#sodomas

[acrophobicjack]

Rhysothy Doots bc I’m soft and gay tonight

[clonelyboy]

@sodomas

[acrophobicjack]

@sodomas​ liked for a starter!! 

Much like a child who’d broken a prized toy, it had taken Timothy nearly a week to seek out assistance when the gifted prosthetic had broken due to his own negligence. There were only so many tasks he could do around the HQ with just the one functional hand--and swallowing his pride to get it fixed meant he could continue his work and be left to his devices. 

The elevator ride up to Rhys’ office was quiet before he stepped out, steps slow and measured as a mismatched gaze looked around--finding the place extremely...Rhys-less. Empty. Not a sight nor sound of the man of the hour anywhere.  Not to say he should have expected it--Rhys was a busy man with a busy schedule. Not every CEO had to live in their office; not every CEO had to BE Handsome Jack. A fact that was still incredibly hard to shake. 

With a quiet sigh, the man sank into one of the couches--deciding he should wait for the man to return. Otherwise, he might not work up the nerve to pop back in for another week. Or two. Chin rested within his functional flesh hand and mismatched gaze settled on the variety of fish tanks decorating the office, content to watch the calming nature of the fish swimming about in their own little habitats while he waited. 

[acrophobicjack]

@sodomas 

"It's...not a pretty sight, Pumpkin. Just a uh--a fair warning. I guess." His voice sounds so small as fingers play against the clasps near his eyebrows--debating. Weighing the options. Before he can gather what little courage he has and pry the mask from the abused skin. Freeing himself from Jack’s face for Rhys to see. 

The vault scar juts across the majority of his face; a mirror image of Jack’s own save for the coloration. Tim’s had remained the vicious red of seared flesh. Gnarled and disgusting--obvious signs of inadequate care in the early stages that may have reduced the mark. There are smaller scars; little nicks and cuts along the slopes of his face from his years of Vault Hunting and the like but they all pale in comparison to the main factor. 

Mismatched eyes refuse to meet Rhys’ own and he thumbs idly at the cracks decorating the mask in his hands. Feeling naked and far too vulnerable for his own good without it. 

[acrophobicjack]

sodomas replied to your post: Thinking about Tim’s face gently being cradled by...

GIVE ME RHYS AND TIM BEING SOFT AND RHYS SEEING THE SCAR PLS

HE’D BE SO SCARED OF RHYS’ REACTION :’((

[acrophobicjack]

“you’re not alone. you never were.” from rhys

angsty/suggestive sentence starters; accepting!!

There are good days and then there are very…very bad days. When the weight of the world seems to crush Timothy Lawrence to his very soul. When the branding on his face, nearly a decade old, aches so intensely like it’s just been done. When his very thoughts aren’t his own, coaxing him into returning to the man he used to be. Being Jack. The lines between the two such a blur. 

Days like these, he doesn’t like to be around anyone else. He doesn’t want Rhys or Zane seeing him like this. Doesn’t want prying eyes or soft touches–too afraid that he’ll end up lashing out or breaking down. Ruining everything he’s built up. Maybe that’s not healthy, but it’s better than the alternative. 

Atlas HQ is large and it isn’t hard to stow himself away from the CEO. Or at least, that had been his intention, until Rhys is there. Saying such words achingly soft. 

Mismatched eyes avoid his partner’s own and his prosthetic hand sets to worrying a stray thread of his jacket, fingers curling just so to pull. Fraying it from the fabric. Hoping he’ll get the hint. 

“–Rhys. I. I really don’t wanna do this song and dance right now.” 

[acrophobicjack]

rhys curls up to tim, just resting his head on tim's shoulder. "hi,"

“Hey there.” The greeting is returned softly and Tim wastes no time in closing a document on his ECHO device and setting it aside in favor of divvying up attention to his partner. Flesh hand raises, gently catching a lock of brown hair--combing it back into the style the CEO so constantly fixes it in. 

“You doin’ alright baby--?” 

[grandschemed]

“ who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? ” ignis @ cor :3c

@sodomas​ / ignis & cor.

“old people,” cor answers simply, but what a cop-out answer.  a hundred old men in power couldn’t even come close to anything noctis and his group have gone through already.  and still, their journey is still incomplete, still so far left to suffer.  like lambs led to slaughter and the world depends on it.

he sighs, dissatisfied, bearing his title, ‘cor the immortal’ like a curse.  he remembers his fiery youth, desperate to impress king regis with his prowess and skill.  and for what?  he has outlived his king and is easily on his way to outliving a second.  what good is experience?  it has done nothing but sentence him to life.  

“those who survive measure the distance,” cor looks away, heart heavy, wishing he could take their place more than anything, but regis’ last orders bind him to this life like a dog with no master.  “the remnants’ll preach your stories and claim it as their experience.”