange of the setting sun replaced by the cool, silvery glow of the moon.

The rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath your worn boots echoed around the brick walls around you. The salty tang of the sea was now tinged with the smoky aroma of woodsmoke, wisping from chimneys.

Laughter, boisterous and male, spilled out from a nearby tavern - perhaps Captain Barton’s crew drowning their sorrows or celebrating their return in mugs of rum and ale. You made out raucous singing, sometimes punctuated by a heavy thump on the table. You could even glimpse a few silhouettes through the grimy windows, swaying and stomping to the tune of a jig played on a weathered fiddle.

The melody of a lone violin drifted from a brightly lit window a few steps further down the road, and you found yourself listening fondly.

You weren’t surprised to find your feet carrying you back towards the docks. The festive chaos of the arrival had subsided, leaving murmured conversations reaching your ears from people lost in the shadows.

The ache your father had left you with had dulled throughout the years, becoming a part of you. Most days, it resided peacefully in the background, a constant but manageable hum. But on these days, when the excitement of Captain Barton’s arrival ceased, your composure would usually fray at the edges.

A heavy fog rolled in, settling like a lead weight on your chest. It squeezed your heart, not with a fist, but with a thousand tiny, suffocating fingers. The air thinned in your lungs, replaced by a hollowness that echoed in your stomach. A hollowness no amount of food or water could ever fill.

So, the docks were the only place you could find a semblance of solace.

You knew better than to walk on the open docks at night, staying in the shadows of a few shops near the pier. You made out the rhythmic creak of rocking ships, the groan of a straining rope. Moonlight danced on the water, casting shimmering pathways that stretched out towards the inky blackness of the open ocean.

Gas lamps strung along the docks, casting pools of warm orange light that struggled to penetrate the bat darkness of the harbor. In their flickering glow, dust motes waltzed.

Further down the docks, you made out the rhythmic hammering of a lone shipwright, his work illuminated by a flickering torch.

A new sound pierced the night air.

It began faintly, a whimper barely audible over the creaking of ships and the distant shouts coming from taverns.

But with each passing second, the sound grew louder, a plaintive whine morphing into desperate cries.

It was a dog.

Your heart lurched. You scanned the dimly lit docks, your eyes flitting from shadowy figures to stacked crates. The whimpers and cries were frantic, leading you towards the easternmost pier, a relatively deserted area where a few neglected fishing boats lay moored.

There, half-hidden beneath the skeletal frame of an old, beached vessel, you spotted it. A dog - a scruffy mutt with a coat the color of dried mud and a desperate glint in his eyes.

It was entangled in a thick mess of rigging rope, the lines binding its legs and torso like cruel restraints. The dog's frantic struggles only tightened the knots, its whimpers turning into pained yelps.

Adrenaline surged through you. Your mother warned you enough times to stay away from the docks at night. They could be treacherous, a labyrinth of shadows and unseen hazards. Yet, the dog’s whimpers tugged at your heart, echoing the silent emptiness within you.

You pushed aside the trepidation that had coiled your gut and rushed towards the pained dog, without further thinking. The moonlight was the only glow you could lean on as you knelt beside the tangled animal.

“Hey there, fella,” you murmured, speaking in a soothing tone, probably more for your own reassurance than anything else, as you reached out a tentative hand. The dog flinched, knots tightening, a low growl rumbling in his chest. You kept your movements slow and deliberate. Your father had once told you to avoid eye contact as a sign of non-threat.

Taking a closer look, you assessed the situation. The ropes were wrapped around its front legs and middle in a haphazard manner. The knots, however, seemed more amateurish than sailor-made, a tangled mess rather than a secure bind. That’s why the poor thing must have gotten caught. This wouldn’t have happened with the right knots. You didn’t see any blood on the ropes, nor the dog, but it wouldn’t take much for the rough material to nick his skin.

So you slowly extended your hand towards the dog's head, whispering low and soothing. You avoided its gaze, aiming for the reassuring scratch behind his ear that most dogs craved. If the dog remained calm, you could assess the knots more closely and see if there was a way to loosen them without causing further distress.

The dog's whimpers grew softer, visibly settling with occasional shaky breaths. He watched your hand, as you reached behind his ear, a tentative sniff grazing your palm.

Your relief at the dog's response to your gentle approach was cut short.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, casting a long, distorted form across the moonlit wood as it moved in your direction. A sudden chill crawled up your spine, panic jolting through your body and you instinctively snatched your hand back, almost tumbling over in your haste.

The surprised yelp of the dog at your sudden movements pierced the air, a sharp bark that echoed like a gunshot in the stillness of the night.

The figure in the distance quickened its pace, its shadow dancing grotesquely on the pale wood of the pier.

You were frozen. Completely and utterly frozen on the ground. Your heart was pounding erratically, almost painfully, threatening to drown out the dog's frantic barking.

Broken nails clawed at the wood underneath and a whimper nearly escaped your own lips. You felt as trapped as the dog - only that the ropes binding you in place, scratching and clawing at your skin, taking your breath away the more you moved; were fear.

Each rasping breath you could take in felt like a struggle, your chest a tight cage around your rapidly inflating lungs.

The warnings your mother had ingrained in your head, that the docks were no place for a young woman at night, swirled around in your mind in sharp and mocking whispers.

The newcomer, perhaps sensing your panic, slowed his approach. He raised his hands high in the air, palms open, taking a few measured steps forward, as if taming a frightened animal. Like you had with the dog just moments before.

How ironic.

“Woah there, easy,” he called out softly, as he came to a halt at a respectful distance, hands still raised in placation. Only the moonlight helped you make him out, casting his face in an eerie half-light, revealing him only in fragments.

Yet, it was enough.

It was him - the brunette sailor that had caught your attention earlier, with the sharp angles of his jawline, the strong bridge of his nose, and a hint of a scar over his brow you hadn’t been able to see over the distance.

You didn’t know if it was relief that swept through your body since it felt numb to feeling anything anymore, but you were able to draw in a somewhat steadying breath again.

“I mean no harm. Didn’t mean to scare you, apologies for that,” he continued and it was then that his voice finally registered in your mind. It was a low rumble, rough around the edges and tinged with a hoarse weariness. Yet, there was a hint of concern and something like a soft reassurance underlying his tone and it cleared the fog around your eyes.

His gaze was solely fixed on you, somehow ignoring the barking dog beside you. There was a faint crease that furrowed his brows, his lips tugging into a frown and his fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out to you.

Your voice remained trapped in your constricted throat as you concentrated on getting the air back in your lungs. The man before you seemed to soften further.

“Heard that dog cryin' like a lost soul. Had to see what all the fuss was about. I reckon that’s what brought you out here too. Mighty brave of you, though these docks ain’t the safest place for a lady after dark.”

He cast a brief glance around, his hands slowly returning to his side as he swept the dimly lit area before returning his gaze to you. It was too dark to make out the color of his eyes but they glinted with something you couldn’t make out as he lingered on your form. He tilted his head slightly, a slow smile forming on his lips.

You might have found it charming, disarming even, if your mind hadn’t been running on scrambled eggs.

“I remember you,” he countered softly, seeming patient to wait until your voice found its way back to you. “Saw you when we docked.” His gaze drifted downwards, lingering on the still ripped section of your skirt from your earlier inattentiveness. A line etched itself deep in his brow as his gaze traveled back to your face, seeing the tear up close. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself there.”

Maybe the calming tone of the sailor also had an effect on the dog, because his whimpers had softened, replaced by weak pants. Or perhaps his struggle had simply drained him.

Regardless, you finally managed to pry your voice loose from your throat as you cleared it, the sound a little scratchy. You brushed the dirt and dust from your hands on your skirt and rose to your feet. Your legs still felt a little wobbly, but you regained your footing.

“I-I’m fine,” you croaked out and watched the way his shoulders relaxed, relief etching the lines on his face. His own chest visibly deflated with a released breath and his posture softened further.

“Let’s see how we can help our furry friend here,” he exclaimed after a moment's pause, as if remembering what he came here for in the first place. He took a step closer and crouched down to the height of the dog, you now towering over his seated form.

It surprised you. His actions, the way he spoke to you with an easy respect and approval that wasn’t always afforded to a young woman.

Especially not to you.

Your family name took a hit after the many rumors about your father's disappearance cursed the seas. There still were people praising him and talking about his adventures, but those would throw you pitying glances whenever you walked past. Conversations would halt, in fear you might crumble under the weight of some words. Of hearing your father's name. They would treat you like a fragile child. Or perhaps a ticking time bomb ready to blow up at any second.

Some treated you as a victim, some as a ghost, and others saw you as a heavy reminder of the shadow that had overcome the town at the perceived betrayal of your father to sail under pirates.

You grew accustomed to it - the pity, the suspicion, the condescension.

It still took you by surprise as you watched that man lowering himself beside you, with you towering over his crouched frame as if it meant nothing. His gaze had lacked judgment as it lingered on the tear in your skirt you obviously hadn’t changed since you ripped it. He only held concern.

It was a respite from the heavy loads you normally had to deal with and you felt a flicker of warmth chasing away some of that chill that had settled in your bones.

You snapped back to the present as the sailor reached for a small knife tugged at his belt. The worn leather handle was dwarfed by his hand, its blade a dull silver under the moon's glow.

“Don’t,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, squatting down beside him. His head twirled in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as his gaze met yours. The dog whined softly.

“He’s moving too much,” you explained, your voice regaining steadiness. “If you cut the ropes, you might nick him.”

A slow, amused smile spread across the sailor's face. It wasn’t a mocking grin, rather a playful challenge that crinkled the corners of his eyes. They were blue, you realized. “I’ve got a steady hand, doll,” he teased, his voice low and rich with amusement. “You doubtin' my skills?”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a blush creeping up your neck and you averted your eyes. “No, of course not! I didn’t mean-”

His warm chuckle cut you off, a deep sound that seemed to vibrate from the core of his being. His chin fell to his chest, brown strands falling onto his forehead as his shoulders shook slightly.

You hadn’t expected him to laugh but a strange sense of ease settled in its wake, making you suppress a smile of your own.

“No offense taken, doll,” he softly declared. “If you’re worried about the blade, then we will find another way to help the fella out.”

His voice was calm and gentle, a stark contrast to the gruff exterior he presented and the looming figure that had scared you as he had appeared from the shadows. Your heart skipped a beat, but not out of fear this time.

You decided to focus on the task at hand, to predict him recognizing the blush scorching your cheeks. “The knots are messy,” you assessed again, tracing the ropes with careful fingers. “We can untangle them if we find an opening.”

Scanning for any frayed ends, any loose thread that could serve as a starting point, your peripheral vision picked up on the sailor doing the same thing right beside you, letting his hands trace over the ropes. You worked in silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic creaking of the nearby ship, the gentle lapping of the waves, and a lone seagull's piercing squawk.

A smile grazed your face as you made out a frayed end peeking out from beneath a few knots. Deftly, you began to untangle the ropes, working with the kind of ease that came with years of weaving. You wound the excess rope around itself, creating a loose coil that wouldn’t snag on anything. The dog grew still as you neared his legs, whimpers replaced by shallow breaths.

As you worked the ropes against each other to loosen their hold, you felt your skin prickle with the gaze of the sailor on you. He had stilled his own movements, now watching you quietly, with an intensity that made it hard for you to focus. Perhaps it was some form of astonishment that radiated from him, you couldn’t tell, but it felt warm on your skin.

The brown mutt barely flinched as you unwound his legs, being exhausted by its ordeal. You worked your way to his middle, careful not to touch the sore parts of his body that had been squeezed. With a final tug, the last knot yielded, and the dog was free.

You breathed a sigh of relief, a soft smile curving your lips. “There you go,” you whispered, barely audible over the noises of the docks.

The little fella remained motionless for a moment, probably still in shock. But he quickly seemed to regain sense of his freedom and bolted away with a sudden yelp, disappearing into the shadows.

You were relieved he hadn’t gotten hurt in the process, still being able to run, but the sudden departure of the small dog left you a little disappointed.

Another comforting chuckle from the sailor, with a name you still had to learn, echoed beside you. “Consider him grateful,” he said, a lightness in his voice that made you laugh softly, tension easing from your shoulders.

You turned back to the discarded ropes, silence stretching for a few moments until you spoke up again. “He wouldn’t have gotten tangled up in those if they were secured properly,” you declared, your voice a quiet murmur, underlying a hint of resentment at the person who didn’t take his job very seriously.

The sailor looked at you for a few beats, then nodded to the heap of ropes. “And you know how to knot them correctly?” It wasn’t a challenge, nor was it laced with doubt or disbelief. There was a genuine curiosity in his tone, a spark of something deeper that caught you off guard.

Perhaps it was the way he had watched you work with that kind of amazement as your nimble fingers unraveled the knots. Or the way he looked at you with that glint in his eyes as if he already knew you would say yes. Maybe it was the satisfaction of helping a helpless dog in distress, or the intrigue this man had ignited within you, but a surge of confidence, unexpected and exhilarating, coursed through you.

“Are you doubtin' my skills?” You countered, mirroring his question from earlier, teasing in your voice.

A flicker of surprise, a delightful surprise, crossed his features, eyebrows shooting up. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he bit his bottom lip to prevent it from spreading. He looked away from you for a few beats, schooling his expression into a semblance of composure, but the amusement still danced in the corners of his eyes as he met yours again.

You turned your attention back to the ropes, beginning to feel that heat creep up your neck again at the way he looked at you. Starting to weave the rope in the familiar motions your father had taught you so many years ago, calmed the jitters that had taken root over you.

Moments passed in a contemplative silence until he broke it.

“I’m Bucky.”

You momentarily stilled in your movements, lifting your head to look at him. A touch of bashfulness colored his features and he lifted his hand to brush against the shadow on his chin.

“Should have introduced myself before. Rude of me not to.” He huffed out a breath, wincing at himself and you found his sudden shyness endearing, a soft smile on your lips.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied sweetly, “it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

You liked the way his name rolled off your tongue, testing its weight on the night air. Your focus returned to the knots you were weaving, contemplating to tell him your own name, when he interrupted the silence again.

“Who taught you that?”

You hadn’t noticed how intensely he was watching you, gaze following the movements of your fingers as you secured another knot, your hands seemingly working on their own.

Mastering the skills of knotting was never really a necessity for you, though you remembered that broad smile, that had split your fathers face as you’d told him you wanted to learn more than the simple basics he’d shown you. It had been like a game, a simple way to impress your father and make him proud.

It felt like a gift tonight.

The way Bucky asked the question, so intimate and soft, as if he was as concentrated as you, mesmerized by the way your fingers moved.

“My father,” you answered him, voice laced with a fondness that always appeared when you got the chance to talk about him.

Bucky’s gaze lifted, his eyes searching your face. Perhaps he heard the glimmer of grief in your voice, or maybe the quiet pride that intrigued him to study your expression.

“He a sailor too?”

You took a second to answer. “He was.”

Silence settled over you both once more, it was heavier than before. Out of the corner of your eye, you made out that Bucky dipped his head slightly, perhaps as a silent gesture of respect, or he was simply lost in thought.

“I’m sorry,” he then countered, the words sounding clear in the night air. His voice was gruff, however, laced with something else, something like understanding.

You met his gaze again, with a small smile grazing your lips. You couldn’t quite read his expression, but it was captivating, the depths of his blue orbs drawing you in. Blue, like the rich, inky tones of the ocean you had looked upon so many times already and never could grow tired of.

Your hands had stilled as the intensity with which he looked at you was the only thing you could focus on. You felt both exposed and strangely safe under his gaze. There seemed to be so much hidden behind those eyes, as there was behind the horizon.

“What’s your name?” The question was barely a whisper as if he was just as lost in this moment as you were.

“Y/n.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly. “Y/n? As in Y/n L/n? So, your father…he is…”

You let out a sigh, the sound heavy with a burden you’d carried for far too long. It wasn’t a secret, not exactly, but the whispers that followed your name became a constant itch you couldn’t scratch.

Not noticing how he used the present form at referring to your father, you confirmed his suspicion with a curt nod. “Yes, that’s him.”

A shadow crossed over his eyes. The softness his gaze held just seconds before had vanished, replaced by something unreadable, something dark. A shudder ran over your spine, a chill settling in your bones as if your body only now became aware of the nightly breeze that swept by.

His features were hardened over, as his gaze left you, staring beyond your shoulder. His jaw was clenched, as if in silent contemplation. There was a war brewing behind his eyes, a storm beneath the surface that mirrored the exaggerated tales of your father.

There was a tension that crackled in the air and you knew now that the chill you felt had nothing to do with the night air.

Uneasiness squirmed your stomach, but before you could act on it, Bucky’s gaze softened again, the storm clouds parting to reveal the azure depths. He cleared his throat with a subtle shake of his head, ridding himself of whatever had plagued his mind.

“It’s a nice name,” he stated, voice as gentle as before, but something lingered and you couldn’t put a name on it. “Now let me help you finish that.”

He reached for a length of rope, his calloused fingers moving with an ease that indicated he had done this a thousand times already, knotting them alongside you.

You finished in silence, the earlier tension easing a little but it still remained a faint echo in the air. You suddenly felt incredibly aware of his presence beside you, almost watching his movements more than your own.

Questions swirled in your mind, you didn’t dare to voice. Somehow Bucky’s shift in demeanor hadn’t scared you off as you believed it would have. It spurred the intrigue that had already simmered beneath the surface, a new layer to a man who was already an enigma.

Earlier the day, as you had watched him walk down the gangplank to meet his crew on the wooden plank you had glimpsed it already. The guarded detachment in which he had carried himself, an unvoiced burden that seemed to have a tight grip on him.

Maybe he was as tangled as the dog had been, invisible ropes wounding around his body - binding him, squeezing him, choking the warmth that had glimmered in his eyes moments before.

Thankfully, your father had taught you how to untangle them.

“We learn the rope of life by untying its knots”

- Jean Toomer

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #sailor Bucky #medieval #age of sail #tangled ropes #sailor!Bucky

55 notes · View notes

cho-aaacho · 8 months ago

Text

Turmoil and Tenderness

Masterlist

Imagine pt.5

This morning, chaos reigned in the school. Nanami mentioned that you had fainted, yet the most frantic individual here was Gojo. Of course, who else? He has always been a drama queen.

After a long conversation with Yaga and fooling Gakuganji at the entrance, he hurried to the hospital with Shoko, leaving Geto behind without a word. Poor that man; now he had a consequence if Yaga asked about Shoko and Gojo's absence.

Gojo even left his phone in class and forgot to put on his shoes—what a scatterbrain!

Everything that unfolded was a consequence of your decision to run through the rain with Gojo to buy snacks and ice cream, ignoring Geto's warnings. Geto has probably had enough with you two.

But how could you tell? You can't change everything; you can't walk back to the past and fix anything. Because it was too late.

After locating your room, Gojo's booming voice rattled the door, drawing annoyed glances from the nurse and doctor due to its volume.

As he checked your condition, his hands roamed over every inch of your body, causing a little embarrassment as he grazed sensitive areas. His obliviousness to this fact highlighted his occasional stupidity, leaving you pondering whether he was truly innocent or simply dense.

"You're warm," he murmured, pressing his cheek against yours and then caressing them.

You can observe the worry etched on his face, despite his efforts to conceal it with a smile and loud chatter. Yet a hint of concern still lingers in his eyes.

"Naturally, I am, Gojo-kun."

"If Nanami hadn't found you in time, you might have drowned."

Indeed, you would nearly fall into the fish pond if Nanami hadn't found you. Fortunately, you were light enough to be carried, not as hefty as a sack of wheat.

"Gojo-kun," a chilly whisper cut through the silence.

"Yes?"

"You're... heavy. You're so heavy."

"Ah, my apologies."

Clearly, isn't it obvious? He leaned against your chest casually, like a newborn baby in a mother's embrace, seeking comfort from your sweet body while checking your heartbeat.

Could he feel the warmth emanating from your chest? Maybe. Did he find it comforting? No need to ask.

As Gojo shifted slightly, his gaze fell upon your disheveled visage, flushed like a crab, eyes watery with distress. In his eyes, you appeared vulnerable, so fragile like flowers—beautiful indeed.

"I find you endearing when you're like this, so fragile, like a flower," he remarked, his fingers grazing your cheeks as he chuckled.

"How amusing, Mr. Gojo."

Both of you chuckled, though you struggled to breathe. Yet, witnessing Gojo's concern for you left you engulfed in an odd sense of awkwardness, a feeling you couldn't quite shake off.

Remaining in his position, Gojo whispered, "They say, when we're this close, we might have been soulmates in a past life."

You laughed. "Soulmates in foolishness, perhaps. But what do you mean by 'close'?" You teased him, which left him flustered.

Amidst his laughter, Gojo turned away, hiding his shyness momentarily. "Speaking of faces, aren't we somewhat similar? Both of us are rather attractive; wouldn't you agree?"

"Are you stupid? Shut up. I don't want to hear you boast about your looks."

Gojo snapped his fingers, his laughter echoing. "How cruel. These lips of mine could make you melt with my kiss, you know."

"Oh, really?"

Silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the patter of raindrops and Shoko's laughter in the background.

"Hey..."

"What is it now, Gojo-kun?"

He leaned in closer, his forehead touching yours and his hand caressing your shoulder, before planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. "The medicine hasn't taken effect yet."

A mischievous smirk played on his lips; he loved teasing you, finding joy in making you blush or flustered with his prank. Strangely, you found yourself enjoying his playful demeanor, willingly becoming his target.

"Do you think medicine works like WiFi? Get off my face!"

"But you seem to enjoy my kisses, don't you? How about I try your lips next?"

"I'm not enjoying your kisses; I just—I can do nothing this time."

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader fluff #jjk fluff #gojo jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen gojo satoru

139 notes · View notes

valapologist · 14 days ago

Text

Started playing dbd again, Dwight/Vittorio sfw drabble under the cut

The hooked survivor is the first thing he sees in the new realm, squirming desperately against the cold metal, but to no avail. He doesn't have the leverage to remove the hook himself, not with gravity fighting against him and pain leaving him weak. It's not safe, anyway; he'll do more damage to himself struggling than what's already been done.

Vittorio approaches cautiously; both not to startle the victim, and not to draw attention of whoever may have put him there. He takes Dwight's hand, rubs his thumb over the back of it. “Shhh… I'll get you down. Don't worry…”

The survivor looks surprised, but he doesn't voice it, likely just grateful for the help. Vittorio takes a hold of his waist, lifts him high enough to dislodge the hook from his chest. He nearly collapses to the ground, would if not for Vittorio’s arms around his waist pulling him in close, letting him collapse against his chest instead.

He holds him close for a few seconds longer than necessary for Dwight to get his balance; he can infer with almost definite certainty that the survivor could use a hug as he grounds himself. “I have you, cucciolo… As long as I'm here, they won't harm another hair on your head.”

He pulls back, as the stranger speaks. He looks surprised, but not displeased with the situation. Anxious, perhaps. “Y-You’re new here. Um… I'm Dwight.”

“Dwight. A beautiful name.” It rolls off the tongue like a fruity wine; sharp, with an underlying sweetness. Modern. Not like any name he'd ever heard back home. Fitting. Though, if they'd had men like this back home, he would've had quite the distraction from his research.

“I'm Vittorio. Vittorio Toscano,” He takes Dwight's hand, pulls him towards safety, “We should get to cover. Then I'll take a look at you- Your shoulder.”

“I dropped my med kit… by that shack over there. We should head that way. You can heal me behind the shack. Then we only have two generators left- I think Min and Kate are working on one together,”

Dwight continues whispering the plan to his new friend as they walk, only occasionally punctuated by winces of pain, “We can work on the one by the shack. Min always goes straight for the gate when we're finished, so we can finish ours and then head towards the exit closest to her.”

Vittorio's face slowly lights up with a grin as Dwight rambles on. Dwight doesn't seem to notice until he's finished and Vittorio has the chance to speak. “Ah, a planner! You must be in charge here, no?”

Hot pink spreads rapidly across Dwight's features; he sheepishly sets his gaze on the ground. “Oh..! Uh- No- I mean, kind of. I guess. Not officially. Sorry. I didn't mean to get so…”

Dwight falters looking for the right word; Demanding? Bossy? Vittorio can tell by the embarrassment on his face that he isn't looking for anything positive, so he takes the chance to interrupt.

“Why apologize? I think it's wonderful!” Still clutching Dwight's hand, he gives it a reassuring squeeze, “Two great thinkers, together at last! I was very fortunate to have come across you.”

Somehow, Dwight manages to flush an even darker pink, but the slight smile on his lips tells Vittorio that the praise hits its mark. He grabs the med kit from the doorway of the shack and kneels beside Dwight in the tall grass just outside of it. “We'll have you all patched up before you know it.”

#Dwight Fairfield #Vittorio Toscano #Dwight Fairfield/Vittorio Toscano

4 notes · View notes

daemonskitty · 6 months ago

Text

The inky surface of the Black Lake reflected the sliver of a moon, a mere sliver fighting to be seen through the dense canopy of trees. You huddled deeper into your cloak, the damp chill seeping through the worn fabric. Beside you, Regulus Black, his silver hair catching the faint moonlight, remained perfectly still.

"Always liked the moon better than the sun," you finally said, your voice barely a whisper.

Regulus turned his head towards you, a hint of surprise flickering in his grey eyes. "Really? Why's that?"

You shrugged, kicking a small stone into the water. A faint plop echoed in the stillness. "Feels more...mysterious, you know? Like it holds secrets."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Regulus's lips. "Secrets it does," he agreed, his voice low. "Always wondered what lies beyond it, on the other side."

You let out a soft laugh. "Maybe it's just another black lake, reflecting another moon."

Regulus chuckled, a rich sound that seemed at odds with the usual stoicism he presented. "Perhaps. But wouldn't it be something to find out?"

You gazed back at the moon, its faint light shimmering on the water. "Maybe someday," you murmured, a wistful note creeping into your voice.

"Someday," Regulus echoed, his gaze fixed on the sliver of silver in the sky. A comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the cry of a distant owl.

As you turned to leave, Regulus spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's a legend, you know. About a creature that lives on the far side of the moon, a guardian of lost things."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A guardian? What kind of lost things?"

Regulus shrugged, a flicker of something akin to hope in his eyes. "Maybe lost dreams. Maybe lost chances."

He didn't wait for your answer, turning and disappearing back into the castle. You stood there for a moment longer, the sliver of moon your only companion. Lost dreams, you thought, a knot of longing tightening in your chest. Maybe someday, the moon would lead you to find yours.

. . .

Days turned into weeks, the sliver of moon slowly waxing into a luminous orb. You found yourself drawn to the Black Lake more and more, a strange pull urging you to its inky depths. One particularly warm evening, you found Regulus there again, his figure silhouetted against the luminous moon.

"Still chasing moon secrets?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

"Something like that," you replied, a playful note in your voice. You sat beside him, the cool grass a welcome contrast to the day's heat.

"Have you learned anything new?" he inquired, turning his head to meet your gaze.

You hesitated, a shy smile playing on your lips. "Maybe. I think...maybe the moon doesn't hold the lost things themselves. Maybe it just reflects them, shows you where to look within yourself."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "An interesting theory," he mused. "So, what have you found within yourself?"

You met his gaze, a sudden rush of warmth flooding your cheeks. "Hope," you whispered, barely audible. "Hope for something better, even if it seems lost."

A smile, genuine and unguarded, spread across Regulus's face. It was a sight you hadn't seen before, a glimpse of the boy hidden beneath the stoic facade. "Hope," he echoed, the word hanging heavy in the air.

Silence descended between you once more, but this time it felt charged with a new energy. You both gazed at the moon, its reflection shimmering on the water like a bridge between you.

"Perhaps," Regulus finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, "the moon doesn't just reflect lost things. Maybe it reflects the connections we forge in searching for them."

You looked at him, a question hanging in the air. He met your gaze, a hint of a challenge in his eyes.

"Would you like to search together?" he asked, extending a hand towards you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of trepidation and excitement. You reached out and took his hand, the cool touch sending a thrill through you.

As you stood together, bathed in the moonlight, you knew this was just the beginning. The moon might hold secrets, but it had also revealed something far more precious: a connection, a shared hope, and the promise of something new blooming under the silver glow.

#regulus black #regulus × reader #harry potter #marauders era #regulus × you

3 notes · View notes

enby-denby · 3 months ago

Text

I keep it off for the most part... spare an occasional check of the stations every 2-3 minutes. At first, its nothing but silence punctuated the occasional inappropriate blaring of ABBA or The Police, but I know what I'm doing.

Finally, and with only a minute or two to spare before my GPS's exam to the location, I hear the refrain I've been waiting for:

"--upon a fiery steed?

Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need--"

I'd like to think my spouse hears me first, before the guards and I exchange a hail of bullets, singing along with a smirk in my voice and perhaps even singing along too:

I NEED A HERO!

I'm holding out for a heart till the morning light!

And he's got to be strong, and he's gotta be smooth and he's gotta be fresh from the fight!

1K notes · View notes

sherlockgracie · 13 days ago

Text

Sometimes, you just feel sick. I think it's normal, the intensity in my stomach. I want to vomit. I want to vomit. Ouch I typed that twice

Don't be a idiot

Okay so I've been you fucking moron, how is this supposed to make sense if you don't differentiate between us

Okay well that's not helpful

What do you want us to do?

Idk he started it

Okay then he should make a suggestion

Let's use different punctuation? Er symbols, at the beginning of our sentences?

~yeah that probably works

+Motion Seconded, though I don't like how long it's going to take us all to figure out which symbols to use and how to get their hands to do it in a timely manner

~it simply won't be timely then

+Yeah yeah I know

!Okay so how will they (the reader) know which one is the original

There is no original dipshit, we're all one and that's the point.

^Dont go starting fights again! Please

—For all our sake, let's keep things civil right now

+Also we don't have to use parentheses in our sentences to each other, We can Understand the intentions of our words

!But this is a post on Tumblr so like it's not just for us

Guys can I continue my original train of thought now

~yeah, go ahead, we won't stop you

Anyways I've been thinking a lot about the concept of devotion and obsession. Things I understand very personally

!Yeah you fucking freak,

+let's keep those thoughts to a minimum while where in text mode please, I know you had more to say but we don't have to do that

~i agree

!Okay fine, you got me. Just don't blame me when

—No

I just wanna get it out.

We good?

Okay cool

Anyways, I think the ideas of Knights are important to me. I think I wish I could be bound to the service of another. I remember wanting so badly to have someone to say "My liege" to. Obligation, devotion, servitude, obsession.

I think that's love? I think love is the overwhelming obsession with something else to the point of destruction of self. Er, not self perhaps, but what could be considered a portion of self.

When I feel what I think is love, it's so intense in a way that scares me. I stop feeling like myself. I feel like someone else. I want to vomit.

+don't get stuck in a loop again! Loop again!

Loop again, loo again loop again loop again

=Bastard, you purposely did that

+I'll never tell

Sorry sorry

I'll stay on track better

I want to vomit

So how can I exist when occasionally I want to shed my skin and become someone else. I want to vomit. How am I supposed to be myself when I find myself wanting to start over

Am I jealous? Or is it just, obsession. What's the difference? A lot probably I don't want to think about it right now I want to vomit.

I can close my eyes and imagine it so vividly. All of them different. I can become them in so many different ways, but it has to be unique to them.

Salivating

I want to vomit

No shut up, you guys don't get to talk right now. I'm not letting you, keep it to ourselves.

Fuck

I want to vomit

I need to be in service to someone now. I need to

I just can't stand aimlessness. What is that thing Suvi said? The wizard Sky. I'm going to go find the quote give me a moment

"I don't know the right thing to do. If I know I'll do it."

Not a nice moment for our wizard, but one I related to, so much. It was said through choked tears and a mental breakdown.

I realized recently that I have a thing for religious fanatics in media. Not ones in real life. But I played a game and fell heavily for a cult leader. Something sm appealing about someone truly believing in something with all their heart, that it is right and true. And I think that's why it will never happen in real life, I don't think people really believe in something fully and truly. But when I am in my media and I see the character kill someone for the sake of their zealotry, I feel, heavily.

I think it's probably fucked up and wrong which is why this is here on Tumblr. Though it really belongs on a main account or in my permanent drafts. But chances are if you got this far in reading it uh. Its probably fine. You don't care, and I don't care though I do. Anyways hi you, if you don't see this then don't worry about it.

I don't want to vomit anymore.

Do you think I'll find someone to serve? Do you think I could become a devoted Knight? I really like Suzaku from Code Geass. I need to finish it. But he is what I mean I guess. maybe. But he is noble in the sense of being, though I guess he is technically also a noble in a bloodline sense. I mean I think that I am not as good as he. I wouldn't be so kind if I were a servant

I think I'm done with this ramble for now. I should probably figure out my identity right now.

We're stopping now Aisling

You called me by my name

Took a minute tbh

I appreciate it still

Good night Aisling

#aislings assorted abstractions #late nights and early mornings with aisling

1 note · View note

billk128 · 3 months ago

Text

Jesse Malin Finds the Light (+ sidelong musings)

Greener pastures always wait for you You can make it tonight

So ends the Jesse Malin song Greener Pastures, here the final track on his "Chasing the Light (Live)" CD released this past spring (the package also comes with a Blu-Ray disc of performances with an alternate slate of songs). The lines close the book on a record themed with overcoming obstacles to live one's life, while looking both forward and back on what life has delivered.

What life has delivered to Malin - a vibrant indie rock/club figure in New York City, 57 years of age with 4 decades in the business - was a rare spinal cord stroke late spring of 2023, that left him paralyzed from the waist down. This is a performer who works a room old school and interactively, traversing crowds for a deeper connection, leaving the stage breathless like the best performers often do.

youtube

The album's songs and their sequence feel purposefully rueful and ultimately hopeful (Malin remains unfailingly positive), and are punctuated with the joyful kind of playing that Malin pulls from his band. Recorded live, albeit sans actual crowds - the sleeve cites "no overdubs" but there were more than one takes. Regardless, the sound is crisp and the vibe is fluid, highlighting the capabilities of the players and the subtle musical depth to the songs themselves.

A trio of tunes that open and close the record tightrope across its themes as well, with the excellent opener State of the Art setting the tone (and aided by Tommy Stinson's garage-raw rhythm guitar contribution); later Malin gets Stonesy with Meet Me At the End of the World, and then finishes with the folkier, poignant Greener Pastures.

Jesse may indeed be chasing the light given the physical hit he took, but this record is another example of him bringing the light to us. And this was just a beginning - in late June, a show (including multiple guests) at the Beacon Theater in NYC on 12/1 was announced, which sold out, and 2nd show on 12/2 was added. I don't know if the extensive physical therapy Malin has been undergoing in Argentina has changed much, but I will be at that 12/1 show to see for myself. Info on the shows and their varied artists, plus on a tribute album coming out in September appear here.

Pearl Jam's Grab Bag

For any believer still paying attention, Pearl Jam has released 5 solid records starting with 2006's eponymously named pseudo-return to form, with the recent "Dark Matter" rounding out the set. I occasionally find myself thinking that Eddie Vedder's powerful baritone can leaden their sound at times, but the band is skin tight and Mike McCready's guitar leads are nimble and reliable, and all of that continues on the latest offering.

I also felt they might have been dabbling and/or having fun with both contemporary and influential artist sounds within their own battle-tested framework on this record. There are several examples, so choosing one, the radio released Wreckage, and its Tom Petty samplings.

The song in general espouses the chiming timbres of Petty's signature work, along with backing vocals echoing both Heartbreakers and solo Petty recordings, perhaps leaning towards the Jeff Lynne-produced choral flavors of the solo albums. More specifically, starting at 2:20, the guitar break hints at what later culminates with a riff from Petty's Learning to Fly (after a series of Vedder's signature emoting) from 3:55-4:05, and echoed in the ending notes of the song. Otherwise, the backing chorals adroitly bring stylings of both Petty and Guided by Voices' lead man Robert Pollard together, Pollard having spent a period opening for Pearl Jam some 15+ years ago that retains its impact.

And finally...

Low Cut Connie is a Philadelphia-based band fronted and driven by Adam Weiner, and 2020's Private Lives was an unexpected career milestone that merits discovery and multiple listens. So I found myself surprised to have missed the 2023 follow up "Art Dealers."

And if not as memorable as "Private Lives" the record achieves as an encouraging follow up and reimagining of the previous record's sweet spots. While the results lean a little more Elton John than Jerry Lee Lewis, the passion remains and the sonic palette expanded. Two samples:

The Motown-flecked leadoff track, Tell Me Something I Don't Know;

and King of the Jews, which doubles down on both ethnic roots and this local bar band's Philly soul genesis...

#Youtube

0 notes

maylalupa · 8 days ago

Note

Mozenrath stared up through the gaps of his fingers at Aladdin, the once-dreaded sorcerer now draped in a haze of laughter and confusion. The magical effect of the enchanted wine had faded, leaving behind only a mirage of vibrant colors dancing before his eyes, an echo of the revelry that had been. With each fleeting hue, he marveled at how the world could be painted in such whimsical shades, shining brighter than his most potent spells.

Not yet ready to relinquish this unexpected moment of ebullience, Mozenrath lazily stretched his entire body like that of a cat, limbs extending with a fluid grace that belied his usual brooding stature. "I saaaaaid... you can’t bake good!" he burst out, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep within him, chaotic yet infectious.

Aladdin stood nearby, arms crossed, an amused smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’m no chef, but I can’t be that bad if Jasmine still eats my sweets!”

“Pfft, you call that baking?” Mozenrath retorted, chuckling as he brushed a lock of raven hair from his eyes. “Jasmine deserves a chef, not a street rat with flour on his nose!”

Aladdin raised an eyebrow, simplifying the jab with a friendly snicker. “At least I try. I’ve seen your so-called 'culinary experiments’—they resembled something that crawled out of the Cave of Wonders.”

“Maybe,” Mozenrath admitted, propping himself up on one elbow, feigning contemplation. “But at least I attempted a dark soufflé! What was that creature you made last week? The one that tried to sing but couldn’t hold a note to save its life?”

Both of them erupted in laughter, a sound that echoed through the chamber of Mozenrath’s lair, a place usually vibrant with tension and resentment but tonight filled with a rare camaraderie.

Sitting up fully now, the remnants of the wine's enchantment still lingering in his bloodstream, Mozenrath cast a sideways glance at his rival. “Genie,” he murmured, “he did say he’d do something to subdue me—but this? You! Not even a grimacing face can survive the insanity of this night!”

“Hey, maybe he should have spiked your wine ages ago!” Aladdin laughed, his own eyes shining with mischief. “Would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“I could have conquered kingdoms with a properly composed soufflé,” Mozenrath mused, rolling the notion around like a forgotten spell from his youth. “Just imagine: Mozenrath’s Magical Meringue! Rivals would drop like flies in its presence.”

“And then they’d attack from a sugar coma,” Aladdin added dryly, doing his best imitation of a nobleman feigning dignity while clutching his stomach in anguish.

A comfortable silence settled between them, only punctuated by the occasional chuckle, their mutual enmity diffused like the aftertaste of sweet wine. It surprised Mozenrath; he so rarely let his guard down.

“Do you think this is what friendship feels like?” the sorcerer pondered aloud, an idea both foreign and intriguing.

“Maybe not the wine, but sure,” Aladdin replied. “It’s about finding common ground, even if that ground is... well, flour-smothered and infused with a bit of magic.”

“I would never let you live this down,” Mozenrath smirked, crossing his arms defiantly as he eyed his adversary, yet a spark ignited within him, a little voice whispering that perhaps this was better than scheming alone in his lair.

As they agreed to try baking together the following week—a collaboration of darkness and light, sorcery and street-smart—it was an unforeseen truce in an ongoing rivalry, painted in shades of laughter and camaraderie instead of power and magical prowess.

“Well,” Aladdin said, casually getting to his feet and brushing off the imaginary dust from his trousers, “at least we’ll keep Genie entertained. Can’t wait to see what he comes up with next.”

With one last look at the cocktail of shadows and colors around him, Mozenrath smiled, realizing that perhaps there was more to life than mere conquest, a thought he’d rarely entertained until tonight. Maybe it was time to dip his brush into the vibrant palette of friendship, at least until the effects of the wine completely wore off.

"What did you say again?" - From Aladdin

Mozenrath stared up through the gaps of his fingers at Aladdin. The magical effect was long gone, yet the sparks of bright, vibrant colours still played on in his vision and dragged streaks about. Not yet wanting to move from where he lied, Mozenrath lazily stretched his entire body like that of a cat. "I saaaaaid... you can't bake good!" Mozenrath burst out laughing.

Genie did say he'd do something to subdue Mozenrath, though he didn't say it'd be through spiking his wine.

(Have fun with happy, drugged Moze if you wanna continue it fjbyhyu)

#mozenrath #aladdin #just two silly guys

11 notes · View notes

prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years ago

Text

When you are young, they assume you know nothing

Frederick Chilton x Reader

For @storiesofsvu’s Fall Bingo! Filling the Cardigan - Taylor Swift square

Summary: Frederick Chilton comes to work smugly showing off a giant hickey so everyone knows he got laid. His patient, Will Graham, is not impressed... but he is curious.

1,780 words

Something was different about Dr. Chilton today. His feet dragged slightly less as he limped into the cavernous interview room toward Will’s cage. The tick of his cane against the marble floors had an almost jolly beat—click-tak, click-tak.

“Good morning, Mr. Graham. I believe you had more to share on the subject of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Awfully cheery today, Frederick,” Will commented—a stiff observation, lacking genuine friendliness. It wasn’t of particular concern whether his captor was in a good mood or not.

Though, as the days rolled by one after the other with nothing for company but a blank cell wall—punctuated by the occasional visit from people he thought were his friends, and people, like Dr. Chilton, who most certainly were not—any mystery was a source of entertainment.

Dr. Chilton pulled a chair up in front of Will’s cage, its wooden legs screaming across the floor. As the officious psychiatrist sat down and pulled out a notepad, Will saw it.

A hickey, bright red and purple, was bruised into the man’s neck.

Will smirked.

So his captor was getting laid. Interesting.

It stirred up his own loneliness and longing like an unwelcome dust cloud. Resentment choked his lungs, but reacting with kneejerk spite wouldn’t help him win the game of cat and mouse he was playing. (The cat, of course, was Hannibal Lecter, but Dr. Chilton liked to think it was him, and Will allowed him to feel in control of their little sessions.)

Focus on the evidence.

While Chilton commenced asking his questions, Will closed his eyes and began deconstructing him like an FBI crime scene, piecing each clue together until they revealed a story.

The mark was large and fierce, made not just by suction but with teeth. It would have taken a long time—passion and intimacy—but was edged with hurt that made his lover bite down a little too hard. It was angry. Possessive. You wanted to leave your mark on him.

This was your design.

There was a quarrel. Will almost broke his concentration by letting a sarcastic chuckle escape. Who could ever argue with you, Frederick? But you’re so pleasant!

Will opened his eyes and gave a bored retort to the “clever” line of questioning Dr. Chilton had started. There, on his collar—a strand of hair that did not come from his meticulously styled brown coif. But Will recognized the length and color, along with the subtle lingering smell of your fragrance. He’s met you.

Chilton’s secretary. A cute innocent thing, barely out of college by the look of you. Or perhaps you just had one of those faces. Either way, hiring you was already a subject of lewd gossip among the staff. Bedding you? Well, that was a midlife crisis if he’d ever seen one.

***

“Apologies, my dear, but I will be attending a dinner party at Dr. Lecter’s this evening. Invited guests only.”

You frown, hands finding your hips. “And I don’t suppose you asked if I come?”

Frederick blanches slightly, but only slightly. There are so many walls up around his heart, he sometimes mistakes the walls for lack of caring. “No. I did not. I thought you knew we could never be… public. You should have no desire to advertise our sexual relationship either.”

“Why not?”

“It is simply poor optics. When you are young, they assume you know nothing. They will call me a lecher, and you a—”

“A slut?”

“To be indelicate, yes. Is it not true? You cannot tell me you want anything from me beyond a good lay and the gifts I furnish.”

Your lip quivers, but your eyes blaze with indignation. Something defeated and wounding—like the last kicks of a dying animal—screams from the lips Chilton so recently kissed. Your feet shake the floor as you storm out, but you stop just before slamming the door.

“It was more than that to me, you know.”

Then you were gone.

He never thought it would break your heart. He never thought the lifeless husk in his chest, mummified by a lifetime of rejection and cynicism, was capable of bleeding anymore. But it bleeds as you disappear from view.

***

There were a few days Dr. Chilton didn’t descend into the bowels of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to gloat at Will. A few skipped “therapy” sessions. All of last week, he had been particularly miserable.

If Will thought back to that week, he recalled overhearing a rumor that you were turning in your resignation. It was the natural response. You slept with your boss, and he wouldn’t acknowledge your relationship because it might damage his precious reputation.

Yet today, instead of buttoning his shirt all the way up or wearing a seasonably appropriate scarf, Dr. Chilton had left an extra button undone and loosened his tie to ensure the hickey would be seen.

Apparently, you made up.

“What are you looking at?” Chilton narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion as his lips curled into a tiny feline grin. His chest puffed.

Irritation rose in Will as Chilton smugly flaunted the fact that he fucked last night. No… though he was showing off, making Will jealous was a side effect, not the primary goal. Beneath his usual vanity, there was softness, genuine happiness that Will was not accustomed to seeing there.

You had given the mark, and Dr. Chilton had accepted it.

***

An ostentatious red vintage Jaguar pulls up in front of an apartment building where it looks out of place. A porch light turns on. Before the penitent driver can step out onto the curb, an attractive secretary, a decade or two too young for him, appears on the front porch.

“I knew you’d come back to me.” Your words ride the razor’s edge between accusing and grateful, waiting to slip to either side.

“It meant more to me, as well,” Chilton pleads. “Means more.” He steps out of the car, but you don’t move from the porch to help close the distance. Not yet.

“Do you just expect me to take you back? Just like that?” You blink rapidly.

He almost says “yes” in a desperate, obtuse way, but manages to simply drop his eyes to the sidewalk in shame.

“Nothing will change. I don’t want to be with you just to kiss in cars and downtown bars, but never in front of your friends, god forbid, or at work. How humiliating would that be for you? Well, I’m not as naive as I look—I won’t be your dirty secret, and I’m not your slut!”

“I know that. I never thought you were,” he murmurs quickly and quietly, the words spilling out like a confession.

He takes another step toward you. Then another.

You stare down at him, unmoving. He fears closing the entire distance himself—that you will push him away if he tries. He couldn’t bear the sting of rejection. But your roommates are home and listening at the windows, and he does not want them overhearing what he came to say. His vulnerability is for you alone.

Leaning on his cane, he climbs the creaking wooden porch a painful step at a time. You stand still as he approaches. Fine worry lines come into focus around your eyes, and a wave of dizziness makes his head spin as he enters the radius of your scent and breathes you in. His voice lowers.

“You made me feel wanted again. Wanted in a way I have not felt in a long time. You drew stars around my scars and made me whole. When you slipped your hand under my sweatshirt and touched the broken part of me, it did not make me flinch.” His pale eyes glisten at the memory of gentle fingers on his stomach. “It did not hurt to have your hand there. I felt… protected. Safe. Do you know how strange that is? I have never trusted anyone that much.”

You don’t understand. But you’re beginning to. His voice wavers, soft and raspy, as he tries to explain.

“I am a coward. I am afraid all the time. Not just since Gideon rearranged my abdominal cavity. My entire life was built around hiding—cutting off pieces of myself just to fit into the world. But my walls come down with you. You make me less afraid… less alone.”

He is nearly crying now, and you find it difficult not to grapple him into a tight hug and never let go, but you simply nod. You’ve never seen him like this before.

“I am sorry I was too frightened by what Hannibal and his inner circle might say. By my own employees’ gossip. You do not deserve to be hidden. It was not until I pushed you away that I realized how hollow life is without you—how important you are to me. I love you, and that matters more than my reputation or even my terror. Take me back, and I promise I will be proud to call you mine.”

Finally, you reach out and close the last few inches, taking his hand. His fingers are cold in the autumn air, and you twine yours between them.

“Frederick… did you say you love me?”

His eyes widen. But then he straightens up, shoulders back, and his eyes—dark and shining under the dim porch light—lock with yours. “Yes. I love you.”

“Oh, Fred, I love you, too,” you exhale in a single breath as you lean forward and kiss him.

One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other behind your neck, warm, supportive, and clinging, pulling you against him. Your lips and bodies remain entangled for a long time. Eventually, the chilly night wind coaxes you apart long enough to invite him inside. Even though your roommates are home and will see you together, he follows you into the warm apartment.

***

Will felt the passion tingle on his lips like fire, slowly fading as he brought himself out of it. Though he hoped he could go back to reconstructing gristly murders soon—it would be less awkward—at least he understood his tormentor a little better now.

There was more in how Dr. Chilton wore the hickey than the pride of sexual conquest. It was a declaration of love and devotion. A promise never to hurt you again.

Perhaps, Will thought, if the doctor felt half as deeply about anyone else, he wouldn’t be such a fucking prick.

“Frederick,” Will cut off his psychiatric rambling mid-sentence.

“What?”

“A word of advice: don’t bring your secretary to Dr. Lecter’s parties. You wouldn’t want a cannibal to know who you’re dating.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● • @beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen / @sassyada / @detectivebarba

#frederick chilton #frederick chilton x reader #storiesofsvufallbingo #my writing

112 notes · View notes

owlespresso · 3 years ago

Text

witching hour: 12 am

gojo x reader x geto

a difference in schedule means you have trouble falling asleep at the same time as your lovers. gojo has a full proof plan to help you out.

warnings: spice below the cut

- - -

Rain drops pelted the windows and walls of your home, the harsh sound nearly drowning out your companions’ soft breathing. Velvety dark shrouded the bedroom, warm blankets shielding your near bare legs from the chill. The wind howled and thunder occasionally crashed like an aggrieved god’s fist against the barren earth.

Perhaps it was the sound that kept you awake, or perhaps your insomnia decided to strike for no reason… but you can’t particularly find it in yourself to mind. Not when the bedding was so soft. Not when the two men on either side of you were so warm.

The shirt you opted to sleep in rode up as you absentmindedly shifted, rolling onto your other side. Your eyes slid shut, mouth opening around a contented sigh. It would likely be another few hours until you truly fell asleep, your schedule built around the early morning hours. Satoru was fond of teasing you about it, whilst Suguru often attempted to wheedle you into bed with them before you were ready.

“We can all go for breakfast together if you get up with us,” he promised a few nights ago, hand clasped around yours to drag you into the bedroom. “Don’t you want to spend more time together?” You much preferred to stay awake until the sun rose, but he attempted to blandish you into bed every night with the two of them, with his soft smiles and low, purring voice.

Tonight, he had succeeded. Alas, you lacked the willpower to say “no” to the ever charismatic Geto Suguru, not when he persuaded you with praises and rubbed your tense shoulders with his big, warm hands.

“Can’t sleep?” Gojo’s voice, thick with sleep, rumbled at your ear. Ah? Had your shifting awoken him? You opened your mouth to apologize, but promptly closed it when his large palm splayed over the slip of revealed skin, perched atop your hip with greedy, curling fingers. He gave you a fond squeeze, blankets and sheets parting as he scooted closer, nestling right up against your back. He crowded close, his practical cocoon of body heat settling over you like storm clouds above a prairie.

“No,” you replied. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” Your eyes remained shut, your face growing warm at the gentle feel of his breath on your neck. Receiving Gojo Satoru’s utmost attention sometimes feels like being a lizard underneath a heat lamp, or a particularly fascinating amoeba under a microscope. Even now, when you’re between his sheets and an everyday fixture of his life, you still struggle with that lamb-legged sheepishness. “Go back to sleep.”

He’ll be busy tomorrow morning, when he’s avulsed from your loving arms by the call of duty. Even if he isn’t tasked with some arduous mission (and is any mission remotely difficult for Gojo Satoru?), he’ll need all the energy he can get. You’ve met his students. They’re bright, enthusiastic and adaptable souls, but educating anyone in the ways of sorcery takes substantial amounts of effort and time.

“I was going to,” he drawled, voice suddenly against your ear. A shiver rolled down your spine, the plush of his lips just barely brushing against heated skin. “But it’s so loud outside,” he complained. Another roll of loud, rolling thunder howled in the dark, as if the very forces of nature acted on his command. “And you’re so warm.” He punctuated his inquiry by giving you another squeeze, thumb rubbing against the edge of your hip in slow, sensual circles. One of his knees began to nudge between your thighs, urging your legs apart despite your best intentions.

His hand trails downwards, long fingers nudging beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“Satoru—”

“Shh, it’s the least you can do for distracting me so much, right?” He pressed a trail of warm kisses up your neck. The plush of his lips parting every now and then, teeth grazing ever so slightly against your soft skin. The pads of his fingers against your clothed cunt, hips jerking, held fast against his body by his arm underneath you. “Aha! See? You’re already so wet.”

“And didn’t you say you can’t sleep? I’m sure we can fix that with a little physical exertion.”

Goosebumps spread across your skin as he coaxed you with lips and fingers, stoking the embers of your arousal into a steady flame. Your eyes struggled to stay open, breath labored as he dragged his touch across the wettening fabric. Your hips begin to slowly roll with his timely ministrations, your whimpers smothered into the duvet. There was never any hope of dissuading him from the start, not when he had the body of a modern Adonis and the skills to match it. Skilled digits pulled your panties seamlessly to the side, beginning to tease your cunt in earnest.

“You’re always so warm down here,” Satoru hummed in your ear, voice lilting like a praise. “I love you, you know that? So good for me, all the time.” He parted your folds with a lewd, wet noise, a single finger slipping inside of you. Your walls tensed, your breath stolen. The sheets bunched underneath your tight fists as you struggled to contain yourself, smothering your cries.

“Aw, c’mon, it’s okay. You can cry for me,” he cooed, like he was attempting to lure a distressed cat out of its carrier. “You know Suguru and I like it.” The hand that remained idle reached up to grasp your jaw, long fingers curling to grasp you. It took very little effort for him to force your face away from the cool shelter of the sheets, forcing you to look at the room proper again.

At that very moment, a flash of lightning illuminated the room for a mere second—but that was enough time for Geto’s open eyes to scare the living daylights out of you. Your squeal rippled through the air—when had he moved so close!? And since when was he awake!? The man in question had the nerve to pout at your reaction, his cheek pressed to the palm of his hand, elbow atop the mattress.

“What’s with that reaction?” he inquired, face furrowing into a crestfallen glout. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“You scared me—ah!” You cut yourself off with a gasp as Satoru slid in a second finger, tightening around the stretch. “Satoru, please!” At this point, you didn’t know what you were asking for, the fog of drowsiness and arousal making it near impossible to think. All that you knew was that your face was hot and your cunt was warm, waves of pleasure lapping at your lower stomach.

“Mhm, I hear you,” Satoru hummed, his thumb rolling over your clit. Your legs twitched, your lips opening around another wanton cry. One of your hands, formerly fisted in the sheets, lunges back to grasp at his hips, landing on his grey sweatpants.

Suguru suddenly pressed close, swallowing your pathetic noises and gasps in a gentle kiss. Thorough, but domineering, his tongue curling into your mouth to taste every divine inch of you. Your eyes slid shut, your body going limp against their combined ministrations. They had you hook, line and sinker, overwhelmed and overheated. One of Suguru’s hands curled underneath your thigh and brought it to perch atop his leg, cunt spread open further for Satoru’s lascivious gain.

“Just relax, little one,” Suguru cooed assuredly, a hand roaming underneath your shirt to cup your breast. “We’ll help you fall asleep.”

#geto x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #gojo

79 notes · View notes

naralanis · 4 years ago

Text

little bumps in the road (pt. 11)

Previously on LBitR...

Lena is completely mortified, and untangles herself from Kara with a swift jump backwards with far more force than is perhaps warranted to push away a powerless Kryptonian.

“Lena?” Kara says, looking confused as Lena recoils as if she has been burned, eyes hurt. Lena takes another step away.

“Sorry,” Lena gasps out, hating how small and hoarse and weak her voice sounds. “I’m just gonna--I’m OK. I just need--” she walks backwards until she collides with the door, and immediately starts fumbling for the handle, taking long, miserable seconds to locate it. “I just need some air.”

Kara opens her mouth to say something, already taking a step in her direction, but Lena doesn’t give her the chance--she’s already bolting out of the room and slamming the door behind her, practically stumbling onto the motel’s nearly deserted car park.

She knows Alex will stop Kara from following after her, and for the moment, she is incredibly grateful for that--she doesn’t think she’ll survive another breakdown in Kara’s presence.

Lena sinks to plonk rather ungracefully right on the curb, between their Jeep and Alex’s atrociously parked motorcycle. Lena wants to go away, to put some distance between herself and the Danvers sisters, but she has nowhere to go, so she just rests her head on her knees and curls tight into herself.

She breathes in, deep and as slow as she can, and then out, once, twice, again and again. Lena hates feeling this weak, this helpless. Her mind is all she has, and if she can’t control her own thoughts, her own memories, then Lena’s got absolutely nothing left. Something is terrifyingly wrong with her--she knows it, can feel it so deeply and keenly in her bones, in her own subconscious.

Lena sits at the curb for quite some time, distracting herself by watching the cars speeding down the road from the space between her knees; fixates on the hum of the ice machine right behind her, and times her breaths to the slow, lazy flickering of the word VACANCY in a not-so-bright yellow neon.

The more she tries to think back to the Kryptonite incident--to place herself in the event, to remember what happened when and where--the more her brain hurts. It’s almost a physical pain, like her thoughts are loose cogs rattling around, bouncing and denting her skull. Her thoughts feel physically heavy, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can carry them.

She hears Kara and Alex talking in the room--their voices are muted, and Lena can’t quite make out what they’re saying, though she doesn’t really try. Instead, she focuses on other sounds--car doors slamming, an engine backfiring, and just. Breathes.

The sun is close to setting when she hears the door to their room opening--she doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s Kara approaching with tentative steps. Kara’s red converse--stained with chocolate ice-cream--come into her field of view momentarily, before the blonde plops down next to her with a world-weary sigh.

“Turns out, bees like chocolate ice-cream,” she says matter-of-factly. “I dropped some on my shirt earlier and they were really after me. I had no idea bee stings hurt that bad!”

It’s clearly meant to humour Lena, and it works, somewhat. She lets out a little half-laugh, but the image of Kara actually feeling pain from something as innocuous as bees strikes an altogether different chord.

“So,” Kara continues, lightly bumping Lena’s shoulder with her own. “You good? You’ve been out here a while.”

Lena wants to say that no, she is very, very much nowhere near ‘good’ right now--she’s afraid she’s starting to lose her goddamn mind and she has no idea how to stop it, how to get back in control.

“I’m fine,”she says instead, looking down at the pavement between her knees, studying the fissures on the concrete.

To her credit, it doesn’t look like Kara believes her at all; but, also to her credit (not to mention Lena’s immense relief and gratitude) she doesn’t push the issue either.

“Alex was saying you figured out what’s wrong with me.”

Kara’s voice is nonchalant, a little forcibly disinterested, maybe, and she punctuates her question with an idle pull of the stubborn little weeds that managed to sprout from the cracks in the pavement. She tears at the leaves slowly, and for a moment all Lena can sense besides Kara’s presence (and her ill-concealed curiosity) is the sound of ripping leaves and the faint smell of freshly cut grass.

“Lena?” Kara prods gently.

“Alex didn’t tell you?”

Kara shrugs, looking at the little mound of leaves she’s torn, piled neatly on her thigh. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

Lena nods. “Yeah,” she confirms with a deep exhale. “I figured it out.”

Lena doesn’t need to look at Kara to know that she is smiling from ear-to-ear. It’s like she can feel the brightness of that grin the same way she feels the warmth of sunlight.

“Yes! That’s awesome, Lena!” Kara quips happily, nudging her shoulder again. “How do we fix it?”

“It’s actually quite simple,” Lena says, glad to have the opportunity to make her errant brain focus on something else. She’s already drawing up schematics and working through formulas in her head--she can’t wait until she has the proper equipment to actually work on it and distract herself from whatever spiral her mind’s sinking into.

“The Kryptonite bonded with some of your blood cells--well, traces of it did, anyway.” She explains. “We basically just have to figure out a way to filter them out; then you’ll be as good as new.”

“That’s great news!” Kara laughs, hands clapping together in sheer excitement. “Rao, thank you, Lena.”

It’s the sheer sincerity in Kara’s tone that breaks her.

Lena feels the sob bubbling up her chest and her throat, but it wrenches its way out before she can even think about stopping it--her chest feels tight, and her eyes are burning, and withing seconds she’s sobbing in earnest, trembling and biting at her sleeve so she doesn’t wail like a child in this parking lot.

Kara, blessedly, doesn’t say anything at all. While Lena hugs her own knees to her chest, hides her face in her arms, Kara merely sits there, occasionally rubbing soothing circles on her back as Lena cries herself hoarse.

She cries until she’s spent, until she’s empty--of tears, of feelings, of thoughts in general. Her eyes are stinging and her cheeks are wet with tears, and Lena none-too-gently wipes at her face with her sodden sleeve, sniffling and trying to compose herself as Kara remains silent.

Without a word, Kara reaches under Lena’s chin and turns her head so their gazes meet. She looks blurry to Lena through the film of tears still clinging to her eyes, but the blonde merely clicks her tongue and wipes at a few of her errant tears with her thumb.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Lena says through a shiver once her sobs subside; Kara wipes at her fresh tears slowly and tenderly, and Lena doesn’t feel like she deserves this gentleness. “You shouldn’t thank me, you shouldn’t comfort me. I’m the reason we’re in this mess.”

“Maybe you are,” Kara says, though her tone is gentle. “But so am I.”

Lena snorts--it’s inelegant and a little ridiculous, but she can’t help it, and she’s not feeling particularly elegant at the moment. “I’m the one who shot you full of Kryptonite,” she points out.

Kara sighs. “And you’re the one taking it out of me. That’s that.”

“Kara... it’s not that simple,” Lena whispers. She knows she sounds defeated, but that is exactly how she feels. She wishes it could be that simple. She wishes they could erase everything and start over, or maybe never start at all and save themselves the heartbreak.

Kara shrugs. “Maybe not,” she concedes, hand returning to rub circles at Lena’s back. “But right now, it has to be. I need you, Lena--not just to get this Kryptonite out of me and to help me punch your brother into the sun, but I want--I need my best friend back. I need you.”

Lena wants to ask how on Earth Kara is able to make it that simple. She wants to point out that there is simply too much between them--too much they haven’t discussed, too many likes, too many accusations... there was so much anger and distrust between them, and now... well.

Lena’s running. Kara’s powerless. They have nothing left to lose. Except, maybe, each other. That thought is incredibly depressing, but, inexplicably, it makes Lena break into a shy smile--her lips tug upwards almost of their own volition.

Kara notices her tentative grin, and responds by taking Lena’s hands, hooking their pinkies together over that cracked curbside. The gesture has the same effect to Lena as one of her sunshine-warm hugs--it envelops her entirely, calms her like a soothing balm.

Lena’s whisper is soft, but she knows the Kryptonian doesn’t need her super hearing to hear it.

“I need you, too.”

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

<< Previous || Next >>

146 notes · View notes

fuckzachariah · 9 months ago

Text

Alex’s presence buzzed persistently by his shoulder, the highest point at which she reached, and the moments spinning by before she answered were loaded with taut anticipation. She kissed her teeth, and Zach smirked to himself, perhaps a misplaced sense of pride as he assumed it was his mannerisms beginning to rub off on her. Alex provoked a curt laugh from him, eyes darting to her as she stalked onward, into the elevator. “Right, right. Of course. Stupid of me to assume.” Zach followed her inside, and Alex pivoted, grinning up at him, and he was flooded with a thrill at the sight. His hands went up by his head in surrender, mouth twisted into poorly contained amusement. “Naturally,” he punctuated, sensing she wasn’t done with her tirade. The doors sealed them in claustrophobic privacy. Zach had never really had a problem with small spaces, though. Wasn’t that lucky? She maintained her composure as she, indeed, wasn’t yet done. He rolled his eyes happily, pushing up against the safety bar encircling the elevator and leaning on the mirror, admiring her profile. “Valuable is an interesting assumption. You think they’d make good use of my natural skill set down there?” Zach bounced back, glancing down to his own ringed, inked hand, veins protruding as he strangled the bar inside his grip, rapidly recalling the millions of sins it had produced in its short lifespan. He glanced back up to her, thinking momentarily about all the sounds he could encourage her to make with it, too.

Zach was unfazed by her accusation; he had never claimed to or sought to be saint-like, or even redeemable. If she regarded him as worth her time, that was good enough for him. She went on still, and he half-scoffed, half-laughed, springing up from his lackadaisical stance. “Because you’ll keep all those for yourself, I get it,” he taunted. “Still territorial I see.” But their giddy flirtations were quickly bottled, both rendered into a breathless silence as the elevator lurched to an unhealthy-sounding halt. The ground juddered beneath their feet. Zach planted himself more firmly, arm extended out to her, and a second later the lights flickered out with a dying buzz. She grappled in the dark, latching on when she found him. Expressing her unease into the blackness, Zach found himself righting his posture, using his free hand to search for his phone in his back pocket as his jacket thumped to the ground from his shoulder. “He’s not here, Ale,” Zach said softly, using the backlight from his phone to locate the emergency call button on the panel, his arm outstretched to allow her to keep her hold on it as he did so. He was acutely aware of her occasionally sensitive nature, particularly to physical or environmental triggers. He kept his temperament easy and sure for this reason, refraining from joking until he was sure she was okay. “There’ll be maintenance or security in the building that can get to us something faster.”

But when he pressed the button, nothing happened. It did not click, or ring, or indicate at all that it had triggered an alarm somewhere. He pressed it again, and again. Nothing. “Awesome,” he sighed frustratedly, flipping his phone around to investigate. No bars. An emergency back-up generator blundered lazily to life, casting a dull red light about the tight space, faintly illuminating their faces and barely reaching the corners of the square. Zach looked up, trying to decipher if there was a way he could manually maneuver his way around the issue. As a child, he often found himself having weaned his way into places he shouldn’t be, and had to utilize all kinds of physical abnormalities to escape without being caught. Namely, when he and his friend had discovered the unused pipelines sitting beneath the neighborhood that, when navigated correctly, could bring them up to the surface in a neighbor’s basement. They’d done it a few times to raid freezer chests for ice cream, or steal valuables they could later pawn. They had heard footsteps, and his friend had closed the grate in a panicked flee, so Zach had popped open a rusted window to squeeze out in under a minute. In the present, he glanced to Alex, trying to parse her headspace. “I can try to pry these doors open and see how far we are from an exit,” he suggested, should she be in a state of urgency. His eyes flitted across her face, struggling in the strange light. He covered her hand on his arm with his opposite. “Are you good?”

The sound of Alex’s heels echoed down the narrowed hallway, her gaze fixed on the soft glow emanating from the elevator doors. Zach followed closely behind, his presence palpable even in the darkness. It was as if he exerted a magnetic pull, tempting her to slow her perfectly timed stride and return to his side where she belonged. But she was willful, and persisted at her own pace, determined to maintain her distance. Finally, they reached the large silver-coated doors of the elevator, and she pressed the call button. He emerged beside her, and she stole a discreet glance in his direction, noticing a wily smile smeared across his lips, a smile that communicated anything but sincerity. Alex knew him well enough to recognize that he was likely concocting something facetious to say, ready to slip back into their casual, effortless banter. With a lighthearted roll of her eyes, she allowed her gaze to settle on the dial as they waited patiently for the elevator. Like clockwork, his remark arrived in the form of a question, and she responded with a soft suck against her two front teeth. “Oh, I wasn’t planning on protecting you,” she began, her voice tinged with playful sarcasm. The elevator signified its arrival with a loud ding, and the doors parted, revealing the confined space within. Stepping inside, she was greeted by her own reflection amongst the four walls.

With a graceful pivot on the ball of her foot, she turned to face him, a sly smirk playing upon her otherwise angelic countenance. “I was going to sacrifice you,” she remarked casually, extending a finger to press the button for the ground floor. Alex stood at the center of the elevator, clutching her purse tightly at her waist. “Seems to me you’d be more valuable to them in Hell than I ever could be.” Her lips pressed together, struggling to contain the laughter bubbling beneath the surface. Instead, she maintained a composed facade, staring ahead as the elevator doors slid shut, enclosing them in silence. She refrained from justifying why he might be a prime candidate for the underworld. She was confident that anyone with a past brush with attempted murder would earn themselves a cozy spot beside the Devil himself. Nevertheless, she believed he could draw that conclusion on his own. If not, a subtle reminder lingered at the edge of her hairline, almost camouflaging with her styled, dark baby hairs. It had started to fade with time, and she remained grateful for its diminishing visibility. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I’ll make sure your new music reaches the masses. Well, except for those songs that I can pinpoint as being written about me.” She nibbled at the corner of her lip, eagerly anticipating his bold retort.

As the elevator descended from the thirteenth floor, it ticked through each tier, accompanied by an unsettling screech echoing from within its confines. She winced in discomfort, and instinctively pressed a finger to her inner ear. Before she could fully process the situation, the overhead lights flickered into darkness, and their descent abruptly halted. Feeling a wave of unease wash over her, Alex wrapped her small hand around his forearm and took a cautious step back, allowing them to lean against the support bar for stability. With a sense of trepidation, she remained still, fearing that any sudden movement might trigger a catastrophic free fall to the ground below. “What the fuck,” she exclaimed into the darkness. If she hadn’t been consumed by a sense of looming dread, she might have found humor in the absurdity of the situation. Perhaps she would have quipped about the impeccably timed nature of her jokes or the universe’s blatant attempt to orchestrate their reunion, but in that moment, she couldn’t. She looked towards the panel housing the floor buttons, only to find it shrouded in darkness, indicating a complete power outage. “I’ll try to call Drew,” she declared with resolve, rummaging through her purse for her phone. Though it offered a glimmer of light in the darkness, it proved futile in terms of connectivity, displaying zero bars of service. Undeterred, she made several attempts, only to be met with a relentless dial tone each time.

#para

52 notes · View notes

jojoboisimagines · 3 years ago

Text

Snippets Ch.4 : Johnny and Josuke (4) with the Same Crush (3)

Previous Chapter

A set of multiple drabbles/oneshots combining characters (i.e Jojos) from multiple parts and AUs.

.::.

"That guy...do you think--" Josuke started.

"That's their boyfriend? No idea." Johnny quickly answered, trying to play it off as if he didn't care.

It was quite the opposite. He may have cared too much.

To say Johnny was jealous was an understatement. But it seemed like Josuke was feeling some of the heat too, seeing you hanging out with some guy and proceeding to talk about him with Josuke when the two of you went to lunch the other day.

Josuke was still in the dark about Johnny’s own crush on you, which was a relief for the jockey, but it was hell for him, having to be afraid of either guy winning you over first.

He just needed to muster up the courage to talk to you again, but it was a lot more difficult than he thought it’d be. You two always seemed to be busy when the other wasn’t. Of course he still had Gyro (and occasionally Josuke and Hot Pants) to keep him company, but he missed you.

The little spat the cousins had was forgotten for a while. They didn’t exactly apologize to each other, but just starting to talk normally again was enough sign there was no hard feelings. The younger teen was still very confused about Johnny’s intentions that day.

‘ Was he trying to be a good role model or was he just mad I was leaving him at home?’ he thought. It didn’t really matter to him anymore, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned about what Johnny must’ve been thinking, and if he still did feel that way.

They sat at a small table on the far side of the kitchen. Josuke, looking rather bored, held his head on his palm, while Johnny was playing on their shared Switch. Or at least, was pretending to be after Josuke brought up the subject.

“Hey, can I ask you an honest question?” The Japanese teen breaks the icy silence once again.

Johnny merely raises an eyebrow with a low ‘hm’ that was barely audible. His heart silently raced thinking of what the boy sitting across from him had on his mind to ask.

“(y/n)...how long have you known them?”

A simple enough question to start off with, Josuke thought. Yet Johnny’s lips still pursed.

“Uh...about half a year now. We got really close in that time I’d say.” That last part wasn’t even to get a rise out of Josuke, he just genuinely thought so. He really cared about you, romantically or not.

Meanwhile, Josuke had only known you for the duration of the summer, which was about to end in a couple of weeks. Perhaps if he’d beg Johnny to let him stay he’d have more time to bond with you, but there was also the issue of him feeling homesick from time to time.

God, if he could take you back to Morioh with him..it’d be like a dream come true.

They both had quickly forgotten about whatever guy Josuke was referring to earlier, mixed up in their own thoughts about their relationship with you. Besides, he had only ever seen the guy once, there was no way you’d switch up on him that quickly.

He had no dates or anything planned with you like he usually does, though. Not that he didn’t want to spend time with you, he just felt as if he was coming off as a little...clingy.

Higashikata had been trying to drop hints that he liked you, such as buying you things, having heart-to-heart conversations as he’d walk you home, calling you pet names, and ending his goodnight texts with a little heart emoji. He considered himself a romantic, but when it came to your reactions, you kinda brushed them off platonically. Perhaps you’d never been flirted with before?

His texts were still frequent, making sure you were having a good day and all, but he figured maybe he should start being a little more risky..

“What do you like about (y/n) anyways?” Johnny asked.

There was a pause for a couple of seconds, before Josuke scooted back in his chair and got up from the table, intending to retreat to his room for a couple of hours.

“The same things you do, probably.”

.::.

“Ow! Gyro, what the hell was that for?!”

“Because, idiota, you need to confess already.” He hovers over Johnny like a judgmental parent.

Josuke had left the house to get some groceries, and in that time, the jockey called Gyro over. Not for advice specifically, but that's what it had eventually turned into. Sitting on the floor of Johnny’s room (where it was painfully easy to find porn magazines, Gyro won’t let that go as long as the two of them live).

“Like seriously, this is getting embarrassing to watch, just do it already.” The Italian pointed a finger at his friend. “Sooner or later you’re gonna do the thing where you get the girl drunk and then sleep with her regardless of feelings.”

“Ugh, I’m not like that anymore Gyro!” Johnny folds his arms with a pout his friend knows all too well at this point. “I’ve never committed to anyone before, so of course this is a little more awkward for me than it is for anyone else, you know this!”

Indeed he did know. It was somehow one of the things they always ended up talking about.

“Listen, I know how this is gonna end. Its gonna end with you in this same room, bunched up in several blankets, listening to Fleetwood Mac on repeat with 3 pizza boxes to make yourself feel better.”

The American scoffs.

Gyro sits upright on his bed. “I’m right. Look, this gal means a lot to you, I know. I’ve seen it. You’ve never stared at someone with such a…not hateful look in your eye.” It was half a joke, half truth. “And I don't wanna see you sad, so you’re just gonna have to pull yourself up, grow some steel balls, and ask them out. For real. For both of our sakes at this point.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Wow, Gyro wants me to be with a girl? Pigs must be flying.”

“You are so not funny.” The Italian’s teeth flashes for a moment as he scowls.

“Alright, since you’re such a casanova, why don’t you tell me what to say to them?” At this rate, there was really no other choice for Joestar to take. He could ask Hot Pants, but knew she would give him similar advice.

“Nyo-ho! I’ll show ya! All you gotta do is gimme your phone.”

As soon as the word ‘gimme’ was uttered, the jockey clutched his phone as if it was a baby. The last few times he lended his friend his phone, it didn’t go so well.

Gyro would’ve snorted if he wasn’t serious about this.

“Come onnn! It--”

“Won’t go like the last three times, right? Fat chance.”

“Just hurry and hand it over before I tackle you!”

The larger man did that far too much already, much to Johnny’s dismay. Once Gyro had him in a headlock, there was no getting out of it. He defeatedly raised his phone up to the man for him to take.

“If you ruin anything, I’m doing the same thing to you, AND taking your damn horse.” The Italian waved him off as if he was merely an angry toddler. As he typed, Johnny tried to peer over and see, but his friend was too adamant on turning side to side so he couldn’t. The expressions Gyro was making wasn’t a good sign either. First confused, then mischievous, then looking a little too proud of himself. The jockey’s hands could start sweating at any moment from the sheer anxiety this was giving him.

“Aaaaaand done! There we go, all set!”

Johnny reached for his phone as soon as the words left his mouth, unapologetically in a snatching manner to immediately read the text sent.

::‘Hey This is Johnny darling. Hope your day has been as beautiful as your smile. I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow by 12pm. I have something very important to tell you. See you soon xoxo.’::

Alright, so it wasn’t as bad as he thought itd be (not nearly as bad as the time Gyro dared him to send a ‘send nudes’ text to you) but god, it would look suspiciously out of character for you to see. He can’t even remember the last time he typed ‘darling’ instead of ‘darlin’ and actually bothered to punctuate his texts. And who even used ‘xoxo’ anymore?

His friend looked at him with a big grin, waiting for his reaction. A slightly more pure smile than if he were waiting for Johnny to get a joke.

“Soooo what do you think? You gotta pick some nice clothes out for your date.”

The shorter man sighs.

“Its...passable.”

.::.

Josuke got home a little later than he expected. He was surprised to see there was still Prince CDs in stock at the store. Thats one of the perks of coming to America, he guessed. He was more than ready to put them into one of Johnny’s old CD players he had found. It was already hard for him to listen to pretty much anything without thinking of you. At least if it was Prince specifically, it would help him feel better and he could jam out to it.

Finally finding the track he wanted, he grinned, letting the music play out loud and hopping on his bed. It was a good few minutes before he had started getting that feeling in his gut again.

..Crap, this wasn’t helping either.

The teen felt that he couldn’t endure this much longer. Love was something he took very seriously and to be so unsure about your relationship just made him feel funny. He had to at least know for sure if the both of you were on the same page. Josuke was sick of being so anxious about it.

Josuke laid down flat on his back, pulling his phone out.

“You know what? I’m gonna ask them out.”

#jojo #jjba #jjba x reader #Josuke Higashikata #josuke x reader #josuke higashikata x reader #Johnny Joestar #johnny joestar x reader #jojo x reader

54 notes · View notes