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seumyo · 3 months ago

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imagine how heavy bakugou’s gauntlets are to you.

You weren’t entirely sure what you had done to deserve this.

Maybe you had done something awful in your past life, and it’s finally come to bite you back in the ass.

Sure, you were a UA student. Sure, you had signed up for the hero course, fully aware that it would involve combat training. But this? Holding onto one of Bakugou’s gauntlets—the same gauntlets that had nearly blown Midoriya through a building during the first battle exercise?

You could already see your funeral.

Your relatives all coming together under one roof to mourn you.

Your fingers curled stiffly around the massive piece of equipment, your right arm straining slightly under its sheer weight. You had always known they were heavy—Bakugou’s combat style revolved around explosive power, and he wasn’t the type to wield anything flimsy—but this?

This felt like holding a compact boulder.

A boulder filled with nitroglycerin-laced sweat.

That part was arguably worse.

It’s like lifting a weight that never really lightens over time.

Your mind raced with the implications.

His gauntlets stored his sweat to maximize explosive output. Which meant the one you were holding was loaded. Which meant if you even thought about holding it wrong, you’d be gone. Reduced to nothing but a crisp outline on the ground.

Holding an explosive hazard had never been part of your bucket list.

You could not channel your inner Meredith Grey and take one for the team to hold a bomb.

“I—” you started, your voice thin and weak. “I don’t think I should be holding this.”

Bakugou, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes. “And why the hell not?”

Because it was a bomb, for starters.

Because it was his bomb, specifically made for him, and you had just been handed it like it was some casual training exercise and not a potential death sentence.

Instead of voicing any of this, you swallowed hard and said, “I—I just don’t think I’m qualified? Don’t I need to have a seminar for this? Maybe a safety waiver?”

Bakugou scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

Your grip tightened reflexively.

Oh god, was that too tight?

Was it going to go off?

Bakugou’s eyes flicked down to your hands, then back to your face. “Your Quirk makes shit weightless and indestructible, right?”

You nodded hesitantly.

“Then you’re the best person to hold it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But—”

“No buts,” he interrupted. “You wanna play defense all the time? Fine. But in the real world, you need to learn how to hit back. Can’t stand your damsel-in-distress act every situation, shithead.”

You bit your lip.

He wasn’t wrong, but… you had seen firsthand how much destruction his Quirk could cause. He had gone all out against Midoriya back then, using these very same gauntlets to unleash a massive blast that almost ruptured an entire building. You hadn’t even been in the fight, but you had felt the heat from a distance and had heard the deafening roar of the explosions echoing across the control room.

And now you were the one holding it.

“…It’s not gonna explode on me, right?” you asked.

Bakugou rolled his eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t get stuck.

“Not unless you’re stupid.”

That wasn’t reassuring.

Not at all.

You swallowed again, forcing yourself to focus. You weren’t completely helpless. Your Quirk made whatever you held weightless and invincible. If you activated it now, you wouldn’t have to worry about the gauntlet’s weight—or about dropping it by accident and, in turn, detonating it.

Taking a deep breath, you firmly held the gauntlet with both hands.

The effect was immediate.

The heaviness vanished entirely, replaced by a strange, almost floating sensation. Your fingers adjusted around the gauntlet’s surface with ease, no longer struggling against its weight. A faint, translucent glow coated the edges, a telltale sign that your Quirk had fully activated.

You exhaled, relieved.

“Okay. I think I got it.”

Bakugou smirked. “Took you long enough.” He stepped in close without warning, his hands reaching for your wrists.

You barely had time to react before his grip closed around them, adjusting your stance.

Your brain blanked.

Bakugou was close. Too close.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, his fingers strong and sure as they repositioned your hold. He smelled like sweat and burnt caramel—like fire and something sharper underneath, something distinctly him.

(You tried not to think about it too much.)

If you hadn’t already been panicking about the gauntlet, you definitely were now.

(You were falling—ahem, failing at not thinking too much about it.)

“Loosen up,” he said, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You’re gripping it like it’s a fucking live grenade.”

“Isn’t it, though?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

He grinned.

Oh no.

That was a bad sign.

“Not yet,” he said, sounding far too entertained. “But it will be.”

You let out a strangled noise.

Bakugou ignored it, stepping behind you so that you were completely boxed in by his presence. His hands remained firm on yours, his chest nearly pressing against your back as he guided your aim.

Your brain was screaming.

It wasn’t like you were new to close contact—UA training often involved being thrown around by classmates—but this was different. This was Bakugou Katsuki, infamous for his temper and even more explosive Quirk, pressed up against you like it was nothing. Like you weren’t about to spontaneously combust just from the sheer proximity.

Maybe you were thinking too much into it.

“Alright,” he murmured, tilting your wrists slightly. “On my mark, let go.”

You nodded weakly, hoping he couldn’t feel how fast your pulse was racing.

“Three…”

You swallowed.

“Two…”

Oh god.

“One.”

You released, letting your left hand fall, Quirk disabling instantly as the barrier lightened.

The explosion erupted in an instant, the force slamming through the air like a shockwave. The ground trembled beneath them, a scorching heatwave blasting outward as the impact roared across the training field.

You barely had time to process any of it before you felt yourself lurching backward, the recoil throwing you off balance—

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you firmly in place.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Bakugou had caught you.

His grip was solid, his chest firm against your back, keeping you steady against the sheer force of the explosion. His hand pressed against your stomach, holding you still as the last remnants of the blast dissipated into the air.

For a second, neither of you moved.

...

It was bad enough that you had just fired one of his gauntlets, but now you were in his arms? With his hand on your waist?

Man, maybe you should’ve been the gauntlet’s target instead.

Bakugou didn’t say anything at first, just exhaled through his nose before slowly releasing you, letting you find your footing again.

You stumbled slightly.

He steadied you with a single hand on your shoulder. “You good?”

You turned to look at him, still in too much shock to form a proper response. “Y—eah?” you replied after a moment.

Bakugou raised a brow. Then, to your absolute horror, his lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Tch. Dumbass,” he says. “Not too bad, eh?”

“I could’ve died.”

“Nah.”

“I’m scared that you’re carrying heavy weight—bombs around like it doesn’t weigh a ton.”

A shrug. “Training.”

Your hands were still clammy.

Probably not from fear anymore.

“You wanna try using the other one?” he offered, surprising you and himself, really.

...

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

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covidsafecosplay · 8 months ago

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From the article:

Any common face mask provides significant protection against the virus that causes COVID-19, but N95 masks are most effective at slashing the amount emitted by infected people, according to a University of Maryland-led study released Wednesday. So-called “duckbill” N95 masks scored highest in the study, which measured the exhaled breath of participants who were tested both masked and unmasked to measure comparative outputs of SARS-CoV-2. The inexpensive masks, which have two head straps and a horizontal seam, captured 98% of exhaled virus, according to the study published in eBioMedicine. The researchers also found that—in what might come as a surprise to many—cloth masks outperformed the specific brand of KN95 mask that was tested. Surgical masks brought up the rear in performance out of the four types, but even they blocked 70% of the virus, the tests showed. (To reflect the general public's use of masks, study volunteers were not fit-tested for their masks or trained how to properly wear them.) “The research shows that any mask is much better than no mask, and an N95 is significantly better than the other options. That’s the No. 1 message,” says the study’s senior author, Donald Milton, a professor of environmental health and a global expert on how viruses spread through the air.

#news #covid news #health news #covid #covid 19 #covid-19 #coronavirus #covid isn't over #mask up #wear a mask #long covid #still coviding #covid conscious #covid cautious

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stevieschrodinger · 3 months ago

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Part One

“We are going to get in so much shit for this,” Chris rambles, “if we get fucking caught with this-”

“Chris, stop okay,” Eddie tries again. She’s been working herself up with the same shit for twenty minutes.

“We decided to do this babe,” Robin reminds her.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” Chrissy practically wails, “he saved our asses, it just seemed fair!”

“Our asses were in trouble in the first place because of him,” Eddie mumbles under his breath.

Robin Elbows him, “shut up, he said he didn’t know and I believe him. I told you, he’s a good soul.”

Eddie just rolls his eyes at her, “we’re not going to get caught,” Eddie says again, full of confidence. And he is, like, reasonably sure this is going to work. Steve’s buried in the middle of a crate full of spare parts, some of them engine parts so are pretty resistive to the scanner. Steve’s running on bare minimum power output. He’s basically nothing. Eddie’s scanned the crate from every angle at about two feet range; the port security are not going to pick up on him.

They’re just sneaking an unregistered, Mars built synth through customs, that’s all. Nothing exciting. Just a synth that One built with his bare hands. One who single handed caused a Synth uprising and murdered every single man, woman, and child on Mars and proceeded to build his own empire in the rubble.

Absolutely nothing to see here.

Eddie holds his fucking breath.

The coms button lights up, Chrissy instantly flicks it, and the most bored sounding voice in the universe asks Eddie if he has anything to declare.

“No, nothing.”

“Please check the list of prohibited materials. You must declare anything radioactive.”

“No,” Eddie says again, “nothing.”

“Docking gate four, please align with the scanner and hold position when indicated to do so.”

The line goes dead, Chrissy maneuvers the ship carefully, and Eddie is certain all of them are holding their breath. They’ve done this what feels like hundreds of times. Eddie is absolutely sure it has never, ever taken this long. The longer it goes on, the twitchier the girls get.

The coms light flashes, and the girls both turn to Eddie wide eyed. Eddie can’t blame them; he’s pretty sure he’s still holding his breath when he flicks the toggle, “please proceed to the gate,” Eddie flicks the switch back, exhaling and flopping down in his seat, the girls both let out breathy cheers and fall into each other.

“Oh fuck me that was terrible,” Eddie gets up to go and retrieve Steve out of the parts bin.

Eddie watches Steve carefully. He’s not doing anything, just standing in the sunlight. Head tilted back, like he can actually feel it on his skin. Sometimes he blinks his eyes open, looking down at his own hand, turning it in the light.

Chrissy appears next to Eddie, holding a bag out to him; sugary baked goodness, “oh that’s the good stuff,” Eddie thanks her, sugar powder smeared on her face.

“I fucking missed this,” She agrees.

Robin appears next, coffee for the three of them. Real, actual coffee. This is the closest Eddie ever gets to a religious experience.

“Okay, me and Chris really need to do the rounds,” Eddie nods, waves them off since his mouth is full, there’s several minutes of awkward hugs as everyone negotiates coffee cups and precious pastries.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks them, frowning. He looks so human, Eddie thinks to himself. They’re definitely going to be able to pass him off as human but...he doesn’t have any ID. Nothing. Steve doesn’t exist, which, considering they’re only planning to be home a week or so, shouldn’t cause too much of an issue.

Until they have to smuggle him right back out again.

Eddie hopes.

“We’ve been off world for like, months, we both need to go visit with our parents.” Chrissy says it off hand, “see you later, Steve. Bye Eddie.”

The girls are oblivious as they leave, picking their way along the busy street, bulging backpacks hoisted up high.

Eddie sees it though. It was fast, the change in Steve’s eyes. They’re normal again now, blink and you miss it kind of thing, but Eddie has no doubt something just happened.

“Steve? What was that?”

“Another file...presented itself.”

“A memory?” Eddie presses gently, standing closer together so they can speak quietly. There are plenty of people around them, everyone chattering and going on about their day; no ones paying attention to them. “What was it?”

“Children...there were children, they were...very important to me. Like I was their parent, somehow. I was...very protective of them,” Steve looks around, frowning. “I need to find them.”

Steve actually turns, like he’s going somewhere, “woah woah there,” Eddie grabs Steve’s hand, and Steve does stop. Eddie is under no illusion that Steve stopped because he wanted to. There’s no way Eddie could stop Steve; Steve could rip Eddie in half, like a wet sheet of paper. His hand is human warm in Eddie's. “Lets go to my place okay...we can talk about it and try to figure something out, we can’t just...go off. Do you even know where you would be going?”

“Hawkins, Indiana.”

“I...holy fuck. I wasn’t actually expecting an answer.”

Steve frowns, his lips pursed in a sweet, confused little curve, “neither was I, until I said it.”

“Shit...Steve. Come on.”

This is not normal for a Synth. Not any kind of Synth. This is just...Eddie doesn’t give a fuck about Steve’s weirdness, it doesn’t matter really, just how weird it is...Eddie’s got to get to the bottom of Steve’s memory errors, he figures the answers have to be there somewhere.

Eddie’s working in a bit of a make shift situation here. The ships in dry dock to be unloaded, refueled and have some minor repairs. Including the airlock which Eddie is praying no one asks any probing questions about.

“Okay, come and sit here,” it’s Eddie’s bed in his pokey apartment, and he has all the tools he could scrape together set out on a towel, but he thinks he has enough here to at least have a look. Now that Steve is willingly accessing the files, Eddie might be able to do a scan, at least.

Steve sits. Eddie goes to find one of the latches on Steve’s scalp, but stops himself, pulling back. It feels...invasive. Suddenly. Now that Steve is alive and awake in a way Eddie’s never come across with a Synth before. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Steve tells him, “I don’t mind.”

“Okay…” Eddie goes back to it, noticing for the first time that Steve’s hair is ridiculously soft. Eddie cards his fingers through it, finding the little edge, and using his magnet to unhitch the plate, “pretty sure it’s this one.”

Steve hums in agreement, sitting still as Eddie leans over him, Eddie works for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the readouts on his visor; everything stays green and holding.

“Okay, lets look,” the handheld reader loads slowly; unsurprising really, when Eddie clocks how much data there is, “Christ,” he breathes, “these files are fucking massive. No wonder you’re having a problem processing them.”

“They do seem to affect other systems.”

Eddie hums, “this is mad...I don’t even recognize the format.” This is...Eddie lets it load, finally, looking at the file data, frowning, “this...this cannot be right. I need to send this to the girls.”

It takes a long few minutes, Eddie letting another file scan through while he’s waiting; this ones even bigger, which is just, insane.

Eddie’s communicator starts beeping in his pocket; he doesn’t bother plugging it in, just brings it up close enough to his ear that he can hear, “Eddie, where did you get this?”

“It’s from Steve,” Eddie tells her. He watches as the next one completes; it’s much the same, just even more complex.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Chris. I am absolutely fucking certain,” considering Eddie literally has it in the palm of his hand, “I just watched the file transfer myself. One hundred percent.”

Eddie doesn’t even blame Chrissy for questioning it, Eddie would have done the same.

“Eddie, those are brainwaves. This is a memory. Like a human memory.”

Eddie looks down, but Steve is already blinking back up at him. Steve does not look even one bit surprised.

“Chris, you and Robs want to go on a road trip?”

The facility is abandoned. Long abandoned. The doors are smashed in, the walls are bare, and every single thing has been stripped out of here. There’s just dust and trash in the corners of every dark room. Broken office chairs. Designs spray painted by vandals. Stripped wiring hanging forlornly from ceilings where the tiles have either been smashed or just fallen in on their own.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, creeping along behind him. There’s no one here, there hasn’t been for a long time, but the place feels haunted.

“We need to go down.”

“Down?”

“This isn’t it; there’s...something more.”

“Right,” Chrissy says confidently, even though she looks fucking terrified, “down it is.”

“I brought torches,” Robin offers.

Steve leads them past a bank of elevators; no power anyway. There’s a panel that Steve unceremoniously rips off the wall; Eddie couldn’t even see it until Steve did it, the camouflage was so good. Next goes the security pad; with no power, Steve just calmly rips the unit right out of the wall. The door next to it, he has to force.

It screeches and creeks, groaning loud enough that Eddie wants to cover his ears. It doesn’t want to go, but the metal itself eventually buckles under the force of Steve.

The stairwell is as dark and empty as everywhere else.

They creep down, torch beams flickering, only the soft sound of their feet on the steps.

It feels like they go down forever.

When Steve opens the door at the bottom, a soft light fills the space. It’s not bright; much closer to emergency lighting. There’s strips of it, either side of the hall.

Every room looks like a torture chamber to Eddie, despite the stripe of cheerfully flaking rainbow paint that decorates the hallway.

Things that look like dentist chairs with horrible, probing machinery hanging over it. Rooms with huge devices in that Eddie can’t even guess the purpose of, “Steve, what the fuck is this?” Chrissy whispers.

Steve pushes open a double door, and everyone freezes at the sight that greets them.

Eddie, for a brief second, thinks they’re human kids. They aren’t, even in the poor light he can see that their insides are machine; not human. The smears of colored Synth liquids are no less gruesome looking for it though.

In the doorway, Steve falls to his knees.

Steve was almost impossible to move; he weighs a fucking tonne. Between the three of them they manage to slide him out of the way of the door, far enough that they swing shut at least and they don’t have to stand there, looking at the ruins of whatever the hell this is.

“They made Synth kids,” Chrissy looks green, like she’s gonna’ throw chunks at any moment. Robin is sheet white, even in the shitty lighting, “what’s wrong with Steve?”

He kneels, frozen, his eyes white again.

“I think he’s processing memories,” Eddie hazards a guess. “We...need to wait it out, I think.”

“Jesus,” Chrissy’s teeth are chattering, her voice shaky, “couldn’t he have done this somewhere else?”

“Not sure he’s exactly controlling it babe,” Robin tells her, eyes wide enough Eddie can see the whites; Eddie’s pretty sure he probably looks the same.

“Kids,” Chrissy breathes again, “sick fucks.”

When Steve drags in a deep breath, they all jump, “Jesus Fucking fuck,” Robin hisses, Chrissy taking two big steps back away from him in surprise.

Steve’s...breathing. Loud and panicked which is just. He doesn’t even have fucking lungs, “Steve,” Eddie kneels in front of him, grabbing his shoulders, “Steve, you’re fine. Steve.”

Steve grips Eddie’s shoulders; not hard though, like he still knows Eddie’s just a breakable human. Eventually, he calms, seeming to slowly realize he doesn’t need to breathe, so it stops again.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, sorry,” Steve gets up, fluid and sure on his feet again, he easily pulls Eddie up with him.

“What did you see?”

Steve looks around, “not here,” he says.

“I fully fucking second that,” Chrissy adds, vehemently.

“Yeah, lets get the fuck out of here.”

But Steve hesitates. And then he goes back into the room of horrors.

“Steve,” Chrissy hisses.

“Where the fuck is he going? I don’t want to go back in there-” but the doors swing open again, Steve back already, he’s carrying another synth in his arms; this one doesn’t seem injured that Eddie can see.

She’s wearing white, her hair clipped short. She’s stiff in Eddie’s arms, the unnatural stillness of a deactivated Synth.

“Steve? Who is that?”

“This is Eleven. She’s coming with us.”

“Eleven as in the number that’s ten along from One?” Robin asks, panicked.

“Oh fuck me, this is such a bad idea,” Chrissy whispers, as she follows along.

“Steve,” Robins hisses, “Eleven is like, ten numbers up from One. Is it that kind of Eleven?”

“Eleven is nothing like Henry.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Robin mutters.

“Ah fuck me, we’ve got to go back up all those stairs.”

Eddie just follows along quietly at the back, listening to the girls bitching, feeling like the ghosts of this place are trying to follow them out.

Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice about it before, but now...now it feels kind of odd. A little disrespectful maybe. Synths are artificial, they’re not people, they’re not even alive, so before meeting Steve, Eddie wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

Now, having a synth in the back of their transport, just laid out with a blanket thrown on top, feels kind of weird. Feels a little disrespectful.

They’re nearly an hour outside of Hawkins before the girls chatter starts up again, like they’re just now far enough away from that place that it’s okay again.

Naturally they’re full of questions, and Eddie listens carefully as he drives, “I think I remember a lot more now,” Steve is telling the girls.

“Yeah, like what?”

Steve frowns, Eddie watching him in the rear-view mirror. Next to him, Chrissy is twisted fully in her seat so she can see Steve, “I think I’m from Hawkins. I think I was made there. Henry...lied to me. He just overwrote my memories to try and...make me be on his side. I think Henry stole me from there.”

“You think he caused the errors?” Eddie asks, and Steve frowns, shaking his head.

“Henry was there? One?” Robin pipes up, “oh my God,” she breathes, and it feels like they all realize it at the same time, “One was built there too, right?”

“He wasn’t an anomaly, was he?” Chrissy follows the thought to it’s obvious conclusion, “that’s what they were trying to do there, isn’t it? True sentience.”

Steve nods.

“So...Mars? That was...actually someone's fault. Like One wasn’t just an accident, they built him that way and then…”

“They thought they had him under control. They thought he was...compliant, like me. Like the others. That’s why Henry killed them, he knew the kids might be able to stop him, one day. He waited until I was in maintenance. He must have waited and waited for me to be shut down before he did anything, physically I was the only one there who could have saved the kids.”

Robin reaches across the seat, squeezing Steve's hand. “it’s not your fault babe, okay? If you were being, fixed up or whatever, you couldn’t have known what he was going to do, right?”

“Why the fuck did they build them as kids? That’s just…” Chrissy doesn’t have the words.

“Messed up?” Robin supplies.

Steve frowns, “they were being transferred to new bodies as they grew up, they...had minds like mine. Memories. They were trying to make...people.” Steve shakes his head, “I’m not sure.”

“So why aren’t you a little kid?”

“I was built as an adult, like Henry. The kids memories are their own, just like with a human. They thought that would work better than what they did with me and Henry, but it would take longer; the kids had to grow. My memories are…” Steve frowns, again, twitching, eyes flashing briefly white before he blinks back to alertness, “from a person?”

“Holy shit,” and that revelation kills the conversation for quite a while as they all process everything. Mars was...well. Whoever was building these Synths, the government? The military? Both? Whoever the fuck it was, it’s their fault that One happened. Not the random programming glitch that they’ve successfully blamed all this time.

Mars is just...one giant cover up.

And Steve...holy shit, Steve was actually a person, a human being. That makes so much sense. None of it was programming, it’s just...Steve. All the mannerisms, the personality...it was real.

It still is real.

“We should...tell someone.” Eddie suggests, “people should know that One wasn’t an accident. Mars is their fault, whoever built him. It was deliberate, and they fucked up.”

“We wouldn’t be able to prove it though,” Chrissy reminds him, “Steve is our only evidence. And a creepy building in the middle of nowhere filled with dead Synths.”

Eddie sighs, she has a point. And if it really is one massive cover-up, the first thing they would do is eliminate Steve.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, unable to keep the question in any more, they make eye contact in the rear view, “what was your roll?”

Steve smiles faintly, “I’m the babysitter.”

Eddie dropped the girls off at Chrissy’s parents place and instructed them, very firmly, not to breathe a fucking word of this to anyone. They didn’t need telling, not really, but it still made Eddie feel better to say it.

Now they just need to sneak a Synth into Eddie’s apartment without drawing too much attention. Luckily Eddie’s in a cheap and shitty part of town, and most people keep their heads down and their business to themselves. It’s pretty late by the time they get back, and that’ll help.

Eddie had, briefly, considered going to Wayne but, fuck dragging him into all of this mess.

They have Eleven wrapped in a blanket, and Steve holds her vertically, one arm wrapped around her like she’s a piece of furniture. Eddie’s got his head on swivel, he tries to play it cool, but he’s failing miserably as he trails after Steve up the stairs. Anyone who sees him will know he’s guilty of something. The lights flicker, the bulb on the second landing gone completely.

Eddie nudges trash out of their way as they head along the hall.

Steve takes Eleven inside, laying her out on Eddie’s beat up two seater couch, her stiff body resting awkwardly, propped against a headrest.

Her hair is peach-fuzz, but whoever built her did just a good of a job as they did with Steve.

“Can you wake her up?”

“I can try,” Eddie’s exhausted, it’s been a long fucking day, but he retrieves his tools from where they are still laid out on the towel on the bed. It’s been long hours since Eddie found Steve’s memories, but Eddie’s tired enough that it feels like it’s been at least a week.

The panels are easier to find and open at least, thanks to the short hair.

Eddie wonders vaguely if that’s why they made it short.

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly, “we should check her for a transmitter. Henry must be aware of them, if that’s how he found me.”

“Sure,” Eddie gestures at her vaguely, there isn’t anyway Eddie’s going to be able to move her, but Steve turns her over. He moves her easily, but gently. With great care.

Steve lifts the back of her white shirt, indicating the place where Eddie should cut; the transmitter is there, exactly the same as with Steve. Eddie crushes it and drops the remains into the garbage disposal.

“Okay,” Eddie mutters to himself, getting a coffee, “okay we can do this,” he does his best to hype himself up, but he’s running on fumes. It really has been a hell of a long day, all the traveling, plus finding that place. It’s been a lot.

This morning, calling Chris, feels like it was simultaneously ten minutes ago, and about a thousand years.

Eddie tries to suppress another yawn, and fails, before pulling his visor down, Steve’s hand on his shoulder stops him, “this can wait.”

Eddie half shrugs, “she’s...your friend though, right?”

“Yes. And she still will be tomorrow.” Steve takes Eddie’s coffee away, “I can watch out for both of you tonight. You should sleep.”

Eddie could fight it, but he knows Steve’s right. Plus the idea of just going to bed sounds too incredible to resist.

“Okay, but first thing in the morning.”

Eddie blinks awake with gummy eyes. He’s still in bed, his room looks fine.

Obviously the government hasn’t ransacked his apartment and carried him off into the night. It’s all good. Eddie sighs, rolls over, and lets himself fall back into the nice place half between sleep and wake, cocooned in his warm bed covers.

He figures it’s maybe an hour later, Eddie still resting without sleeping, when there’s a gentle tapping on his bedroom door.

Eddie makes a quiet, ‘hmm?’ noise, figuring it’s Steve and that Steve will hear him.

Steve comes in with a steaming mug of coffee, which is just...outstanding really, and Eddie sits himself up more in bed to take it carefully, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Steve’s such an odd duck, for a Synth. It’s got to be all those human memories.

“You said One was like you, but the kids are growing their memories organically?” Eddie cradles the steaming mug close to his face, breathing the scent of coffee.

Steve doesn’t move, standing over Eddie, “yes.”

“Do you think that’s why he chose Henry? Do you think that was his name, before?”

“It’s possible, if I had a name before, I don’t remember it,” Steve turns, sitting on the edge of the bed where Eddie’s invited him. Eddie shifts a little further when the bed really dips, it’s easy to forget that Steve is fucking heavy, “I have been wondering,” Steve continues quietly, “if Henry’s memories...are from a bad person. And that’s why he and I are so different.”

“I think...that makes sense. I mean, you’re a good guy Steve. Even Robin says you have a good soul.”

Steve frowns, looking pensive, “but what if...I don’t. What if I turn out like him?”

Eddie downs the last of the coffee, ditching the empty mug on the bedside table, “pretty sure the fact that you’re worried about it means that you won’t.”

Steve nods, “thank you, Eddie.”

Part Three

#ST353 #eddie munson #steve harrington #chrissy cunningham #robin buckly #buckingham #au #sci fi au #futuristic #outer space #space ship #robot steve #mystery #steddie

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anticipatedexhale · 5 months ago

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Sweet dreams silly~~.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, ekko, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: you fall asleep on them!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader, fluffff and obvi not proofread.

Jayce Talis.

The day had been long—longer than it had any right to be. You had spent hours in the lab with Jayce, watching him tinker away at a new hextech prototype, listening to him ramble about energy outputs and stabilization. His voice was soothing, deep and rich, and even though you had tried to pay attention, exhaustion was slowly creeping in.

Jayce, as usual, was caught up in his work, hyper-focused on the glowing blue crystal in his hands. “You see, if we refine the stabilization matrix, then the energy dispersal won’t—” He stopped mid-sentence when he heard a soft sigh.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw you slumped against the desk, your head tilted slightly to the side, breathing slow and even. Asleep.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Guess my lecture wasn’t that interesting,” he murmured, shaking his head.

For a moment, he just watched you, his expression softening. You looked peaceful like this, your usual tension smoothed away by sleep. The sight of you made his heart squeeze in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

He hesitated, then carefully reached out, his fingers ghosting over your cheek before deciding against it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, stretching before adjusting his position.

Then, with the utmost care, he lifted your head slightly and guided it onto his shoulder. You stirred, mumbling something incoherent, but instead of waking up, you just curled into him instinctively.

Jayce went completely still.

His brain short-circuited for a second. He could feel the warmth of your breath against his collarbone, the way your body relaxed into his.

And he was not prepared for how much he liked it.

Swallowing hard, he slowly exhaled, trying to act normal despite the fact that his heartbeat had picked up. He carefully reached for his coat draped over the back of his chair, unfolding it and draping it over your shoulders.

“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”

His work was officially forgotten. He knew he should probably wake you up, tell you to go sleep somewhere more comfortable, but... maybe just for a little while, he’d let you rest.

Besides, the way you fit against him felt a little too perfect.

With a soft chuckle, he leaned his head back against the chair, allowing himself to relax just a little.

“Yeah,” he whispered to himself, “I could get used to this.”

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

Mel Medarda.

The evening had stretched on longer than expected, filled with soft candlelight and quiet conversation. Mel had invited you to her private chambers—away from the noise of the Council, the endless debates, the weight of responsibilities pressing on both of you. It was supposed to be a simple night, just the two of you lounging on her luxurious couch, sipping on fine wine, indulging in each other’s presence.

But the warmth of the room, the softness of the cushions, and the gentle cadence of Mel’s voice had lulled you into a peaceful haze.

She had been speaking about an upcoming political maneuver, something sharp and intricate, her words like silk as she absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm with her fingertips. You had tried to keep up, really—but the exhaustion of the day weighed heavy, and before you knew it, your eyelids fluttered shut.

Mel only noticed when she posed a question and was met with silence. She turned slightly, catching the way your head had dipped forward, your breathing soft and even.

A quiet chuckle left her lips, amusement dancing in her golden eyes. “Falling asleep on me now, are we?”

She made no effort to wake you. Instead, she reached for a silk throw draped over the chaise lounge, delicately pulling it over your shoulders.

Her fingers, always so careful and precise, brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. She let them linger for just a moment longer than necessary, taking in the peaceful expression on your face.

There was something so rare about this—seeing you like this, so utterly vulnerable and unguarded. Mel wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the quiet intimacy of the moment, but something about it made her heart ache in the gentlest way.

She adjusted her position slightly, allowing your head to rest comfortably against her lap. Slowly, she traced soft, absentminded circles along your shoulder, indulging in the quiet moment.

“Sleep well, my love,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose this means I win our little debate.”

With a small smile, she leaned back, resting her head against the couch. And for once, she allowed herself the rare luxury of just being—wrapped in the warmth of your presence, in the quiet understanding that neither of you needed words to fill the space between you.

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

Viktor.

The lab was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the occasional scribble of a pen against paper. The usual chaos of hextech research had settled into a peaceful lull, and Viktor was fully immersed in his work, sketching complex diagrams in his notebook.

You had joined him earlier, intending to keep him company while he worked—though you had underestimated just how soothing his presence could be. The soft scratch of his pen, the low hum of his thoughts murmured under his breath, the dim glow of the lamps—it all wrapped around you like a lullaby.

Viktor, absorbed in his notes, barely registered the moment when your head slowly dipped against his shoulder. At first, he simply continued writing, assuming you were just leaning in to read his notes. But when your breathing evened out, slow and steady, he finally glanced down.

His pen paused mid-stroke.

You had fallen asleep.

Against him.

Viktor blinked, momentarily taken aback. He wasn’t used to this—someone being so comfortable, so unguarded around him. It wasn’t something he expected, nor something he thought he deserved.

Carefully, he shifted his position, mindful of his leg as he adjusted his posture. You barely stirred, only sighing softly as you nestled closer. The warmth of you against his side was... distracting.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were, how easily he could feel the rise and fall of your breath. His fingers twitched against the notebook, his thoughts scattering in a way they never did, even in the most difficult of calculations.

A part of him thought about waking you—telling you that the desk chair you were sitting in wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place for sleeping. But another part of him, the part that secretly relished this quiet moment, didn’t have the heart to disturb you.

Instead, he reached for a spare blanket draped over the back of his chair. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped it around your shoulders, making sure you wouldn’t catch a chill in the cool night air.

With an exhale, he let himself relax, just a little. He shifted his gaze back to his notes, but his mind wasn’t on hextech anymore. Instead, it was on you—on how easily you had trusted him enough to drift off like this, on the rare and unexpected comfort that came with your presence.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He turned the page in his notebook, picked up his pen, and continued writing.

But this time, the equations didn’t seem quite as important as they had before.

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

Caitlyn kiramman.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across Caitlyn’s study. The two of you had settled in for a quiet evening together—her going through case files, you flipping through a book she had recommended. The plan was simple: a peaceful night away from the chaos of Piltover’s streets, just the warmth of the fire and each other’s company.

But somewhere between turning the pages and the gentle rhythm of Caitlyn’s voice as she murmured notes to herself, your exhaustion won. The weight of the long day caught up with you, and before you knew it, your eyelids drooped, your body leaning ever so slightly to the side.

Caitlyn only realized what had happened when she felt your head rest against her shoulder. She stiffened, blinking in surprise.

She turned her head slightly, catching sight of your peaceful expression—eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came.

For a moment, she sat completely still, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t that she minded—far from it. But Caitlyn Kiramman wasn’t used to people leaning on her like this, depending on her for comfort in such an effortless way.

Slowly, her tense shoulders relaxed.

A soft smile tugged at her lips as she carefully shifted, just enough to make sure you were comfortable without waking you. She reached for the knitted throw blanket draped over the couch and gently pulled it over you.

Her free hand hesitated for a second before she finally allowed herself the small indulgence of brushing her fingers lightly against yours, tracing a faint pattern along your knuckles.

"You must be exhausted," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I suppose my reading material wasn’t that exciting, then."

Despite her teasing tone, there was nothing but warmth in her gaze as she looked down at you. She had spent so much time building walls, being the sharp and poised Enforcer that Piltover needed. But moments like this—quiet, simple, intimate—made her realize just how much she cherished having someone to let her guard down around.

Caitlyn let out a soft breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned her head against yours, closing her eyes just for a second.

"Sweet dreams, darling," she whispered.

And for the first time in a long while, she let herself sit there and just be—with you, with the warmth of the fire, with the quiet understanding that, for once, she didn’t have to be on high alert.

Tonight, she could just be Caitlyn. And that was more than enough.

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

Vi.

The night air was cool, a faint breeze drifting through the open window of Vi’s small apartment in the Undercity. The two of you had spent the evening sprawled across her couch, talking about everything and nothing—stories from her time in prison, your latest adventures, and, of course, her constant teasing about how you could never beat her in a fistfight.

She had promised to teach you some new moves earlier, but after a full day of running around, you were too exhausted to keep up. At some point, you had curled up beside her, just listening as she talked, her voice a low, comforting hum in the background.

And then… sleep had crept up on you.

Vi only noticed when she cracked a joke and got no response. She glanced over, her smirk fading slightly when she saw your head tilted against her shoulder, your body fully relaxed against her.

“… Oh,” she muttered, blinking.

For a second, Vi just sat there, her usual confident demeanor wavering. She wasn’t used to this—someone trusting her enough to let their guard down, leaning on her in a way that wasn’t about throwing punches or watching each other’s backs in a fight.

She carefully shifted, mindful not to wake you, but when she moved even the slightest bit, you instinctively burrowed closer, nuzzling against her shoulder with a quiet sigh.

Vi froze.

Her ears went a little warm. She had taken plenty of hits in her life, but this? This was something else entirely.

She cleared her throat, rubbing the back of her neck. “Jeez, you really just knocked out on me, huh?” she murmured, her usual teasing tone softer than usual.

She hesitated for a moment before finally draping an arm over your shoulders, pulling you just a little closer.

“… Alright, fine. I guess I can be your pillow for a little while,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

Leaning her head back against the couch, she let her eyes drift to the ceiling, her fingers absentmindedly tracing gentle circles against your arm. For someone who had spent most of her life fighting, running, surviving—this kind of stillness was new.

But it wasn’t bad

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

Jinx.

The hideout was a mess of half-finished projects, stray bullets, and a ridiculous amount of neon paint splattered across every surface. It was chaotic—just like her—but somehow, it had become one of your favorite places to be.

Jinx had been rambling for at least an hour now, bouncing between topics as she worked on some new explosive contraption. “—and then, I was thinking, BOOM! But not just a regular boom, like, a big boom! The kind that makes people’s ears ring for days—”

She turned, expecting some kind of reaction from you, only to find you completely out.

Jinx blinked.

You were curled up against the couch, your head resting on your arm, completely passed out mid-conversation.

At first, she just stared.

Then, she let out a snort. “Pfft—you serious? I was just getting to the best part!”

She dropped onto the couch beside you, crossing her arms and pouting like a kid who had just lost their audience. “Jeez, tough crowd. Didn’t know my storytelling was that boring.”

But as much as she wanted to mess with you—maybe yell something loud just to see you jolt awake, or doodle something ridiculous on your face—she found herself hesitating.

You looked… peaceful

It was rare to see someone so relaxed around her. People were usually on edge, waiting for her next unpredictable move, but you? You had just fallen asleep like this was the safest place in the world.

Jinx huffed, but her expression softened as she flopped down beside you, tucking her legs underneath her. She nudged your cheek lightly with a gloved finger. “Y’know, you’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d be real mad ‘bout this.”

With a dramatic sigh, she grabbed an old, tattered blanket from the other side of the couch and threw it over you—mostly covering you, though she wasn’t exactly precise about it.

Then, after a moment of thought, she carefully leaned in, resting her head against yours. Just for a second.

“… Don’t go thinkin’ this means I’m goin’ soft, got it?” she mumbled, even though you were too deep in sleep to hear her.

She stayed there anyway.

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

Ekko.

Falling Asleep on Ekko

The night was peaceful in the underground hideout. The hum of machinery and the distant sounds of the city above faded into a quiet lull, and you found yourself sitting next to Ekko in his little corner of the world. The light from his contraptions flickered softly, casting a warm glow that made the otherwise cold and metallic room feel like home.

You had been chatting with him for hours—about your latest adventures, the wild things you’d seen, and some of the crazy plans you both had for the future. Ekko was always so full of ideas, always looking to improve things, but tonight he seemed more focused on listening to you than anything else.

You could feel the comfort of his presence—how he always made you feel safe, like nothing could touch you when he was around.

But, somewhere between his soothing voice and the warmth of the room, your body started to betray you. The exhaustion of the day, the endless thinking, and the stress of the world above all melted away. Your eyelids grew heavy, and before you knew it, your head had dropped forward, finally succumbing to the pull of sleep.

Ekko didn’t notice at first, lost in his thoughts as he tinkered with a small device in his hand. But when he glanced over and saw you, your head resting on his shoulder, he froze.

For a moment, he just stared at you, trying to figure out if you were just resting for a second or if you had actually fallen asleep on him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he realized you were out cold, a peaceful expression on your face.

His heart did a little flip, but Ekko wasn’t the type to show how flustered he was—so he kept his focus on the work in front of him, pretending he wasn’t slightly melted by the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep like that.

But then, you shifted slightly, your body leaning a little further into him, and before he could stop himself, Ekko gently wrapped his arm around you to keep you steady. He didn’t want to risk you waking up if you were uncomfortable.

His fingers brushed against your hair, the lightest touch, but it made his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the quiet fill the space between you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered under his breath, glancing down at you. “Otherwise, I’d be all annoyed you fell asleep on me.”

But the truth was, he didn’t mind at all. It was like for once, he didn’t have to be the one in control, didn’t have to be the one always thinking a step ahead. He could just be here, with you, with the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Ekko leaned back against the wall, letting his head rest for a moment as well. He didn’t fall asleep himself—no, his mind was always too active for that—but he let himself enjoy the stillness of the moment.

And when the morning came, and you stirred, groggily waking up, he’d be right there, ready to pull you into a warm hug. Because that’s what Ekko did—he protected, he cared, and he made sure you always felt at home, no matter where you were.

But for now, he just sat, smiling softly to himself, and allowed himself to savor the quiet and the warmth of you beside him.

Authors note: U GUYS ARE ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL THANK YOU SOSOSOSO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT AND LOBE U HAVE GIVEN ME MWAHH

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liviawildrose · 1 month ago

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𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝟏𝟎𝟏

the cold truth: your brain is the boss of your reality

your brain is not just a squishy organ in your skull. it’s a pattern-detecting, future-projecting, meaning-assigning machine. and your nervous system? it’s the messenger. the mood conductor. the switchboard for every single emotional, physical, spiritual vibe you feel.

if your nervous system is dysregulated (and let’s be honest most of us walking around with trauma, burnout, bad parenting, too much social media, and zero rest it is), then your brain is operating in survival mode. not goddess mode.

you feel like shit because your nervous system is hijacked

this is not your personality. this is your programming.

are you always anxious, snappy, emotionally numb, overly sensitive, tired but wired, can’t focus, can’t sleep, stuck in loops of overthinking? or maybe you feel shut down, depressed, numb, foggy, dissociated, hopeless?

you might be in dorsal vagal shutdown. it’s the freeze state. it’s what your body does when the danger feels too big to fight or run from.

and if you’re just constantly overstimulating your brain with useless content, noise, stress, porn, gossip, sugar, or doomscrolling congrats. you’re in a state of what i like to call:

✨ neural masturbation ✨

aka: mental overstimulation with zero productive output. feels good short-term, wrecks your life long-term.

but wait, you can rewire all this.

1. nervous system regulation

this is the foundation. nothing in your life changes until your nervous system feels safe. period.

→ vagus nerve activation (the holy grail):

• cold showers / face in ice water

• deep belly breathing (inhale 4, exhale 8)

• humming / chanting / singing

• slow rhythmic movement (like walking, swimming, yoga)

• touch / pressure (weighted blanket, self hugs)

• grounding in nature (barefoot on grass, laying on the earth)

→ cut stimulation

• limit social media + screen time

• no phones in bed

• 1 hour in silence every day (no input = integration)

→ rest like it’s your job

• nap

• stare at the ceiling

• do nothing without guilt

• let your brain process and chill

now relax cause first i’m gonna tell y’all about

YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM

the nervous system is your body’s electric language.

it’s what lets you feel, move, react, survive, and thrive.

if your brain is the CPU, then your nervous system is the WiFi. and let me tell you:

bad WiFi = glitchy reality

strong, stable WiFi = smooth, sexy manifestation pipeline

so when you’re stuck in fear, shame, doubt, overthinking, self-hate spirals —

it’s often your nervous system crying:

“yo… i’m overloaded. i need safety. i need co-regulation. i need a hug and some fkn magnesium.”

THE THREE NERVOUS SYSTEM MODES

1. SYMPATHETIC STATE – “FIGHT or FLIGHT”

• activated by threat, stress, trauma, survival

• you feel: anxious, restless, angry, hyper, can’t sit still, can’t stop thinking

• body: tense muscles, shallow breath, maybe stomach issues

• mind: “i have to do more or else i’ll fail”

and the way my biology teacher told us “when you have your cumulative test in a hour and you haven’t prepared for it”

this is your hustler mode but in survival. it’s useful in short bursts, but living here full-time burns you out.

2. DORSAL VAGAL – “FREEZE or FAWN”

• when you’re overwhelmed AF, so your system shuts down

• you feel: numb, hopeless, dissociated, heavy, tired all the time, unmotivated

• mind: “what’s the point… nothing matters. i’ll never succeed.”

• body: depression, chronic fatigue, no appetite or bingeing, low energy

most depressed people stay in this state, notice how nothing exite them anymore? yeah that’s the reason

this is the shutdown zone. not your fault. your system is protecting you from past danger.

3. VENTRAL VAGAL – “SAFE & SOCIAL”

• the state of calm, creativity, confidence, clarity

• you feel: grounded, happy, motivated, connected, flowy

• body: relaxed shoulders, steady breath, sparkle in the eyes

• mind: “i got this. life is working for me. i’m safe to be seen and succeed.”

THIS is where you create magic. THIS is where you’re magnetic. THIS is where you manifest with ease.

✨ HOW TO REGULATE YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM AND BECOME GODMODE ✨

literally regulate your nervous system and you’ll watch your life snap into place. here’s the top practices to get you into your divine ventral state daily:

breath work

slow, deep breathing tells your brain: “you’re safe now”

• box breathing (4–4–4–4) = calms anxiety

• 4-7-8 breathing = activates parasympathetic calm response

• deep belly breaths = nervous system reset. not chest. not shallow. go deep.

cold showers and face dips

“wtf” i know — but science supports this

cold activates your vagus nerve = instant mental reset

you’re literally shocking your body out of panic

BILATERAL STIMULATION (aka EMDR-style techniques)

• tapping left/right sides of your body

• eye movement back and forth

• walking with intention

this helps you process trauma, rewire beliefs, and regulate emotions

it brings both brain hemispheres into sync = POWER MODE

LISTEN TO BINAURAL BEATS + SUBLIMINALS

• 528Hz = love, healing

• 963Hz = crown chakra, divine connection

• 432Hz = natural harmony

• subliminals + these = subconscious and nervous system healing

layer it up like your sonic skincare.

CO-REGULATION / TOUCH / SAFETY

you are not meant to heal alone.

being near people who feel calm + safe will literally regulate your system through mirror neurons.

hugs, holding hands, even voice notes from your bff = nervous system gold.

even petting a dog. even hugging a pillow with lavender oil.

your nervous system doesn’t care if it’s “real” or not. it just wants love.

btw, i’m always here to listen to ya so 💗

now we talk about brain

YOUR BRAIN IS A GODDAMN UNIVERSE. TREAT IT LIKE ONE.

so let’s get this straight:

you wanna be that global idol, soloist, actress, ceo, dancer, doctor, engineer, model, teacher, lawyer, the prettiest face of luxury brands, walk with your head high while everyone’s eyes are glued to you like you’re gravity itself?

then honey? you better be training your brain like it’s a fucking star, like the most important asset of your life.

let’s talk about RAS (reticular activating system) — the gateway to your dream reality

the RAS is a filter in your brainstem that decides what you notice in the world.

you ever learn a new word and suddenly hear it everywhere? or think about someone and they text you?

that’s RAS in action. it’s the brain’s “selective attention” system.

and here’s the wild part:

✨ it’s programmable. ✨

so if you wake up and feed it images of wealth, beauty, love, success, peace, power

the RAS will start scanning the environment for ways to make that real.

you’ll start seeing opportunities.

you’ll meet the right people.

you’ll “magically” land where you need to be.

it’s not coincidence. it’s science.

✧ start here: train your RAS everyday

1. create a vision board (digital, physical, mental doesn’t matter)

2. make a mind movie (a video of your dream life set to music that activates you)

3. record your affirmations in your own voice and listen to them while you get ready

4. journal like you’re already living your dream —“today i woke up in paris with flowers on my balcony…” (you can totally use chatgpt for this)

your subconscious doesn’t know the difference between real + imagined.

so imagine obsessively.

protect your cognitive real estate:

aka: no, you don’t need to be in every group chat. no, you don’t need to scroll till 3am.

attention is your most expensive currency.

every time you give it to something stupid, you’re telling your RAS: “this is what matters.”

→ unfollow people who drain you

→ clear your digital clutter

→ 1 hour a day = no screen, no noise, just you

→ read real books. journal like it’s a prayer. stare into space and let your brain breathe

your nervous system is a little animal you have to soothe it like one.

stop trying to “outthink” your trauma.

you have to out-feel it. (that’s what therapist are for)

you don’t need a new life.

you need a nervous system that can hold the life you already want.

nervous system magic:

• vagus nerve stim: humming, chanting, cold exposure, slow touch

• qigong, yoga, cat-cow movements

• barefoot on the earth

• safe connection: hug someone. or yourself. or a pillow. oxytocin heals.

• rest like a ritual: sleep in blackout, no screens 2 hours before bed, soft music, magnesium

build a focus temple in your life

focus is the biggest asset in today’s world

you can’t be god-level if you’re scattered.

ritualize your focus like monks light incense:

• pick one sacred hour of the day for deep work

• same playlist, same drink, same setup every time = anchors your brain

• eliminate all distractions. wear headphones. close tabs. put phone in another room.

• set timer. 25 mins on, 5 mins off. brain LOVES structure.

discipline is not punishment.

discipline is devotion to the future you.

final rituals: become a high-frequency brain baddie

• daily dopamine reset: no phone for first 30 mins. no junk food. movement > screen.

• write “evidence logs”: every time something good happens, write it down. builds trust.

• label your thoughts: not “i suck” → “this is a scarcity thought pattern. i choose abundance.”

• use scents to program memory — perfume, incense, oils = mood anchors

• mirror work: say it until your cells believe it

• microdoses of beauty: fresh flowers. sunlight. favorite song. brain food for the soul.

• romanticize boring shit: do dishes in your favourite pjs with some music. make your smoothie like it’s a spell. trick your brain into seeing the sacred in the mundane.

YOUR BODY IS YOUR TEMPLE, BUT YOUR BRAIN? IT’S THE ALTAR.

you wanna be a superstar? then you gotta treat your brain like a sacred device, a divine motherboard, a throne room where gods hold council.

no more trash inputs, okay?

• Omega-3s (salmon, walnuts, chia seeds): makes your brain juicy & sharp like a sword.

• Dark chocolate (real, not sugary junk): boosts serotonin and cognition.

• Avocados: healthy fats = smooth thinking.

• Blueberries: literal brain magic. anti-aging. memory-boosting. psychic fairy food.

• Green tea: focus, calm, clarity.

• Turmeric (with black pepper): anti-inflammatory. sharpens your third eye, no joke.

avoid: processed junk, white sugar, excess caffeine, soda these kill your neurons and steal your shine.

CRYSTALS FOR BRAINS THAT RULE REALITIES:

wanna think like a god? wear your altar. hold your ritual. program your crystals.

Fluorite

known as the “Genius Stone” clarity, order, concentration

Amethyst

balances moods, enhances spiritual downloads, calms anxiety

Clear Quartz

master healer amplifies any thought or intention

Labradorite

unlocks intuition, helps access creativity and divine inspiration

Lapis Lazuli

throat + third eye activation — confidence, insight, articulation

(there are more so please do your own research too)

SUBLIMINALS ARE PSYCHIC STEROIDS. USE THEM WISELY.

you wanna rewire your reality? go subliminal.

subliminals = messages that bypass your conscious filter and go straight into your subconscious (the part of your mind that rules 95% of your life).

use subliminals to:

• upgrade your looks (yes, facial structure and skin can shift)

• enhance intelligence, memory, learning speed

• remove limiting beliefs

• manifest luxury, fame, love, power, anything

• regulate emotions + trauma

listen while you sleep. stack affirmations. make your own. reprogram your thoughts like you’re rewriting code. (i personally don’t cause my head hurts but everyone on the internet seems to function fine after listening overnight so you do you, see what works for you)

“OUR EMOTIONS SHAPE OUR DESTINY.” – DR. LISA FELDMAN BARRETT

yes. that’s the queen.

Lisa Feldman Barrett – one of the most iconic modern psychologists.

she said: “Emotions are not just feelings. They are predictions your brain makes about the world.”

baby. this means your emotions aren’t just cute little inner weather reports

they’re codes. previews. they shape how you perceive the world and what you attract.

CONTROL EMOTIONS = CONTROL DESTINY

if you can master your emotional reactions, you can literally start sculpting your fate.

you’ll go from:

“omg why is this happening to me 🥺”

to:

“ah. this is a trigger. this is old wiring. time to reprogram it. thanks, universe.”

USE YOUR EMOTIONS AS FUEL:

• anger → power.

• sadness → transformation.

• jealousy → awareness of what you want.

• boredom → signal to evolve.

your emotions are tools. not curses. not weaknesses. tools.

REALITY IS THOUGHTS TURNED SOLID.

“Everything you see around you was once a thought. Literally.”

somebody thought about inventing the mug you’re sipping from.

somebody thought about the phone you’re scrolling this on.

somebody dreamed of stages and world tours and beauty empires and then built them from neurons.

so now let me ask you this, baby girl:

what are you thinking today?

what are you planting in the garden of your mind?

WHEN YOU FEEL STUCK, ASK:

• why am i resisting this task? (fear of failure? fear of success?)

• what would my highest self do right now?

• what does future me already know that i’m forgetting?

your brain is plastic. not like barbie plastic (although slay), i mean neuroplasticity —

it can change at any age. any moment. every time you choose a new thought, you’re choosing a new future.

what is neuroplasticity, actually?

in plain words?

neuroplasticity is your brain’s ability to change its structure, reorganize itself, rewire its own circuits, and literally form new connections depending on how you think, act, feel, and even imagine.

it’s the reason:

• you can learn to walk again after a stroke

• trauma can change your brain, but healing can rebuild it

• habits form. habits break. habits get replaced.

• you can literally manifest your desired personality, success, skills, vibe, life

the wiring in your brain is not fixed. you are not stuck. your thoughts? your behaviors? they’re rewiring you all day, every day.

you’re literally programming your brain just by being you.

spiritual + psychological fact:

whatever you consistently focus on

whatever emotion you regularly feel

whatever pattern you repeatedly fall into

that becomes your default neurocircuit.

but that also means:

if you build new ones intentionally you become a new you.

how to activate your neuroplasticity

1. Repetition + Intention = neural pathways

keep repeating what you want to believe/do/feel. over and over.

make it juicy. emotional. real. the brain learns through intensity and repetition.

“i am becoming a global icon. my voice moves millions. my presence reshapes reality.”

repeat that till your brain thinks it’s already true and soon, it will be.

2. Visualisation = neural rehearsal

your brain cannot tell the difference between what you vividly imagine and what’s actually happening.

this is why athletes, CEOs, artists they all visualize before they perform.

wanna become a pop icon?

close your eyes. picture the stage. feel the lights. the screams.

your brain begins to rewire as if you’re already that person.

this is called “functional neuroplasticity” — building new functions through mental rehearsal

3. Regulate your nervous system

your brain won’t rewire itself properly if you’re in fight or flight 24/7.

you have to feel safe enough to rewire.

do:

• breathwork (box breathing, alternate nostril)

• vagus nerve stimulation (gargling, cold plunges, humming)

• long nature walks

• grounding (barefoot on earth)

• magnesium-rich food + adaptogens

• meditate. but make it vibey.

4. Use tech to reprogram: SUBLIMINALS + AFFIRMATIONS

subliminals literally bypass your conscious brain and go straight to the subconscious.

pair them with:

• headphones (esp. binaural beats = brainwave entrainment)

• night time listening (again see what works for you and listen accordingly)

• theta wave frequencies (your subconscious is most open here)

your subconscious mind = the operating system.

subliminals = code updates. neuroplasticity = the install button.

APP RECCOMENDATION :- manifest

5. Journaling + affirmations = mirror neurons in action

when you write new beliefs (in present tense), your brain starts mirroring them.

especially if you do it in your own handwriting.

your brain’s like: “oh wait… we’re serious?? okay bet. rewiring now.”

6. Act like the version of you who has what you want

neuroplasticity loves behavior.

you don’t just think your way into new wiring, you act it.

so dress like her. walk like her. post like her. speak like her.

watch how the brain reconfigures itself into that version.

“act as if” is not delusion. it’s neuroscience.

also follow @emonthebrain on instagram she is a neuroscientist she makes reels on brain, neuroscience and how you can practically change your life by using neuroscience

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grandisknight · 9 months ago

Text

good morning-night | xavier

summary: Xavier wakes up in the middle of the night and handles the dilemma sleeping beside him.

tags: nsfw (mdni), established relationship, afab!reader, dubcon, somnophilia, fingering, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex/cunnilingus, handjob, kissing, sleep (part 2)

wc: 3.2k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

When Xavier’s eyes blinked themselves open, the sun had yet to rise and meet his bleary gaze. Moonlight continued to filter through the bedroom curtains in its place, slowly moving through the twilight sky.

A rustle or two later, the dimmed interface of his phone highlighted that it was, in fact, still dusk. Too early to be awake for his liking, a tinge of annoyance laced in his brow at the prospect. Traces of slumber still crusted his lower waterline, and the device was quickly put away without a second thought.

Carefully, he shifted his weight to find that perfect sleeping position—one that would also be mindful of the body sharing the space.

Normally, you’d be snoring and snoozing at home, only a floor below from his place. But of course, insomnia had found its way back to you on a chilled autumn evening. And more so, tumbling into his offering arms. He insisted his comforters could use the company anyhow, reminding you how well you’ve slept with him around before. (Really, it was a great excuse to sleep over and see you, so he wasn’t complaining in the slightest.)

Late night talks drifted into steady breaths of fatigue, circling him back to the present. Nothing but a spare, oversized shirt of his draped over your body, undergarments in place and a half-kicked off blanket barely clinging onto your thighs. A mesmerizing sight, even with the disarray of your bed head nestled into the pillows.

By instinct, Xavier quietly reaches to brush away a stray piece of hair that found itself casted over your closed eyes. His hand lingers for a second, taking in the warmth of your cheek against his palm. Soft, he realizes, especially so when a curiously gentle pinch of your skin holds the same bounciness to a fresh marshmallow.

It’s only when a faint noise pushes past your throat that his fingers still themselves—had he woken you up? The sounds were vaguely disgruntled, but the array of consonants and vowels perked his ears. His hand retracted from you then, a quiet apology passed to your sleeping form.

“Are you awake?”

Your light breaths answer him instead, seemingly rejecting his query. He lets out the exhale he had subconsciously held onto this entire time, relieved. “I guess not.”

Xavier shakes his head at his own disbelief. He must’ve heard things—blaming the weariness that dulled his senses, it really was too early to deal with this. He decides as much anyhow, soon cozying himself beside you and letting his fatigue carry him into the following hours of dawn. It was comforting and content—arms circling your waist, his nose nudged against your nape with a deep inhale and back to chest for maximum warmth output.

So surely, he could finally fall back into slumber.

At least, that’s how it was until mere seconds ago. It didn’t help when you began to toss and turn, unintentionally elbowing the high of his abdomen. The follow-up of your legs squirming and bottom pressing against his flew his eyes open for the second time, bewildered at the sudden attack.

“Sleep,” was all his raspy voice could manage. He squeezed your sides in further reprimand, hoping it would cease your fidgeting. If you had moved any further, it would only give him another thing to worry about—one hard thing was enough for him to deal with at the moment.

Despite his best wishes, your body moved on its own, tightly pressed into his front and neatly slotting his growing erection between your ass. Xavier was the farthest thing from being Astra’s strongest soldier, inhaling deeply at the betrayal of his body to yours.

He had half the mind to chastise you before another faint breath of sounds took precedence. They strung together to form a long whine of his name, but tinted with something rather dubious.

“Xavier,” had always sounded so sweet to him, especially coming from his lover. Whether it was in a playful scold or in unadulterated want, the simple utterance of his name was nothing more than an easy way to melt his heart. Though in this moment, it snapped him wide awake and focused on the troubling warmth held within his grasp. Questions of ‘what’ and ‘why’ raced through his mind, unsure of how his name in particular ended up on your sleepy tongue.

His mind drifts to a roadmap of possibilities, with a nightmare becoming one of the more logical outcomes. A wave of sympathy tugged at the potential thought. His hands lowered to rub a soothing circle into your abdomen to offer a semblance of comfort. He remembered reading about it once, how to encourage quality sleep through massages—so Xavier continues to delicately dimple his fingers into the plush of your skin with the techniques in mind.

It only had the opposite effect, much to his dismay. Your thighs pressed together, uncomfortably so, furthering the friction hotly pressed to his hardened state. Hands curling and uncurling, you reached for something unknown with another mewl spilling past your lips.

“Please, Xavier. Mmh. More. Inside me.”

He pulls back from you entirely in surprise, your body falling into place and flat against the sheets.

Your face was twisted into displeasure, knees shifting against each other and chest rising to combat your huffed breaths. Carefully, Xavier hovered over you, conflict rising in his body and mind with observation.

A resolve forms through the hand on your knee gently parting your thighs apart to alleviate the evident tension. It didn’t take much effort, your legs readily parting with the slightest nudge. In turn, seeing your soiled underwear gave him answers—the fabric was slicked with your subconscious arousal, clinging to your labia in ardent effect.

That was the last thing Xavier had expected, and a faint lightbulb flickered in his mind. So perfect, echoes brightly in his head. You looked absolutely perfect. His fingers twitched instinctively, every fiber of his being ringing in a quiet urge.

He really shouldn't feel this way, he tells himself. And should definitely ignore the way his cock was straining against his boxers—how he couldn’t take his eyes away from the heat that continued to weep with every exhale you whimpered.

But curiosity killed the cat, and such a finger found itself lightly pressing over your soaked folds. It was a fleeting touch, that’s all it would be. To confirm that he wasn’t seeing things, to make sure that this was not just an early morning delusion clouded by his indecent thoughts. To see that this was something you sought after.

The slight spasm to his touch and relaxation to your tense expression was a telling response. Furthered so, when your hips bucked to chase into the rest of his hand, searching for the answer to your subliminal needs. Your tense shoulders slackened, sinking into the sheets when he decides to quietly cup himself between your legs, fingertips dragging a slow line over the damp cloth.

Chills ran down his spine when your soft sighs grew in volume, a small smile pulled to your lips in a painted visage of relief.

Ah, so that’s what this was.

Xavier’s mind wanders back to your plea just moments ago, and a warm pink dusts the tips of his ears.

Inside, you wanted him inside.

Shouldn’t he do his part as your diligent partner and help you in a time of need?

The thought of indecency pricks his mind, but the overshadowing sense of his desire to please you (and subsequently, himself) balanced out the logic. You needed this, needed him. And he was no different, painfully aware of the budding sensation hidden away in his draws. He’d tell you when you wake up, give you the run down and apologize then. It’s just this once.

He leaned down, chest just mere centimeters away from yours. Pools of blue peered at your sleep-laden expression from below, observing the puffs flaring your nose in exhale.

Slowly, the cottons of your underwear were pushed to the side, greeting his fingertips with a wet squelch when they returned to your exposed cunt. He lets out a resounding hum at the touch, noting the faint twitch in your brow. Warm and dripping with need, Xavier pressed a feathery kiss to your jaw before sinking a middle finger into your depths.

A delicious gasp and lull of your head appreciated the gesture, and it takes everything in him to not come on the spot. He settles for careful rutting against the sheets, sighing with the layers of friction heightening his sensitivity.

“You have one inside now,” he whispered, feeling around your walls and groaning when they flutter in turn.

Languid strokes accompanied his mind, wandering into the thought of replacing his hands with something bigger, something warmer, how divine you would look wrapped around his throbbing—a shaky breath intercepted his ideas, reigning him back to reality.

He turns to praise instead, one step at a time. “Taking it so well, as always.” He sneaks another kiss into the corner of your mouth, tempted to swallow your replying whimper there and then. A push in and out, he works to meticulously reward your pretty sounds.

At one point, his middle retracts until only the edge of his nail is left. Xavier coos when your brows knit together at the loss, lips downturned. “You want more? Can you take another if I give it to you?”

Your eyes remain blissfully closed, but a soft moan of his name answers him in encouragement. A plea to continue his caresses, your hips lifted briefly to chase into the air, fueled by instinct and edging his finger back inside.

He kindly obliged, pairing his ring to meet the present middle in conjunction. Xavier revels in the stretch of your accommodating core when they make their grand return, pushing into your heat. He begins to slowly pump once more, trying his luck with an occasional curl of his pads against a particularly sensitive area. A broken mewl aptly rewarded his success, with a proud chuckle passing under his breath.

“There it is. You like it here, hm?”

One glance down sent his mind into a hazy overdrive, admiring how the sheets soaked up every droplet of arousal that wasn’t melting into the prints of his skin. It seemed like such a waste though, letting such precious honey escape into a place that wouldn’t appreciate it the way he could.

Xavier swallowed, aware of just how dry his throat had felt then. Though, a glass of relief to parch his woes was only a heartbeat away.

If he was careful, he could… just for a little bit.

His fingers slowed in the time that his lips dipped downwards, heart moving before his mind could. Attaching themselves to your clit, it remained pursed, burning in ecstasy at the delight he'd discovered. Good, he would be able to make sure none of your efforts go to waste. It flowed so easily into his welcoming throat that he couldn’t help but groan into your precious heat. The pace of his fingers resume, tongue wiggling over your swollen bud—cycling between sucking the sweetness into his eager mouth and licking gently.

“Anh, ‘s good, please,” you sweetly cried out, breaths hiccuping and that’s when he knew. You were close, pulsing so ardently around his fingers and lips parting in an expression he’s studied well.

A particular firm point of his tongue caught the air in your lungs and he watched as your half-lidded gaze struggled to meet his. Confusion and fluster had never looked so beautiful until it flashed across your face, searching for the source of your awakening.

“Ah, Xavier, what are you—mmh—!”

You barely had time to warm up your vocals, let alone process anything when a searing heat ripples through your body. Pliant under his touch, you come undone with every lapping of his tongue and stroke of his fingers. Xavier only hummed into your sensitive cunt, digging his nose further to collect your flowing release without hesitation.

It was only when you began to weakly swat at his seated silvery tuft of hair that he pulled back, taking the hint. His fingers leave first, a lingering hum memorizing your taste as his mouth followed second.

Glistening from the tip of his nose down to the curve of his chin, Xavier meets your glassy stare halfway and welcomes your mouth with his own. The added waking call of his soft kisses against your lips were slow, smooth in contrast to the outright desperation from seconds ago. You could taste yourself, taste him, all swirling together when the flats of your tongues find one another.

With a hand cupped to his jaw, you tilt away for a moment’s air. “Xavier,” you mumbled drowsily. “What’s going on?”

“Morning,” he answers, tone saturated with the early day gravely edge and a hint of arousal. Though his expression was starkly calm, as if this was another casual morning and wasn’t just spent between your legs. He presses a soft kiss to your lower lip. “Did you have a good dream?”

“A dream?” You paused, feeling more exposed than ever despite the stickiness pooled below being a great tell-tale. How were you supposed to explain that your now fleeting dream involved taking Xavier in a fight? In bed? And that you enjoyed it?

There was a simple way out, presented through a sheepish mutter of, “Maybe. Guilty as charged, possibly.”

He smiles, one of gentle cruelty. “Won’t you tell me what it was about?” He carried the audacity to poke fun at the situation, mirthful words in line. You shoot him an accusatory glare that spelled ‘you already know the answer—do I have to spell it out?’

“Not even a little detail or two?” Xavier moves his fingers then, absolutely drenched in the viscous outcome of said dream. They were still nestled into your warmth, and the awareness gave way to a hearty exhale on your end.

You turn to the pillow, batting half an eye towards him and a muffled admission of, “It was about you,” to answer his questions. “We were… in the middle of… foreplay.” That was as much as you were willing to offer him, keeping the unspoken intimate elements to yourself.

“I figured from the way you kept calling for me,” he muses. “Needed me, and inside of you too.” Xavier punctuates the recalling with a shake of his head. “I couldn’t sleep because of it, and clearly you couldn’t either.”

A flush creeps across your cheeks as you turn to face him. If thunder were to strike you down, a part of you hoped it would be in this moment to save you from the embarrassment.

“Oh gods, you heard all of that?”

“Mm,” he confirms.

A tenderness saturates his features as genuine sincerity fills into his words. He finally retracts his fingers then, fixing your underwear into place with a tug. “And I’m sorry if I went overboard. I won’t do it again, promise.”

“Oh. I—“ You paused, biting your lower lip. Gazing at the wall behind him, you quietly confess your thoughts. “—Didn’t mind. Felt nice, actually.”

Xavier, somewhat defeated and relieved simultaneously, rests his cheek over your heart and arms lazily looped around your sides. A lighthearted sigh melts into your skin. “That’s… great. But, you’re going to be the end of me, one of these days.”

“Isn’t that my line?” You snort, though gently pat the back of his nape. A small yawn breaks your breathing, the earlier fatigue pricking your nose with an exhale.

“Xav,” you hummed. “Are you not sleepy?”

A prodding hardness against your thigh answers you before he could, and Xavier could feel the quiet laugh of your chest shaking his flattened cheek. Fatigue be damned, you couldn’t quite ignore the elephant in the room.

“Don’t say it,” he quietly warns, but you spell it out for him regardless.

It was as clear as the night sky. “You’re hard.”

Xavier cringes at the blunt nature of your astute observation. “Just… morning things. It’ll go back down once we sleep. So good night—ah,” he breathes, sucking through his teeth with a hiss.

Before he could even think about moving, your hand sneaked down to graciously palm over his poor boxers. The pressure of your fingers along his length were leagues better than the partial relief of rubbed sheets. He couldn’t help but screw his eyes tightly, subtly rocking into your touch. It sent a wave of lustful heat into your abdomen, seeing him succumb to his desires under your guided direction.

“I don’t think it’s just a morning thing,” you chide into the crown of his head. Xavier attempts to pull back in defense, but only falls forward when you dipped past the fabric and curl your fingers around his cock.

“I think it’s your turn to give me some details on what’s running through that mind of yours.” A squeeze adds onto your reason. “It’s only fair.” And, to save yourself from your own brief moment of embarrassing realization.

Weak to the hand that stroked from head to base, his mouth fell open to vocalize his thoughts and aroused pants almost immediately. “Couldn’t help it—hah—you looked so good, tasted even better. Sorry, so—“

Xavier breaks into a whimper, shifting to dig his forehead between your breasts. His forearms tighten slightly, holding you closer to him.

“It’s fine,” you reassured him. “Let me take care of you, s’alright, Xav.”

You continued to twist and caress, occasionally swiping a thumb over his sticky, hot head. It was overwhelming for a man who had spent his recent waking moments entirely focused on you, with his previously lidded arousal quickly coming undone.

“Just like that,” he begs. “I’m close, close.”

‘Close’ was putting it lightly, when warm streams of release painted your knuckles and escaped onto his abdomen in the same breath. You both exhaled, one of surprise and the other of relief, slowing your motions all the same—you pull back once the spurts subside, his length spent. He manages to lazily roll away from you, recovering on his side of the bed.

Reaching into the side drawer, a procured tissue touches your hand and neatly cleans off his remains. With a second piece, you turn to face him and pat down the slight mess over his skin, before tossing both dirtied pieces aside. Threading the other hand through his matted bangs, you asked, “Feeling better now?”

Xavier’s eyes were fluttered to a close, and you would’ve believed he fell asleep if it weren’t for the fingers reaching for your wrist. He brings it to his lips and smiles against it. “You didn’t have to do anything,” he murmured. “But, yeah. I appreciate it.”

“Well we’re even now, so it works out.” You pat his cheek in turn, shuffling closer to him and meeting his torso.

The arm closest to you drapes over your welcomed bodily heat, giving you the opportunity to envelop him wholly. He hums in agreement. “Now we can say good night.”

“More like good morning,” you retort, paying mind to the faint shimmer of orange hues bleeding into a now fading dawn.

“Same difference,” Xavier yawns, shielding your bodies from the inevitable sunrise. Tucked neatly in his embrace, he plants a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Mm. Good morning-night, my star.”

It was the final touch to an otherwise comforting existence, safely leading you back into a serene sense of sleep. The sun continued its slow ascend into the morning air, watching over the coupling of your bodies that drifted into a land of dreams.

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omega-e123 · 10 months ago

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How would shadow react if you got injured on accident? Recently got injured and had to get stitches and I love your stories so I was wondering what he would do and how he would take care of them 😁

Shadow’s shoes were left unattended by the front door. What psychopath would wear shoes around the house and track dirt?

A short while ago, Shadow excused himself to go to the bathroom. Ever since you two met, you’ve always wanted to try them on. The golden opportunity has finally presented itself.

You plucked them from their spot and proceeded to put them on in the back yard. They were heavy and it’s no wonder why his kicks packed a punch even while not rocket boosted. It took a bit of conscious effort to lift your feet off the ground.

How did he manage to hover in place? On the outside and in, the shoes had a fairly simple and smooth design. No bottons, slides, nothing. Not that you’ve ever seen him do anything in particular to activate them.

Moving to one end of the yard, you break into a sprint. With a little speed it might turn on. It felt as if someone had duck taped 5 pound weights to your feet.

The back door opens with a call of your name. “What are you—,” Shadow was about to ask before being interrupted by a screech combined with rough tumbling into your patio table. In no time at all, bare feet patter against the warm concrete.

Some dirt mixed with blood cakes your palms and knees. With a loud guttural groan, you rolled yourself over to sit on your butt. In front of you, Shadow is knelt down on one knee. His brows knitted together in concern.

The voice that wanted to scold you for your clumsiness is shoved far into the back of his mind. Instead he tenderly takes your hands and brings it closer to his face, inspecting the damage.

A kiss is pressed to your knuckles. “Are you alright? What in the world were you doing?,” he asks, not a speck of anger laced in his words.

“I uhh.. wanted to try out your shoes? I don’t get it. How do they turn on? You usually just start running.

Your legs are next to be checked out. “They work by channeling chaos energy. That’s how I’m able to control the output… Can you stand? Careful not to hit your head.”

Shadow covers the edge of the table with one hand while the other helps you up. A sharp pain is sent to your hip as you rise eliciting a wince and a whine.

“Allow me to help clean your injuries. The last thing we want is to have them get infected.” An arm worms its way around your waist for support. Slow and steady he guides you to the restroom. Of course he’d notice you attempting to hide your limp. A sharp exhale leaves him.

After sitting you down on the toilet seat, he begins to clean the scrapes with a wet towel. Straight to work. Not a single word has been uttered since walking back inside the house. His lips pressed tight, you’re sure Shadow is clenching his jaw.

Guilt of worrying him and possibly damaging his shoes settle in. A mumbled, “I’m sorry” causes Shadow’s ear to flick.

Devoid of emotion he immediately replies, “Next time you want to use my stuff as playthings, ask first.”

His eyes are lasered in at the task at hand. Thankfully, once the blood has been cleaned up, your scrapes don’t look as bad. Nothing a giant bandage can’t fix.

With the final bandage literally slapped on the palm of your hand, he announces ‘done’. Shadow starts to pack up the medical supplies, well aware you’re pouting at him.

“That hurt!”

“Of course it did. That is what happens when you’re not careful,” he deadpans, knowing you had meant the little ‘slap’.

This guy! You’re already in pain and he adds on to it. “Shadow, you put it on wrong. Look, it’s crooked and peeking out.”

Before he puts the kit away, he pulls out one extra bandaid and slips it aside. “Did I?,” Shadow glances at it, “It looks fine to me.”

“No it’s not. Fix it!” You shove your poor aching hand into his face.

Shadow yanks it out of his face. “Alright. Fine.” The old bandage chucked into the trash and the new one replaces its spot with less roughness. He holds your wrist in place while he presses his lips to the bandage. “Is that better?”

“…Yes.”

“Good. I just want to make sure: does anywhere else hurt?”

“Well, I think I busted up my lips earlier too.”

A chuckle escapes him. Smiling, shaking his head, Shadow replies, “I was hoping you would address your limp…” His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “But I don’t mind taking care of this first.”

#this ended up longer than I intended #no idea where I was heading with this one either #I let the brain worms take over my thumbs and the words started a clackin #we don’t proof read around this part of town #shadow the hedgehog #sth #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #➺ inbox #➺ bookdragon247 #➺ request #cw blood

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aspenmissing · 1 month ago

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So I have this idea that won’t go away and I know you’ll bring it to life perfectly. Viktor x fem reader ok, Viktor is an inventor and likes to ‘tinker’ so to speak so I think it would be so cute if she called him a her tinker fairy offhandedly like it’s late and she’s seeing what he’s up to and he replies excited about his new idea and it makes her smile and call him a tinker fairy for the first time and she explains that fairies have different jobs and his would totally be a tinker fairy (if you’ve seen tinker bell you probably know what I’m talking about lol) Anyway you can have creative liberties with his reaction and if slowly she uses it more in interactions calling him her tinker fairy and like one day she doesn’t call him that and she always does at least once a day now and he’s upset and finally admits he actually likes being her tinker fairy.

If you do end up doing this, I wish you a cool pillow and happy dreams (I wish you those things anyway tho haha <33)

ᴛɪɴᴋᴇʀ ꜰᴀɪʀʏ

ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 2661 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏʜ ᴍʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ!!!!ɪ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴛɪɴᴋᴇʀʙᴇʟʟ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜɴɢᴇʀ (ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ʀᴇᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ɴᴏᴡ - ꜰᴀᴡɴ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ꜰᴀᴠᴏᴜʀɪᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴇ). ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴛɪɴᴋᴇʀ ꜰᴀɪʀʏ, ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘɪʟʟᴏᴡꜱ!!! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀᴅɪɴɢᴇʀ

The hour was late, and the glow spilling from Viktor’s lab lit the hallway in flickering shades of gold and blue. You padded barefoot across the cold Academy floor, the stone chilled even through your thick socks, familiar with the quiet hum of Hextech energy that buzzed softly behind the door. He was at it again—had been for hours now. You could hear the soft clinks of metal, the occasional frustrated murmur, and once, a small triumphant exhale.

You paused for a moment, one hand on the doorframe, watching the way the light cast shadows that danced across the hall. A part of you knew you should go back to bed. It was late, after all, and you had your own work to tend to in the morning. But another, stronger part of you missed him—missed hearing him talk, missed the sound of his voice when he got excited, missed the way his eyes would shine when he realized he was onto something. So, you knocked once, lightly, more for courtesy than necessity, before nudging the door open.

“Viktor?”

He didn’t look up right away. He was bent over a desk cluttered with schematics and small tools, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, hair tousled and sticking up at odd angles, and a streak of grease marked one cheek like war paint. The tip of his tongue peeked out in concentration as he adjusted a gear with surgical precision, the lab dim except for the focused beams of warm light from two hexlamps overhead.

“Ah—Y/N,” he said when he finally glanced over, a wide, boyish grin tugging at his lips despite the hour. His eyes, tired but bright, sparkled with energy. “Look at this! I think I’ve figured out a way to reduce the heat output from the core by fifty percent! That means more stable energy bursts, safer activation, and—oh, and perhaps even miniaturization—imagine what that could mean for medical devices!”

“Slow down,” you laughed as you stepped fully into the room, letting the door click softly shut behind you. “Viktor, you haven’t even blinked in the last minute. Did you eat today?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I had a sandwich. Or, well. Half of one. I think.”

“You think?” you raised an eyebrow.

He hesitated, eyes darting toward an empty plate half-buried under scribbled notes. “It had tomato on it. That counts as remembering.”

You chuckled, weaving through the mess of the lab to perch on the edge of his worktable. You brushed a stray wire off the surface before settling, resting your palm on your knee. “You really are something else, you know that?” you murmured fondly. “My little tinker fairy.”

Viktor blinked. The tool in his hand lowered slightly as he looked up at you again, startled.

“…Your what?”

You grinned at his reaction. “Tinker fairy.”

He stared, head tilted slightly. “As in… a fairy that tinks?”

You snorted. “Not exactly. It's from a story. You know—Tinkerbell? From Peter Pan? She’s this tiny little fairy who wears this cute short green dress and fixes and builds things. Basically, she’s a fairy engineer. Very temperamental, by the way.”

Viktor narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly trying to recall the reference. “I do not remember this story. Was it a scientific text?”

“Oh, definitely,” you said dryly. “Very rigorous. Peer-reviewed by pirates and Lost Boys.”

That got a laugh from him, low and warm. “So… let me see if I understand this correctly. You are comparing me—scientist, inventor, theorist—to a glitter-covered, four-inch creature who flies around causing mayhem in a short green dress?”

“Exactly,” you said sweetly, leaning back on your palms. “But you’re like… the smartest, most useful tinker fairy. Always fixing things, building stuff no one else could even dream of. Honestly, I think you’d run circles around the other fairies.”

He looked down at his workbench, clearly fighting off a smile. “You are ridiculous.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

“No,” he admitted softly, still not quite meeting your eyes. “No, you are not.”

You watched him for a beat, heart swelling. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are. You have that flustered expression, like when I catch you talking to yourself.”

“I do not talk to myself.”

“You mutter equations out loud, Viktor. And give your prototypes pep talks. I once heard you tell a gear to ‘cooperate or face my wrath.’”

“That gear was being very stubborn,” he said, folding his arms, looking put-out. “And I think it’s entirely reasonable to assert dominance over misbehaving machinery.”

You laughed, and he shook his head again, though now the smile had fully overtaken his face. You leaned forward a little, nudging his arm gently with your foot.

“Admit it. You kind of like it.”

He gave you a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Perhaps. It is… endearing.”

“Endearing?” you echoed, tilting your head. “You mean you like it when I call you that?”

His ears turned pink. “I did not say that.”

“Not in those words, no. But you didn’t not say it.”

He looked away, suddenly very interested in aligning the tools on his desk. “It is a unique name,” he said finally. “And… oddly specific. And I suppose… if it is coming from you, it feels less like mockery and more like—”

“Affection?” you supplied.

He glanced at you, his expression softening. “Yes. That.”

You smiled, warmth pooling in your chest. “Then I’ll keep calling you that. If you want me to.”

There was a long pause before he said quietly, “I do.”

The silence that followed was comfortable. Viktor reached for your hand on the edge of the table, his grease-streaked fingers brushing over your knuckles.

“…Would you like to see it?” he asked, voice gentler now. “The new core? It’s still unstable, but—”

“Of course I would,” you said, hopping down and moving closer. “Show me what my favourite tinker fairy’s been building.”

He chuckled, finally letting himself smile without restraint. “You are never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

The nickname stuck.

It started as a joke—something said on a sleepy whim at the edge of a long night, a teasing little thing you never expected to linger. But linger it did, weaving itself into the quiet spaces between you like thread through cloth, subtle and steady. A gentle ritual, sweet and constant, like the way he always made your tea just how you liked it, or the way you never left the lab without brushing your fingers over his shoulder in goodbye.

“Good morning, tinker fairy,” you’d whisper, voice low and syrupy, as you padded into the lab with his tea in hand. Most days he didn’t even look up from his work—just reached blindly for the cup, already smiling as the words warmed his ears more than the drink warmed his fingers.

Some days, you’d lean over and gently tuck a curl of hair behind his ear, lingering close enough to smell the faint ozone tang of Hextech energy on his skin. “You know fairies need sunlight too,” you’d murmur with mock-seriousness, cupping his cheek. “You’ve been in this cave for hours. Come outside before you start glowing in the dark.”

“Do not tempt me,” he’d murmur back, rubbing at tired eyes behind round lenses. “I might take that as a challenge.”

On others, your voice would take a more pointed edge, arms crossed over your chest as you stared at the still-wrapped sandwich on the edge of his cluttered desk. “You didn’t eat your lunch again, tinker fairy.”

“It was an oversight—”

“It’s been sitting there for six hours.”

“I became distracted.”

You’d sigh, cross the room, and unwrap it for him yourself, placing it directly into his hands like a bribe. “Then I’ll distract you into eating. Bite. Now.”

At first, he’d grumble. Pretend to roll his eyes. Mutter something about how calling him that was going to tarnish his reputation as a respectable scientist. But he never stopped you. Never really meant the resistance. And slowly—so slowly he didn’t even realize it at first—he stopped pretending. Stopped fighting the smile that tugged at his lips when he heard the name. Stopped trying to correct you with a weary sigh or a good-natured “I am not a fairy.”

You noticed it in the way his shoulders would ease a fraction when you said it. In the way the tension drained from his brow after hours of failed tests and fruitless hypotheses, soothed by the gentle cadence of your teasing. He stood a little taller when you called him that, a little steadier on his cane. Like the nickname wasn’t a joke anymore—but a charm. A spell only you could cast.

No one else called him that. And no one else could.

Not even Jayce, despite the fact that he’d definitely overheard it once. You’d been leaning against Viktor’s lab bench, watching him sketch something wildly complex on the back of a napkin with chalk-stained fingers, and casually murmured, “You’re such a little tinker fairy when you’re in the zone.”

Jayce had paused in the doorway, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touched his hairline. “Tinker... what now?”

Viktor had looked up slowly, blinking once like a man who'd just been exposed to bright light. “It is… nothing. A personal—joke. A private thing.”

Jayce had blinked. “Okay, then.” And mercifully let it go, only muttering “weird couple stuff” under his breath as he walked away.

Even Heimerdinger hadn’t been spared. The professor had once stopped mid-conversation during a lab visit, ears twitching at the sound of you calling across the room, “Careful with that crystal casing, tinker fairy. It’s still volatile.”

Heimerdinger blinked, tilted his head like a curious owl, and asked, “Tinker fairy? Fascinating. Is that some sort of new subclass of engineering assistant? Or perhaps a regional dialect?”

Viktor had turned scarlet. He’d mumbled something vaguely apologetic and practically bolted for the nearest storage closet to hide until Heimerdinger’s visit ended.

You, of course, had simply smiled. The name was yours. His flustered silence was yours too.

It became part of your rhythm. A beat in the music only the two of you could hear. Something quiet and constant in a life full of loud, unpredictable days. It was there in the late-night tea offerings. In the soft way he would hum when you ran your fingers through his hair. In the almost shy way he would say your name when the world had been too harsh, too heavy, and he needed something solid to cling to.

A thread stitched lovingly into the fabric of your shared life. A little piece of Viktor—strange and brilliant and wholly, wonderfully his—that belonged only to you.

Which is why, when it didn’t happen one day, he noticed.

It was a quiet morning.

You padded softly into the lab like you always did, barefoot and still half-lost in the warmth of sleep. The floor was cool beneath your feet, the gentle chill of early Piltover morning threading between your toes as you moved through golden slats of sunlight peeking through the windows. In your hands, you carried his favorite tea—brewed just the way he liked it: steeped for precisely four minutes, one drop of honey stirred in counter-clockwise, just the way he claimed made it taste better. You never questioned it.

You found him as you often did—already hunched over his workstation, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a dozen half-built mechanisms and open notebooks scattered around him in a constellation only he could navigate. His brow furrowed, lips pursed in quiet thought, utterly engrossed.

You smiled.

Stepping up behind him, you leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, your nose brushing lightly against his hair. He stilled for just a moment at your touch, as though registering your presence not with surprise, but with silent gratitude.

But you didn’t say it.

No teasing comment. No playful scolding. No affectionate hum of “Good morning, my tinker fairy.”

Just silence.

You set the tea beside his hand with a light clink of ceramic and let your fingers graze his for a heartbeat. Then, without a word, you turned and left him to his work.

Viktor sat frozen for a moment, eyes locked on the cup.

At first, he tried to reason it away. Maybe you were tired. You hadn’t looked fully awake when you walked in—your eyes soft with sleep, your voice absent altogether. Or maybe you just forgot, lost in thought, caught in the undertow of whatever dreams had followed you out of bed. He told himself it wasn’t important.

But by midday, the absence had grown roots.

He kept glancing toward the door, half-expecting to hear your voice float in with that familiar lilt, that nickname only you were allowed to use. He’d never told you that. Never said it aloud. But he loved it. The way your voice curled around the words like a ribbon. The way it made him feel lighter. Brighter.

By evening, it ached.

He watched you from the doorway of your shared apartment—quiet, unmoving. You sat at your vanity, brushing your hair in slow, absent strokes, lost in thought. The room was awash in amber light from the setting sun, casting a warm halo around you. The bristles of the brush whispered through your hair, rhythmic and soothing.

He stood there for a long time, one hand resting atop the polished head of his cane, the other twitching faintly at his side.

Then, in a voice low and careful, like he was afraid of shattering something delicate:

“…You did not call me it today.”

You paused, the brush mid-stroke. Your gaze lifted to meet his in the mirror. “Hm?”

He stepped a little closer, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. “The thing,” he said, his tone faltering. “The… name. Tinker fairy.”

You blinked, slowly lowering the brush. “Oh,” you breathed, puzzled. “I… didn’t even realize I hadn’t.”

Viktor nodded once, eyes flicking away from yours, gaze falling somewhere near the carpet. “But you always do.”

There was a tremble in his voice, almost imperceptible. The way he held himself—shoulders stiff, jaw tight—told you this had been weighing on him all day.

He took another slow breath, gathering the pieces of something tender and offering it up to you with quiet bravery.

“It’s not… I know it’s silly. Just a joke at first. But I like it.” He swallowed, then continued, softer still. “When you call me that, it… it makes me feel seen. Not just as the inventor. Not just a mind or a tool or… a problem to be solved. But as me. Someone you… choose.”

He hesitated, then added, “It feels like something that belongs to us. Like a thread only we hold.”

Your chest ached.

You stood slowly, crossing the room with careful steps until you were in front of him. He didn’t look up right away, and you had to guide his face toward yours with a gentle touch beneath his chin. His eyes—those brilliant, gold-flecked eyes—met yours with quiet vulnerability.

You took his hand in both of yours, warm and steady.

“Oh, love,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles, “I promise I won’t forget again.”

His breath hitched, and you felt the faintest tremor run through him.

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his, noses brushing. The moment stretched between you like a held breath, your hands cradling his as though they were something sacred.

Then, with a soft murmur, just for him. “What’s my favorite tinker fairy been working on today?” He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh—small and real and full of quiet joy.

“Something wonderful,” he said, his voice like dusk and honey. “But you first."

#Arcane #arcane fandom #Arcane fluff #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #viktor x y/n #viktor x you

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literaila · 1 year ago

Text

midnight happenings (2)

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: you wake up and look for satoru

warnings: unspecified angst (of course), fluff, and fluff

last part | next part

year five.

satoru can feel you coming down the hall before you're there, your presence a lurking, tasteful thing.

he's just laying in bed when he feels it--the creeping, the warning signals bouncing around his brain like any of it matters. so he pauses, listening, and waits.

when you knock on his door--so softly it should be inaudible--he isn't surprised.

he seldom is, with you. every one of your moves is calculated, and satoru likes to think of himself as an expert on the subject. he's been studying for many years and he always excelled at arithmetic.

still, he leans up, holding himself up with an arm as he looks at you in the dark.

heres the thing about sensing cursed energy--it's very helpful in a social situation, however few and far between they are for satoru. he can tell when the person checking him out at the store is upset about something, or when the barista at the coffee shop is happy to see him.

but you're not just an ordinary person.

and jujutsu sorcerers--especially trained, strong ones like you--are constantly buzzing with a consistent output of cursed energy.

your body is engulfed in it. if satoru was any less gifted, he wouldn't even be able to see you beyond any of it.

but satoru has known you since you were sixteen.

so when you tip-toe into the room, he can already tell that this isn't your normal sneaking-into-his-room-in-the-middle-of-the-night-so-you-can-both-pretend-it-didn't-happen-in-the-morning thing.

because, well, first of all, you usually don't knock. it's an unspoken thing. and also, you're slouching in the room, and even though satoru has stayed up (not waiting for you, if anyone asks) he doubts that you have. you're much better at falling asleep than he is.

and when you near him, he can see the tint in your eyes. the slightly glassy, avoiding his own, eyes.

it's not a surprise to him, but something in his chest tugs.

he likes you all of the time (in every single moment), but he doesn't like when you're six feet under, hiding away from the world like it's something you need to protect yourself from.

satoru should really lock you up somewhere, happy and healthy, just so he can get over this ridiculous feeling.

"hey," he whispers, smiling softly at you. "need something?"

you don't say anything but practically fall into his lap. the wind is knocked out of him, but you ignore that. your arms are quick to fall around his neck, like it's routine, and your legs curl against him.

you effectively trap him in your hold in less than a second.

still, satoru doesn't complain. instead, he wraps his arms around the swell of your back, making sure that you won't fall off of the bed with the slightest movement.

and then your face falls against his chest and satoru instinctively tightens his hold, already prepared to fight whatever's plaguing you.

there's a reason he's the strongest, after all.

"feeling lonely?" satoru asks, softly. it lacks his typical teasing tone, which he notes with disdain. still, there's nothing he can do to remedy it now.

your fingertips graze along the nape of his neck, and satoru tries not to sigh at the feeling. it's a bit ticklish and slightly wicked.

but you don't nod at his question. you don't shake your head, scowl at him, or tell satoru to shut up.

the only response is the sound of your exhale, a harsh feeling against his chest, and then your body stilling once again.

kind of like you're holding your breath. waiting for something to burst from the door and pull you from the moment.

satoru frowns, hands beginning to trace circles against the skin of your back unconsciously. "what's going on?"

he wouldn't ask, but this isn't a part of your routine with him.

usually, you'll each put the kids to bed, taking turns tucking them in, megumi bullying satoru as a sleep aid and tsumiki wanting each of you to sit there and talk for a little bit.

and then the two of you will clean up the shared spaces, if necessary--satoru typically dragging his feet because you made him--parting ways once you've finished, a lingering glance being shared as you close your doors, pretending to go to bed for the night.

(that is, on the nights when you don't fall asleep cuddling on the couch first).

but then, after an appropriate amount of time has passed (or one of you breaks), satoru will crawl into your bed, or you into his, and satoru will kiss you until he's dizzy and you'll cling to him like you'd be very willing to share your bed with him for eternity.

it's become so familiar that no words need to be exchanged, no questions of if or when. it's simple, and easy, and sometimes satoru has to blink in the dark of his room (or yours) just to be sure that he didn't actually dream all of it up.

but you're always there, and you're always waiting for him, just like he waits for you. even if it's late, even if it's dark.

and you can say things when this happens. satoru can whisper that he missed you when he was gone, and you can echo back that you don't like it when he leaves. you'll tell him something about the kids, something that you're worried about, and he'll kiss the spot behind your ear that's sensitive.

it's just how it is, at this point. and none of it really matters.

eventually, the two of you will fall asleep just like that, tangled together like a useless ball of yarn.

but tonight, you don't say anything. you don't try to get him to lay his head against your stomach so you can play with his hair, or attempt to tickle him until he falls against you in defense. there's just silence, now, the harsh beating of your heart.

and you're holding on to him like you're desperate to keep him right there.

"nothing," you answer, after almost a minute has passed, voice muffled against his shirt.

satoru swallows, waiting for something more that he knows won't come. he wants to get you to look at him, to pull you away from his body so he can observe you, for even a moment, but he knows that if he even tried you'd recoil. and you wouldn't come back.

and satoru would rather sleep on the floor than have that.

"you... okay?"

you nod, but you're lying.

satoru could sigh and tell you that he knows that, but he doesn't. this isn't all that unusual, really. not with you, and not to him.

so he only continues to run his fingers down your back, tracing indiscernible shapes against your skin. he's still sitting up, bent over you as you cling. and he should probably lean back so that you fall asleep. he should probably start talking, or tell you that you shouldn't be up this late--any of the things he would do if he didn't feel trapped in your embrace, entraced in a moment he can't let go.

so he only licks his lips, thinking.

you're completely still. you don't move when his hand dips to the curve of your hip, or when he breathes intentfully against your head. satoru can't tell if your eyes are closed or not, but he's sure that you're not even blinking.

"did you have a bad dream?" he asks, eventually, leaning back so you'll stop doing that. gluing yourself to him and making him feel like he's missed something.

really, if he even tried to do this to you, you'd be complaining.

you shake your head, but your eyes don't meet his, and satoru can see the twitch of your lip, the flicker of your entire face. your movements are slow, your body only moving when he pokes and prods.

if he avoids your eyes and scratches his neck when he's lying, then you stay quiet, like you'll break if you say one word.

"are you sure?" he tilts his head at you, bringing his hands to cup your face. "it's okay if you missed me. it happens."

your eyes flicker to his reluctantly, but you focus on him immediately. your pupils are small and your eyes are cold, almost empty, and satoru has to lean in to inspect them even closer.

you shake your head stiffly in his hands but don't bother to argue. at least he got a little reaction from that.

"oh," he says, after a moment, ignoring the chilling feeling in his chest. "i get it. did tsumiki kick you out?"

"she was hogging all of the blankets."

satoru nods, pouting at you. "so you're cold? need me to warm you up?"

your hands wrap around both of his wrists, and one moment you're just sitting in his lap, and the next satoru is lying against the pillows and you've already shifted so your face hides against the crook of his neck.

he could complain, but he really doesn't want to. he'll swallow his pride for you, just this once.

you're a very dangerous person to be around, he realizes, suddenly, because as soon as you get him on his back he has to fight the instinct to fall asleep. he blinks idly at you, wishing you wouldn't try to conceal your face from him. "do you want to talk about it?"

he can barely feel it when you shake your head against him.

"i won't judge," he promises, scratching at your scalp. "much."

you snort against his skin.

"is there..." he starts, then stops. it's a blow to his ego to be here, to feel this much. but he relents. "can i do something? d'ya wanna make out?"

you pinch his bicep, and even though he can't see it, satoru can practically feel the eye roll.

it fills him with an unwarranted delight. he can feel it as you subtly shift into him, beginning to settle your body. at least now he only has to settle your mind.

if that.

"is that a no?"

you sigh against his skin--satoru tries not to flinch at the horrible feeling--and shake your head again. "can you just--i don't know... tell me about your day?"

he smirks, just barely. "oh, so you've got a voice thing?"

"satoru," you whisper, but he can feel the clash of your teeth as you smile, and then the gentle bite that you give him--right on his sweet spot--to hide it.

satoru can't help but flush--he never should've told you about that--but he nods anyway, refusing to let his body succumb to the urge to run far, far away.

it's not his fault, really.

it's instinct to want to disappear at your very whim. only natural for satoru to want to give you whatever you need, whenever you need it.

if you asked him to give up his strength, he would do it in an instant.

"just talk to me," you whisper, barely a request. more of a demand. unfortunately for satoru, it's late enough for him not to care. (and he likes you).

"okay..." he drawls, thinking for a moment. "so, i--" he pauses, frowning. "you know that we spent basically the whole day together, right? you probably remember more than i do."

"tell me about yesterday, then."

"same thing."

you sigh, digging your nose into his skin. "make something up."

"why would i--"

"satoru."

"okay, okay," he smiles at you, even though you can't see it. "so... i woke up to megumi pulling my hair, which i'm pretty sure you told him to do. and then i ate breakfast, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. and then we dropped off the kids at school. uhhh, then we went to the store, and we looked for those sugar packet things that tsumiki likes. and then--"

"this is the worst story i've ever heard," you deadpan, mumbling into him.

satoru scoffs. "you're the one who wanted to hear about my day."

"say something more interesting."

satoru rolls his eyes, tugging on your hair a little. then he sighs. "i could tell you about the curse in kawagoe? the one in the shopping district."

he looks down at you, in question, just in time to see you scrunch your nose in distaste, you breathe into him again so satoru laughs.

"okay, no curses." he thinks for another moment. "oh, i bought a couple of shirts the other day."

"what's 'a couple?'"

"just like, nine or ten."

you shake your head against his neck but don't say anything.

so satoru continues. "i just got some button-ups, the ones you like."

"what color?"

"blue and white, mostly. like my eyes," he flutters his eyelashes even though you're not looking. "one black shirt, and another sweater."

"do you really need more clothes?"

"um, of course."

you giggle, teeth grazing against his skin once again.

satoru swallows. "and, uh..." he blinks, trying to regain his train of thought. "do you think i should start getting dad patterns?"

"dad patterns?"

"cool shirts."

"do you want megumi to bully you even more?" you ask, rhetorically, your voice entirely soft.

satoru can tell that this is working. just the way you're nuzzling yourself even deeper into him, seeking his warmth is a good sign.

it's also slightly irritating. how is he supposed to think when you're cuddling up to him like this?

he clears his throat. "tsumiki said that they're cool. some plaid, maybe a bird shirt..."

"if you wear anything like that i'm not going anywhere with you."

satoru pouts, looking down to see the curve of your lip as you hide a smile. "you don't think i'd look good in stripes?"

you giggle once more, shaking your head.

satoru kisses the top of your head, very satisfied with himself at the moment. he got you to crawl out of your cage a bit--if only to get you to crawl into him.

and even though he knows that you're still upset, still hiding against him, at least you're there.

he'd much rather you be in his room, with him, than all by yourself, rotting away.

he'd much rather you be with him always, actually.

still, satoru continues to bring up blithe topics until he can feel your breathing even out against him, and your body begin to accept his ministrations.

he kisses the top of your head, and he stays up a little while longer. making sure that you're sound asleep before he even bothers to close his eyes.

and he's out in an instant.

tsumiki is sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on some cut-up fruit when megumi walks into the room.

he rubs at his eyes, looking half asleep. still, tsumiki smiles at him.

"where's mom?" he asks, looking around.

you're usually up before either of them, even on weekends. tsumiki's used to waking up to the sound of you throwing things around in the kitchen. she'll walk down the hallway to breakfast already set out, you telling her to go get megumi.

but this morning, all of the lights are off. and there are still a couple of bowls on the table from last night.

tsumiki shrugs. "still sleeping, i think."

"and gojo?"

"what do you think?" she smiles at him, laughing when megumi groans, then shakes his head with a perturbed look on his face.

"i'm not waking them up this time," he tells her.

but megumi turns around and walks back down the hall anyway, going to do just that.

next part | series masterlist

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republicsecurity · 2 months ago

Text

Training Log, Subvocal Capture: Collar Edition

Flex fingers. Polymer gauntlet creaks like fresh snow. Collar’s alloy rim is a cold halo in my palm—weightless in the suit’s servos, but heavy in implication. LG44E watches me, chin level, pulse thrumming in my visor readout. Training dummy with a heartbeat.

Assess & Approach. One pace to his oblique. My HUD traces escape vectors in faint red wireframe—comically useless; classroom walls, zero exits. Eye‑contact rule nonetheless. His pupils track the collar, not me. Good dog.

Draw Collar. Thumb the latch at my waist; carbon port opens like a stingray’s mouth. Collar unfolds, LEDs dark. Wrist display tags it: MK‑IV / SN‑X72M4C27 / STATUS: ARMED.

Positioning. Segment hinges breathe apart with a silvery hiss. No obstructions; green service LED blinks once—ready to bite.

Placement. Raise, slide, glide. Polymer pads kiss skin below his jaw. He stiffens as the joint clears his occipital ridge.

Gentle Seating. Press inward. Soft thunk—segments flush. I feel the resonance through my glove, like locking a railcar coupler.

Lock‑In. Silver button, thumb pressure. Twin micro‑flares spark left and right, two‑tone chirp in my audio feed. The collar contracts by two millimetres; LG44E’s swallow stalls halfway down his throat.

Verify. I tug. Zero give. HUD pings: LINK VERIFIED.

The UI blossoms: battery 98 %, vitals nominal, muscle‑tension curve spiking then settling. Default output RED – STUN‑HOLD flickers, waiting for a conscience that isn’t coming.

I toggle to BLUE – COMPLIANCE. Motors murmur. LG44E’s shoulders roll back, spine straightens, head pivots toward the northern wall—exactly where the courseware says a compliant detainee should orient.

There it is: the quiet hum of sovereignty. A feedback loop of authority routed through ceramic, alloy, and wet nervous tissue. My glove twitches a command—step forward. Collar relays, his legs obey. Another twitch—kneel. Servo whine, then knees to mat in perfect cadence.

It isn’t pleasure, I tell myself; it’s proof of system integrity. The MK‑IV does what it’s built to do: move muscle, still doubt. But a shadow of a smile ghosts across the corner of my HUD‑reflected lips. Not pleasure—feedback. Positive, precise, absolute.

LG44E’s heart rate steadies. Bio‑Vitals Array likes what it sees: compliance at ≤ 65 bpm. I log the metrics, flag the session complete.

Thumb‑press again—collar blooms open, LEDs wink out. Training manacles released, man inside left blinking, sweat‑slick but unharmed.

Systems checklist scrolls: Collar integrity 100 %. Cadet response within spec. Behavioral override latency 14 ms.

Inside the armour’s hush, I exhale. One more drill closer to graduation, one more proof that control—properly applied—is indistinguishable from peace. ***

LG44E — Neural Debrief Buffer (unfiltered stream)

Neck’s bare. Air‑con bites like January steel. UK90F circles—silent servo hiss, armor lacquer gleaming under institutional fluorescents. The collar in his gauntlet looks absurdly small, like a toy halo machined from night.

Heartbeat tags my eardrums. Stay still, keep breathing. Training drill, they said. Easy. Then the hinge flares wide and the thing is right there, cool polymer pads brushing skin below my jawline. Reflex: step back. Legs don’t. I told them to. Knees twitch but the rest is statue.

Soft pressure, a click—no pain, yet the world shrinks to a ring of alloy hugging my throat.

TWO‑TONE CONFIRMATION.

Double chirp vibrates skullbone; micro‑flares strobe at periphery. Something deep inside clutches—like the collar has found a loose thread in my spine and pulled.

Chest tightens. I can still breathe, but every swallow feels audited. Hudless—no helmet—so I can’t see what UK90F sees, but I feel it: a thin algorithmic hum skating my muscles.

First command lands like static in marrow. Shoulders snap back, spine locks straight. I didn’t move them. I felt them move. Delay maybe a quarter‑second between his intent and my body’s compliance—enough time to recognize the theft.

Step forward. My boots obey, soles slapping mat, knees articulating with hydraulic precision I never owned. Pulse spikes—collar compensates: a wash of tingling warmth in neck and shoulder, coaxing BPM back toward green.

Kneel. Quads fire autonomously, joints fold. From this angle I see reflection in the training room mirror: me, bald crown bowed, collar glowing calm blue at the larynx. Looks almost serene. Feels like a puppet whose strings hum with electricity.

I try to raise a hand—nothing. Fingers twitch inside gauntlets but forearm stays holstered at thigh plate. Command priority overrides voluntary motor plans; my own impulses relegated to background noise.

Strangest part isn’t terror—it’s clarity. Thought floats free when flesh is requisitioned. Like being spectator and exhibit simultaneously. UK90F logs vitals; I register the soft tap of his gloves on HUD keys somewhere above me.

Then release—silver latch, collar breathes open, gravity returns. Arms mine again, heavy, sweat‑slick inside poly‑mesh. I’m upright, but a phantom echo lingers: the afterimage of borrowed motion.

Conclusion: the MK‑IV doesn’t just restrain—it edits. Body as executable code, collar as root access. Training memo said “Compliance through technology.” Understatement. It’s compliance through repurposed will.

I flex fingers—still shaking. Not fear, exactly. More like awareness of permissions that can be revoked at the press of a thumb. And the knowledge that next time, the commands might not end at kneel.

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mysticbby2009 · 3 months ago

Text

Rivals & Revisions Part 6 – This Is Worse Than Hell.

(masterlist) ; (part 1) ; (part 2) ; (part 3) ; (part 4) : (part 5)

Two hours.

You had been stuck in this library with Rafe Cameron for two whole hours, and somehow, you hadn’t committed murder yet. A miracle, honestly.

"Okay," Rafe said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Let’s test your knowledge. Quickfire round. No thinking, just answering."

You sighed. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not at all." His smirk was way too pleased. "Alright—marginal cost?"

"Change in total cost divided by change in quantity."

"Good." He tapped the table. "Law of diminishing returns?"

"As you add more of a variable input, at some point, the additional output will decrease."

"Perfect. Deadweight loss?"

"When the market is inefficient—why are you looking at me like that?" You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you look impressed?"

Rafe shrugged, but the way he was grinning made you suspicious. "Just surprised you actually retained information. You know, since my notes are so useless."

You groaned, shoving your textbook toward him. "You’re so annoying."

"Annoying, but right." He leaned forward, tapping the book. "And speaking of right, this next problem? No way you get it on the first try."

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus, and started solving it. Halfway through, though—

You stalled.

You stared at the equation, pen hovering above the paper, but your mind would not cooperate.

It wasn’t just the econ problem. It was everything. The exhaustion from the past two weeks, the pressure of catching up, the weight of whatever the hell was still dragging you down.

Rafe noticed. Of course he did.

"Hey," he said, and this time, his voice lacked its usual taunting edge. "You’re overthinking it."

You clenched your jaw. "I’m not—"

"You are." He tapped the paper. "Look, you got the first part right. Just finish it."

You tried. You really did. But nothing clicked, and your frustration only grew.

"Jesus," you muttered, shoving the paper away. "I can’t do this right now."

Rafe was quiet for a second. Then—

"Want to take a break?"

You blinked. "What?"

"A break," he repeated, closing your textbook before you could protest. "You’re fried, and I refuse to be blamed when you short-circuit mid-exam."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "I don’t need a break."

"You absolutely do," he said. Then, with a teasing smirk, "Unless you’re scared you’ll fall behind me again?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "This is why people hate you."

"And yet, here we are."

You groaned, but… maybe he had a point.

Maybe, for just a second, you needed to breathe.

So, against your better judgment—

You let Rafe Cameron lead you out of the library, your unfinished problem set temporarily forgotten.

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velvetghoul · 14 days ago

Text

Overflow

✦ Part 6 < Part 7

Reader x Choso Kamo | 18+ MDNI

cw: soft smut, emotional intimacy, overstimulation, accidental repeated orgasms, technique malfunction, creampie x multiple, passing out of overstimulation, reader in control, whimpery sub!Choso, praise kink, oral (f + m), very gentle dom!reader, shower aftercare

⸻

Part 5

Shoko’s clinic smelled of herbal tea and sterilized metal. You enter with Choso, his arm looped around your waist. He’s pale but determined: thinner from stress, yet steadier than ever.

Shoko meets you in the waiting area, eyes warm yet serious. “Today we begin actual treatment,” she says.

Your heart tightens, but Choso squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.

Shoko leads you to a softly lit room: “Here we’ll reinforce his control using layered techniques—cursed keels, energy binding seals, guided intimacy sessions. You’ll use your bond as the emotional anchor.”

Choso exhales sharply: “Makes me sound like a… project.”

You smile. “We’re in this together.”

Shoko nods. “Exactly.”

Choso sits calmly, gazing at you as Shoko fits a sleek cursed-basalt armband around his bicep.

“This will monitor cursed blood output and pulse rhythmic feedback if he deviates,” she explains, adjusting it. It hums softly on his skin.

You stand beside him, palm against his chest. His pulse is steady.

“Relax,” you say.

Choso smiles weakly. “With you—easier.”

Shoko activates the armband. A faint glow indicates normal levels.

“Now,” Shoko instructs, “share a moment. Recall a calm memory—touch it.“

You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss over his heart. “Remember the first time we walked in the rain? Your hair drenched, laughter echoing?”

He swallows. “I—yes. I do.”

You guide his hand to your cheek. His touch is feather-light. Shoko adjusts settings—blood output stabilizes.

“Excellent,” she murmurs.

Over the day, you and Choso progress through controlled stress tests: mild physical strain, emotional triggers, even simulated conflict.

In one trial, Shoko brings a crystal bowl filled with cold stream water.

Choso shudders. “It’s freezing.”

You step forward, pulling his hand. “Stay with me.”

He breathes in. Breathes out. His skin reddens from the cold, but the rune on his arm glows faintly—and holds.

Shoko smiles approvingly. “Good. You didn’t flare.”

You wrap him in a warm shawl and press a kiss to his forehead. He shivers from relief and closeness.

Shoko’s final session is the most personal: you’re given guided directions to hold him close in a dimly lit, quantum-sealed room.

“Skin-to-skin contact,” Shoko says softly. “Let him feel your heart, your breathing rhythm—use it to guide his blood’s frequency.”

You step to Choso. The room is hushed, only your breaths visible in the warm air.

You lie down together, his cheek against your chest. One hand weaving through your hair, the other settled on your hip.

You close your eyes and whisper: “Feel my heart.”

He presses his palm to your sternum. From Shoko’s monitor, the cursed blood output dips—flicker, then steady line.

He exhales heavily. “It feels… right.”

You brush your lips along his forehead. “Don’t let go.”

Minutes pass. Your breathing brings him deeper into calm. Every tremor fades.

Finally, Shoko calls time. Choso stirs, aware of you and her gazing kindly.

“I did it,” he whispers. “It… stayed.” He glances at Shoko. “That was… intense.”

Shoko smiles. “But you prevailed.”

Once home, you collapse together under soft blankets. Choso is exhausted—but present.

He turns to you. “I can feel it. My blood is… grounded.”

You cup his face. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

“Not me,” he says softly. “We. You anchored me.”

Your lips meet, shy at first, then with growing need. It’s gentle, intimate. He kisses back with sweetness, soft and secure.

Your fingers trail his spine. He hums. Vulnerable. Precious.

Things heat gradually: kissing becomes deeper, hands sliding. You lay him on his back; you follow. Clothes removed slowly, reverently. He watches you, breath catching. He’s so alive in this moment—no glows, no hunger—just human heat and connection.

Your bodies move together, slow and warm, anchored. Every touch purposeful. Every sigh shared.

He keeps his eyes on you, connecting.

When he slips in, gentle and patient, both of you gasp. It’s sweet, grounding. You wrap your legs around him, hold him close.

He whispers, voice thick with emotion: “I… love you.”

Tears sting your eyes. “I love you too.”

The rest unfolds in warmth and trust—the healing kind.

⸻

Weeks pass. You continue sessions with Shoko, the armband still on him—glowing faint but stable.

Choso smiles more. Closer to you. Happy.

One evening, after tea and reading, you playfully brush your fingers against his arm—near the rune.

An unexpected swirl of cursed blood pulses—but stays contained.

He looks at you, chest rising. “Feel that? My blood…” he swallows. “It’s still there. But it stays.“

You grin. “You’re in control, love.”

He kisses your palm. “Together.”

You pull him closer. “Always.”

Closing Lines

Choso hovers his forehead over yours. His eyes shine—soft, steady, utterly his own.

“This is our future,” he murmurs. “Grounded… by you.”

You smile. “It always was.”

to be continued

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

#jjk #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #smut #choso kamo #jjk choso #choso x reader #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x you #choso smau #choso x y/n #choso fluff #tw blood

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stoicconfluxvow · 4 months ago

Text

The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

#arcane #viktor arcane #jinx arcane #viktor x jinx #jinx x viktor #jinxtor #rarepair #there are so many parallelisms..#two sides of the same coin #perhaps #they are both insane engineers #from zaun #gasp!

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edupunkn00b · 1 month ago

Text

Do You Know What Could Be in There?

Janus found orphaned Logan as a tiny child and he's raised them alongside his own sons, Remus and Roman. With the addition of Virgil, Roman's mate, their crew was complete as they traveled the stars in search of their next job, their next adventure. Who could have ever guessed their next adventure might come in the shape of a derelict Dirt vessel drifting off the path of the system's shipping lanes?

WC: 1510 - Rated: G - Written for @theforgottenheroes for @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon writing event. More of my stories for this event here.

“Five clicks out, docking in six.” Logan’s crisp, wet voice filtered through their headsets, a bit of static at the end as his Speaker output stalled, waiting for his next words. “Let’s be careful out there,” he added, uncharacteristically superfluous.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Logan had come to them—or, more accurately, Janus had tripped over him—years ago. Logan’s time aboard a Dirt ship had been brief, at most two to three years, given the age of the flat square “teeth” in his first—and only—lower jaw. His memory of the monsters of his heritage were thin, leaving his speech impediment, special dietary and environmental requirements his sole legacies.

His biology only seemed to confirm the old spacer tales, to confirm the very worst of the strange stories whispered from pup to pup to pup at bedtime. As he’d aged and undergone the strange internal changes rumored of the Wrkrmlp species, Janus had learned not to discount any of the tales.

So despite—or perhaps because of—Logan's lack of memories, when an old junker emblazoned with the ancient blue and green Dirt world emblem appeared on their long range scans, he'd immediately convinced them to investigate.

“There might be… artifacts of interest,” he’d said, warbling when the Speaker reacted poorly to his uncertain tone.

“Your argument would hold more weight if it sounded as though you believed it yourself,” Janus said, tapping their fingers together, a simple 3-3-2 pattern. Logan’s bald cheeks turned pink, puffing up in his version of a smile.

Damn that social worker for suggesting he’d never learn to communicate. Logan was so much more than a list of his… limitations.

“We would go to the ends of the universe for you,” Roman cut in, tapping their sibling bond. Neither cared that Logan’s had to be re-painted every few days. “But you don’t have to put yourself in harm’s way just for a few trinkets to sell.”

Logan’s face twisted, an untranslatable expression he’d make from time to time since he was a pup. “That’s not precisely what I mean…”

Sliding close, Remus wrapped two arms around Logan’s back, a third coming up to bat away his other brother’s fingers. Roman chittered—mostly—good-naturedly and sat on Logan’s other side. “Tell us, Lo Lo,” Remus urged. Ears twisting in, his cheeks stretched into a soft smile. “We’re listening.”

Melting into his siblings’ grip, Logan exhaled, breathscreen fogging up. “I wonder if there might be… information on board the ship.”

“You wanna know more about… them?” Virgil hid his middle arms behind his back, bending the other two stiffly at the second joint in a clumsy—and rude—imitation of Logan’s Dirt physique.

He clicked weakly in response, bare skin paling until his stripes shone.

Remus' defense was stronger. “Xlwrcc! IoLLp!” his jaws clacked hard enough to snap chitin.

“Boys…” Janus warned, releasing just enough spice to know they’d crossed the line.

“Sorry, Lo,” Virgil said, releasing his arms and folding them loosely over his belly.

Remus glared, jaws still clicking. ‘You will be,” he muttered.

“Remus,” Janus tapped, 2-1-2-1.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m sorry, too.”

Standing to wrap himself around his mate even as he kept his wrist locked with Logan’s, Roman built a physical line between his brothers and Virgil. “I think what V was really asking,” he began, “Was are you curious about your… people?”

“I am not a Dirt Monster!” Logan snapped.

“No-one’s saying you are,” Janus soothed, taking Roman’s seat. He circled Logan’s fleshy arm. “It’s natural to be curious about where you came from.”

Logan leaned close, cheek pressed to his shoulder plate. Janus purred, the rare gesture of Logan's childhood demonstrating the depth of his desire to learn more about the Wrkrmlp.

“Very well," Janus said. "It’s time to change our heading.”

In the end, Logan struggled to convince them to allow him to join their small landing party. Ancient tales of Wrkrmlp going berserk when people got too close to their kin abounded throughout the universe and Janus was, frankly, reluctant to reveal to any onboard the Dirt ship that they’d not only found but raised one. Wrkrmlp were unlikely to react with the gratitude any civilized worlder would. If the stories were to believed, should they encounter any living Wrkrmlp onboard that ship, the crew would be lucky to escape with their hides and shells intact.

Let alone with Logan.

Finally, though, logic had prevailed and Logan's pointed reminder that his biological advantages could prove to be life-saving if the old Dirt ship’s environmental controls were still configured for alien extremes.

“Respirators on, boys,” Janus said, checking each member of the crew in turn.

Logan strapped a sealant over his own breathscreen with a quiet trill. “Ready?” he asked, bright, bulbous eyes glossy even through his mask.

“Opening the bay doors in 5-4-3-2—“ The final number in Virgil’s countdown was swallowed up by the screech of pressurized air filling the airlock.

“Positive pressure,” Remus’ voice crackled over their comms. “Relative humidity—“ He clicked, shaking the scanner. “Xlwrcc ccn?” He looked up at all of them, eye slits shivering. “Forty-two percent?”

Logan’s eyes darted toward the final docking gate. “Maybe someone’s home.”

Fingers hovering over the controls, Virgil looked to him. “Jay? Are we going in?”

The snap-hiss of Roman’s blaster followed by Remus’ told him the twin’s vote. Logan vibrated, inching closer to the Dirt ship. Finally, Janus clicked.

“Open her up.”

Final gate open, the crew stepped onto the Dirt ship. Feet leaden under the intense artificial gravity, they moved slowly through the gateway. Sound poured down the smooth, round corridor, bouncing and echoing off the cold and featureless hull. No pinchholds, no grips. No windows.

It was hot, the warm air pushing against their suits as if to test the seals. “Everyone alright?” Janus asked. With the air filters on, their space suits blocked even the strongest of spices. It was like communicating across a vacuum.

Several paces ahead of them, Logan touched a wall, gloved hand pressed flat against the curved surface. He tapped the alloy, a steady, featureless rhythm.

“You alright, Lo Lo?” Remus asked, bending down to look through his face plate.

“Mm-hm.” He turned and pointed toward the end of the corridor. “Let’s follow the sound.”

“You want to get closer to the alarms?” Roman clicked.

Remus turned a dial at the back of his helmet. “You can turn it down,” he reminded them.

“Just not all the way,” Janus cautioned. “Let’s keep some of our senses sharp, shall we?”

Logan made no move to muffle the Dirt ship's alarm and, with one more glance over his shoulder, scurried down the corridor.

They spilled out into a brightly lit cavern. Walls lined with dials and machines, the air was heavy with caustic odors strong enough to seep past their breathing filters. “Is it toxic?” Janus asked, turning to Virgil.

The steady, if rapid, click of his sensors urged caution but no immediate danger. “We’re safe for now,” Virgil said, gaze fixed on the screen. “We just—“

A horrifying howl filled the air, overpowering their comms. The crew dropped to their knees as their arms came up, ineffectually attempting to block the racket.

Everyone but Logan, that is.

Logan only stared at the Wrkrmlp standing at the far end of the cavern.

No taller than Logan himself and barely dressed, most of its bald, striped skin was left uncovered. A yellow, fuzzy patch of fur grew out of the top of its head, those same familiar patches over its circular eyes. This one’s jaw had fur growing out of it, as well, a little darker than the fur sprouting from its head.

It spat a caucophony of warning growls and hisses, spindly, stiff arms flailing about as it opened a panel in the wall and pulled out an alloy plate, steaming with heat from the ship’s core. Using nothing but thin mats to protect its bald, fleshy fingers, it set the plate on a work bench and ran toward them.

Ran toward Logan.

Before Janus could stop it, it grabbed Logan and squeezed him, arms wrapped tightly around him and lifting him up off the deck.

“You can’t take him!” Janus roared, pushing up to his feet. “He’s Iqpt!”

Still screeching, the Wrkrmlp looked at him. Head tilted with its face screwed up into that same expression Janus had seen on Logan so many times before, it kept one arm wrapped around Logan’s shoulders.

Logan didn’t try to get away.

Suddenly the Wrkrmlp’s face stretched, eyes wide and mouth gaping open like it meant to swallow them whole. It slapped a colorful wall panel and the alarm cut out. Its screeches, too, turned to speech.

“Oh, gosh, sorry about the music! I forgot to turn on my translator and, well,” it wiggled its shoulders, cheeks pink. “It’s been so long since I’ve had company I sorta forgot I had it.”

It picked up the metal panel, browned blobs of burnt chemical compounds dotted semi-evenly over the surface. “Cookie?”

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