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willyoubemycherryy · 1 month ago

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TAKE 4 🎬 -> + Stack. M x Reader+

Anothhhheeerrrr Stack draft

Summary: In which Stack likes your perfume a little too much. Why, he could just eat you up…

Contains: my completely nonexistent self control, cursing, teasing, flirting, manhandling, oral (f.receiving), Stack is vicious with it, pussydrunk!Stack, no seriously he’s captain eat ‘em down🫡 in this, overstimulation, manhandling, petnames, everyone has a country accent, this is for the ✋🏽 strictly for the ✊🏽, kissing, biting, scent kink?, established relationship, you really need to stop playing with him before you get preg- 🤠whoops! aaaannnnnnd that’s all for today folks!!

A/N- thanks for all the get better wishes and comments<333 y’all are hilarious😂 proud to announce that I’m not sick anymore and my lung is much better so eyyyow!

MY CREW @thefirst-ofus @simpingfor-wakasa @hotcommodityyy @thabiddie23 @myislandbunny @funrabbit @ayeeeitsmiracle @known-only-by-the-insane @enticingmelanin @brattyfics @aizawaspersonalassistant @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @spookysanta @szatears @thegreatlibraryofalex @ariesthetouchdeprivedgirl @thequeenkhlo @saintsssrow LETS GO😂🤝🏽🎀

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢ ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉

You’d never finish your checklist like this. Pointedly ignoring the eyes boring suspiciously into the side of your skull- even humming every couple seconds. However, it was all part of your plan unbeknownst to Stack.

As soon as you came through the door of the joint, ready to help check and tally inventory like you always did in the middle of each week- walking in and kissing him on his jaw like you always did with a soft ‘all ready here, baby’- he immediately noticed it.

A scent.

It was sweet, full, with a crisp nectarine linger to it. Like a freshly bitten apple. Made him taste the sugar of you in the very air he breathed as you breezed past him. For a moment he was frozen; confusion along with a special kind of want took over his face while he wracked his brain for what exactly you did to yourself. You looked the same, pretty n’ heavenly- sounded the same too but something….he swears he’s not crazy. But, you’re acting normal so he tries to do the same, following you to stand behind the bar while you worked. Humming softly as you flip through their records and inventory.

He doesn’t let up, almost in a trance, his eyes fixed on you as the minutes go by.

“God forbid you have anything else to do ’sides eyeball me”, you’re messing with him, trying not to grin at how much closer he’s gotten while studying you. Trying to focus on the lists and feign indifference even as he “subtly” creeps closer to you, dipping his head to trace his nose down from your ear to your chin leaving goosebumps in his wake. The way his lips ghost over the underside of your jaw make you tremble, gripping the pen in your hand that much tighter, you swallow down a breathy whine before shaking him off you. Schooling your face into a scandalized type of shock, you gasp.

“What’s gotten into you? Breathin’ down my neck like I owe you money or somethin’!”

Your fussing barely even reaches his ears and the way you try to bay him away just makes that mouthwatering scent of yours float him higher. Don’t get him wrong- you always smelled good but this was on another tab entirely.

He felt damn near tipsy…

How could you not smell you? Did the rest of you smell the same or only certain areas? Stack knows he ain’t crazy but you’re close to taking him there.

“What is that?”

The usually smooth timbre of his voice sounds rougher from his arousal, bass in his low drawl making your heart skips so hard you jolt, sheer anticipation having your nerves go haywire as you fight the slow heat licking it’s way up your stomach.

“What is what, baby?” You sound confused but he knows better- felt the way you jumped when he asked. Unfortunately, like him, you were a damn good liar and he’d need to have a lot of patience and time to get answers. Time he didn’t have because he was already fattening up in his slacks already.

“Stop playin’ w’me. You did somethin’ different today but I just can’t prove it”, his eyes narrow like that’ll help him figure it out but you’re dedicated to your (false) innocence.

“Can’t prove anything because I ain’t done anything”, riling him up as he pulls back to stare you dead in your eyes, whispering low.

“Oh I know you did.” You keep your eyes locked on his as that familiar itch burns to life inside you. Biting your lip, you lean your head back until your mouth is right up against his ear. It’s a dangerous game but that’s the fun. The thrill.

“And wouldn’t you like to know?”

You’re for sure trying to kill him. Groaning, Stack can’t help himself, taking another deep inhale of your smell, he feels his blood start to simmer. You sigh breathily, teasing him with a barely there brush of your ass against his dick. Stack freezes before nodding slowly- finally piecing it together. “You tryna get ate up ain’t you?” You try to suppress another grin but he makes it too easy. Huffing out a light laugh you shrug him off. Muttering,

“Asks the one tryin’ to eat me up..”

“What?”

“What??”

You speak almost at the same time but Stack can’t be bothered to indulge you right now, earning a delighted little moan from you when he lands a heavy smack on your ass.

From there he’s on autopilot, pressing himself firm against you and sucking bruises on the soft skin of your neck. Loud, needy gasps spill from your lips making his head spin, large hands grabbing all over you intensely while you pant and god help you when Stack purrs in your ear,

“..smell so good mamas..”

There’s a sharp pulse of warmth in your clit- like a heartbeat as you keen. Arousal laced adrenaline washing over you in waves. Stack is caught in a mix between smelling you and touching wherever he can reach and you rush to get back on track.

“S-Stack! Waiiit-!” But he’s in a world of his own, spinning you quickly to face him, muffling your less than genuine protests with his lips. Broad tongue not missing a beat- licking firmly across your teeth before dipping hotly into your mouth. You feel so good, you’re shaking. Eyes fluttering back as your hands find themselves on his wide shoulders.

“Stac- oohf!”

Huffing out when the air is knocked clean out of your chest as you’re mindlessly manhandled onto the top of the counter; dizzy from how fast he’s moving, layers of your poofy dress get thrown up around your waist before he’s hiking your legs over his shoulders, massaging greedily at the plump softness. The nerves from before were nothing compared to how they were now. Watching dazed as Stack licks his lips like a wolf, eyes steeped to dark chocolate while he presses his nose into the underside of your knee, skimming down to your ankles.

Letting out another wrecked groan, it’s just as he thought.

It’s all over you. That delicious smell.

Your pulse skyrockets when you feel your panties being tugged at, biting your lip in heated anticipation. Stack shoves his face in your chest, taking another drag of your smell and whining before lapping a fat stroke up to your neck from your cleavage, humming drunkenly as he nuzzles into you.

Now Stack has always been a wanting and wanted man. You’d seen him be both but you’ve never seen him like this- so… desperate. You were almost concerned. Stack brings his face level to yours again and just the look of him has your stomach clenching.

“What is that smell, pretty? Drivin’ me goddamn crazy..”

He grounds out, taking your mouth in another filthy kiss before you can respond. The hand tugging at your knickers end up ripping them clean off you, your gasp swallowed up by his tongue in your mouth.

That perfume might be the best 20 bucks you’ve ever spent.

When you bought it, it was only because you immediately liked the smell. Sweet, crisp, with a linger to it. Before you left to see Stack, you’d sprayed it on various points of your body- on both sides of your neck, middle of your chest, both wrists, behind both knees and ankles. You liked it so you knew Stack would love it. But this much?

Stack pulls away with your lower lip between his teeth, making you hiss- trying to catch your breath. He rises to his height, no longer bent over you as he starts to undress. Tearing off his jacket and shirt, thick muscles of his arms and chest hypnotize you before he drops to his knees, ripping a gasp from your throat when you’re yanked roughly to the edge of the counter.

“..good, smell so good…”, the words are a soft hush into your skin, almost like he’s talking to himself.

“N’ wet too..”

Shivering, you barely get the chance to prop yourself up on your elbows before he’s on you.

The first lick up your cunt has you crying. Stack feels his cock throb as your wetness coats his tastebuds, long tongue lapping up and down your pussy in hot, thorough swipes. Between your smell and your taste, it was only a matter of time until he was completely gone off you. The nasty moan he lets out shakes you to your core as your eyes water, shaky hips grinding up into his greedy maw while you sob in pleasure.

Hulking arms lock around your thighs, holding you in place as Stack suctions his mouth over your clit, working the poor nub over with his tongue. You yelp, hands shooting out to grab his thick arms, needing to ground yourself. With a sigh, Stack pops wetly off your clit, only giving you a second to gather yourself before lapping his tongue into your tight hole. Undulating that perfect fucking muscle in hard thrusts then up and down through your slit, your eyes fluttering back into your skull at the pleasure running up your spine. Wet, wrecked moans bubble freely from your mouth as Stack buries his mouth deeper into your heat. Smooching your bud in a gentle kiss before slurping it into his mouth, laving his tongue against the underside.

Oh God. Your eyes slam shut- jaw dropping in a deafening wail, manicured nails digging into his arms as you’re abruptly flung off the edge you’ve been trying so hard to hold on to, thighs tensing in his hold as you shatter.

Your back is arched to an almost painful degree, coming so hard euphoria sears through your every nerve, leaving you a mess under Stack’s tongue that doesn’t stop. Licking at you hungrily until you’re pushing at his head.

Reluctantly, he takes his mouth off you, burying his face in your inner thigh, huffing in your sugary scent like a drug. Your heart pounds as you try to catch your breath, holding yourself up on quivering arms so you can look at him. Preparing to move off the counter, you start to close your legs but Stack stops you- peppering heavy kissing all over your thighs and lower stomach.

Rekindling that heat inside you.

Making a noise of confusion, you try to move again when he stops you by pressing a kiss on your lower lips before moving to look you in the eyes. You two make quite the sight with your flushed face and his blown pupils. Cheeks dimpling as he licks his lips, the gold glinting at you while savoring your taste. You let out a shaky moan as you watch him. Fuck it being the best perfume you’ve ever bought, at this point- it was the best thing you’ve ever bought in your life and Stack’s next words confirm it.

“M’not done with you yet, sweet thing..”

And he wouldn’t be until he was bathed in you.

I’m so happy to be back I mf missed yall🥹😭heyyyyyy sistaaaas🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🥰!!

#sinners #sinners smut #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners movie #sinners x reader #sinners stack #sinners 2025 #stack x reader #elias stack moore smut #stack smut #elias moore #elias stack moore #elias moore x reader #elias stack Moore x reader #sinners stack x reader

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vivsinkpot · 2 months ago

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When Should You Describe a Character’s Appearance? (And When You Really, Really Shouldn’t)

It’s one of the first instincts writers have: describe your character. What they look like, what they wear, how they move. But the truth is — readers don’t need to know everything. And more importantly, they don’t want to know everything. At least, not all at once. Not without reason.

Let’s talk about when to describe a character’s appearance, how to do it meaningfully, and why less often says more.

1. Ask: Who Is Seeing Them? And Why Now?

The best descriptions are filtered through a perspective. Who’s noticing this character, and what do they see first? What do they expect to see, and what surprises them?

She looked like someone who owned every book you were supposed to have read in school. Glasses slipping down her nose. Sharp navy coat, sensible shoes, and an air of knowing too much too soon.

Now we’re not just learning what she looks like — we’re learning how she comes across. That tells us more than eye color ever could.

2. Use Appearance to Suggest Character, Not List Facts

Avoid long physical checklists. Instead, choose a few details that do double work — they imply personality, history, class, mood, or context.

Ineffective: She had long, wavy brown hair, green eyes, a small nose, and full lips. She wore jeans and a white shirt.

Better: Her hair was tied back like she hadn’t had time to think about it. Jeans cuffed, a shirt buttoned wrong. Tired, maybe. Or just disinterested.

You don’t need to know her exact features — you feel who she is in that moment.

3. Know When It’s Not the Moment

Introducing a character in the middle of action? Emotion? Conflict? Don’t stop the story for a physical description. It kills momentum.

Instead, thread it through where it matters.

He was pacing. Long-legged, sharp-shouldered — he didn’t seem built for waiting. His jaw kept twitching like he was chewing on the words he wasn’t allowed to say.

We learn about his build and his mood and his internal tension — all in motion.

4. Use Clothing and Gesture as Extension of Self

What someone chooses to wear, or how they move in it, says more than just what’s on their body.

Her sleeves were too long, and she kept tucking her hands inside them. When she spoke, she looked at the floor. Not shy, exactly — more like someone used to being half-disbelieved.

This is visual storytelling with emotional weight.

5. Finally: Describe When It Matters to the Story, Not Just the Reader

Are they hiding something? Trying to impress? Standing out in a crowd? Use appearance when it helps shape plot, stakes, or power dynamics.

He wore black to the funeral. Everyone else in grey. And somehow, he still looked like the loudest voice in the room.

That detail matters — it changes how we see him, and how others react to him.

TL;DR:

Don’t info-dump descriptions.

Filter visuals through a point of view.

Prioritize impression over inventory.

Describe only what tells us more than just what they look like — describe what shows who they are.

Because no one remembers a checklist.

But everyone remembers the girl who looked like she’d walked out of a forgotten poem.

#writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writing tips #amwriting #character development #creative writing #writing advice #character design #show don't tell #narrative voice #fiction writing #creative writing tips #writing prompt

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rohit0709 · 2 years ago

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#inventory audit #audit checklist

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prokopetz · 8 months ago

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While Metroid (1986) and Castlevania II: Simon's Quest (1987) are usually cited as the founding texts of the metroidvania genre, not without reason, they were actually part of a much larger wave of 2D side-scrolling platformers featuring nonlinear, inventory-gated open worlds that were all released in the same three or four year span.

Some are fairly well known, like Blaster Master (1988) and Zelda II: The Adventure of Link (1987). Others are more obscure these days, like Faxanadu (1987) or The Maze of Galious (1987). There doesn't seem to be any one game that started it – it was an idea whose time had come, and suddenly it was everywhere at all at once.

Of course, given that the genre was just beginning to take shape, there are also a lot of weird edge cases that might or might not be first-generation metroidvanias, depending on how you define your terms. Ultimately, checklists of tropes are perhaps a less relevant metric than which games participated in the creative dialogue that produced what would eventually be labelled the metroidvania.

Which finally brings me to the question I actually want to throw out:

Is DuckTales (1989) a first-generation metroidvania?

#gaming #video games #ducktales #metroidvanias #genres #nomenclature #taxonomy #game design

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nemo-writes · 2 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter ten

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: time passes without a whisper of danger—yet your nerves remain coiled, the calm louder than any threat, and even the smallest unraveling leaves you raw. and then—a reminder. a sweet and scruffy one.

⤿ warning(s): discussion of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.7k

Night settles over The Pitt—still damp from the days-long storm, but humming with the restless energy that always spikes when day hands off to graveyard. You and Jack step from his truck into a crisp mist, the hospital’s glass façade beading with rain that looks silver under the loading-bay floodlights. New security lamps flare along the sidewalk—Gloria’s latest decree—and a pair of guards linger at the doors, radios murmuring.

Inside the vestibule, you barely have time to swipe your badge before Margot’s unmistakable laugh echoes off the tile. She’s striding out with Bob at her side, keys jingling on his belt loop. They both slow when they spot you. Margot’s smile goes soft around the edges, the charge nurse façade slipping just a hair.

“Look who decided to grace the night shift with her presence,” she teases, but her eyes rake you head to toe—inventorying. Bob lifts the insulated tote he’s carrying, waggles it like contraband.

“You didn’t think we’d let you start a shift without pre-approved carbs, did you?” he says. The tote is clearly stuffed with fresh clothes, some snacks, and your favorite thermos.

You accept with heat prickling your eyes. “Thank you guys. For the other stuff too.”

“No problem,” Bob says. He steps close, dipping his voice. “You doing okay?”

You expected the question, will expect it a dozen more times before dawn, but gratitude still stirs. “Hour by hour,” you answer. “Tonight feels…manageable.”

Margot hooks her arm through Bob’s, visibly relieved. “Good. Because we left a stack of elbow-deep charting for your meticulous little heart.”

Jack snorts behind you. “Translation: Ellis kept things imploding, but she’s threatening to duct-tape Shen to the inventory closet.”

Margot laughs, reaches out, and squeezes your forearm, her thumb pressing reassurance into your sleeve. “Call if you need anything—security code or emotional rescue.” Then she tips her chin at Jack. “And you—don’t let her do all the lifting.”

He lifts a hand in casual salute. “Roger that.”

With a final wave, the two of them disappear into the night, headed toward the staff lot where morning routines and normal sleep still exist. You watch them go until the door hisses shut, muffling the outside world.

Jack turns, clinks his badge against yours like a toast. “Ready?”

You draw a breath—clean antiseptic, distant coffee, the ever-present ozone tingle of the sterilizers. The hall ahead is bright and chilled, monitors already chiming in their peculiar midnight harmony. Security cameras pivot softly overhead, tracing every angle.

“Ready,” you say, and together you step past the threshold—back into fluorescent light, controlled chaos, and the shifting constellation of night-shift hearts that are already orbiting, waiting for your steady gravity to settle them.

. . .

The first night back feels like wearing stiff boots over half-healed blisters—every step deliberate, the pinch of memory always there. You track every clipboard, double-lock every med cart, and tense when a pager shrieks too close to your ear.

Yet nothing happens.

By the second week you’re still cataloging every unfamiliar face, but you’re also teasing a new nurse when he mislabels a drain and walking a med-student through a central-line checklist without your voice wobbling. The scanner Ramirez installed on the staff entrance clicks each time you badge in, a small mechanical reminder that the perimeter is tighter now. You and Jack trade five-minute hand-offs at the clean-utility alcove—his shoulder bump, your muttered “hydrate”—and the shift rolls on.

Weeks braid into a measured rhythm.

By November, the south wing glows with early holiday lights and the trauma corridor carries a faint, persistent whiff of pumpkin-spiced coffee. You’ve also reclaimed your “midnight Bento” ritual—onigiri for Parker, hot miso for Shen—while Jack complains there’s still no chili oil.

That same week Gloria corners you outside Sterile Core, her heels clicking a decisive cadence. She’s carrying a color-coded staffing matrix and a look that means business. “Security metrics have held thirty days,” she says, flipping to a highlighted column. “If you’re ready, I’m clearing you for day shift—and your old surgical slot. We’ll keep the enhanced badge checks, but the board trusts the system.”

You swallow, nod, and realize your pulse doesn’t spike at the prospect—only hums with something like anticipation.

And just like that, Veterans Day circles the calendar, and with it comes Jack’s rare PTO request: one personal day to breathe outside hospital walls, visit the memorial, recalibrate. On the eve of it, the shift starts hot and only climbs.

By mid-morning you and Ellis are juggling a dehisced abdominal wound when a flustered volunteer wheels in a couple clutching a gasping toddler. Triage tags them for you—shortness of breath, fever, no documented vaccines. The boy’s ribs see-saw with each breath; his O₂ reads 86. You hustle him onto oxygen while Ellis pages Respiratory, but the parents block the door, insisting the pulse‐ox is “rigged.”

“We keep our kid clean,” the father snaps, arms folded like a blockade of plaid. “No toxins.”

“Toxins are what he’s choking on right now,” you answer, trying to slip a thermometer past the mother’s swatting hand. The toddler wheezes, small fingers scrabbling for your scrub pocket. Two techs arrive with a nebulizer; the mother accuses them of “pharma poisoning.”

Your patience thread frays. Security hovers outside at the ready.

Ellis finally edges the parents into the hallway by sheer force of Latin terminology, leaving you and the RT inside with the wheezing boy. You press the mask to his face, voice dropped to a lullaby, while through the cracked curtain you hear the father call Ellis “brainwashed.”

By the time the parents cave in (at the last minute) and the the kid’s sats climb to 94, sweat slicks your spine. Security is also quick to escort the parents to registration; they leave paperwork crumpled, still muttering “government numbers.”

Ellis hands the child off to Pedi ICU, all while adrenaline jitters your wrists, and you return to find the med cart disassembled by a float nurse who wanted “just in case” morphine. It feels like one long violation—the parents’ disbelief, the cart chaos, the weight of fixing what should never have broken.

So you focus on rebuilding the drawers, alphabetical dividers snapping into place a little too hard, each click an exorcism. It’s in this raw, ragged pocket of the day that Jack appears in the med alcove to remind you again of his veterans-day absence.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Quick reminder—tomorrow I’m off. Ramirez and Parker know to be on—”

“Jack, I know,” you snap, vial tray clattering as you shove it home. “You’ve told me three times already. I’m not a stray left at the pound.” Your heart hammers; embarrassment floods in behind the anger but can’t dam the tears springing hot to your lashes. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to hover just because I’m today’s damsel-in-distress.”

The sudden silence swells; the fridge hums. Jack’s gaze flicks to the re-ordered drawers, traces the tension coiled in your shoulders.

“I know you’re not fragile,” he says, voice even but warm. “I just care where my foxhole partner is standing.”

“That’s the problem,” you bite back, pulse still hammering from the parents’ tirade. “You’re always gauging my location like I’m a breach in the hull. I don’t need a minder every time you leave the building.”

He exhales through his nose—patience fraying—but keeps calm. “Listen—”

Your laugh cracks like brittle glass. “Spare me the pep talk. I’m holding by dental floss, and you hovering makes me feel like I’m seconds from splintering.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. He looks both ways, then curls two fingers into your scrub sleeve and steers you toward an empty bay. The curtain snaps shut behind you.

“Jack—”

“Quiet.” His voice is low, trembling with its own edge. “You just fought conspiracy parents while rebuilding a med cart like it’s Jenga. You skipped lunch and tore up your cuticles until they bled. I’m not hovering out of guilt—I’m hovering because I watched you hit the floor once and I’m not scheduling an encore.”

You open your mouth, fury and embarrassment tangling. “Stop making this about you feeling heroic. I will survive one day without—”

“That’s not what this is.” He steps closer, heat rolling off him. “You want proof?”

Before you can snarl another word he cups your face—hands firm but reverent—and kisses you, full and unhesitating. His stubble scrapes your skin in a rough, almost electric drag that somehow feels exactly right, grounding fury into something warmer. The shock blazes through anger, through exhaustion, until only the thunder of two heartbeats and antiseptic-scented air remain. His thumbs keep stroking your cheekbones, as if re-anchoring every fracturing part.

He pulls back just far enough to speak, breath ragged. “That is why I need to know where my foxhole partner stands. Not to monitor—” another kiss, softer, “—but to come stand there with her.”

This is months of unspoken wanting distilled into a single, wordless confession. His hands frame your face as if he’s chiseling truth into stone, and every press of lips says I love you, I love you, I love you without needing breath or syllables.

Tears cool on your cheeks, but they carry no fear—only the stunned relief of mysteries solved. “Fine,” you whisper, voice ragged but sure. “Go honor your day. I’ll hold the line.”

Jack’s answering smile is small, fierce, eyes shining with everything the kiss already said.

“It’s been a long time since we claimed the roof,” he murmurs, voice husky from the confession that just burned across your lips. “Maybe we trade the foxhole for a bird’s-eye again. Day after I’m back—and after your first day shift—I’ll be up there at change-over like we used to. Deal?”

Something expansive blooms in your chest, bigger than relief, sharper than hope. You answer by wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him so fiercely he rocks on his heels.

“Deal,” you breathe against his collar. “Rooftop. After day shift. Tea included.”

He chuckles, warm and certain, and presses a final kiss to your cheek before slipping away at the shouted call of his name, the curtain whispering closed behind him. You let your lungs fill at last—still bent, still bone-weary, but no longer so tightly woven. When you push the curtain aside and step back into the buzzing corridor, the feeling of that stubbled kiss settles over your heart like fresh-forged armor, bright enough to carry you through the rest of this night—and all the way up to the rooftop tomorrow.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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nahoney22 · 5 months ago

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Liar Liar (Part 1/?)

🫧 Part One - 79's

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female Reader.

🫧 word count: 5k.

🫧 Plot: When you meet a so-called clone named Whisky at 79's, you're a bit flustered with the impression he left on you. Little did you know that you were now caught in a web of Commander Fox’s lie.

🫧 Chapter Warnings: Safe for work, alcohol consumption, lying, teasing, flirting, Corrie guard antics, Fox is a little shit, grumpy. AFAB Female reader.

🫧 Authors note: Hi! So this is going to be a short story about reader and Commander Fox. Be prepared for lots of flirting, angst, crying, fun and eventual smutty goodness! Enjoy. I've also posted most parts to my AO3 account (NaHoney).

“You gonna join us tonight?”

You glance up from your work, eyebrows raised. “And that would be…?”

“79’s, of course!” Thire grins, slinging his arm around one of his brothers. “We need a break.”

“He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had a night just to relax,” Hound chimes in, leaning casually against the wall, his helmet tucked under one arm.

They look at you expectantly as you mull it over. You rarely went out—especially not with the boys—but the idea of unwinding at 79’s didn’t sound half bad. Besides, your friend Pia was working tonight, and catching up with her had been long overdue.

“Sure,” you say, nodding as you distribute the last of the data files onto the desks for tomorrow’s shift. “I’ll be there.”

The troopers exchange approving smiles. “Should we ask Fox?” Hound wonders aloud, glancing at his brothers before shifting his gaze to you.

“Why bother?” Stone snorts from the doorway. “He always says no.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny the truth in Stone’s words. You’d overheard Fox turn down countless invitations.

Anyway, he didn’t seem the type to let loose, especially with how rowdy the boys could get after a few rounds of Corellian ale.

“I don’t see the harm in asking him again,” you reply, shrugging. “But yeah, he’ll probably say no.”

They leave you with the task. You finish tidying up, making sure everything is prepped for tomorrow. The clock ticks closer to 1900 hours, but Fox still hasn’t returned from the Senate. Deciding you’ve waited long enough, you gather your things and head for the door.

Just as you hit the button to open it, the door hisses apart, and you nearly collide with the broad red armor of Commander Fox.

“Oh!” You step back quickly, almost tripping over your own feet. “There you are.”

Fox enters, his usual confident stride noticeably subdued. He moves to his desk, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath his armor.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you continue, hovering uncertainly near the doorway.

A weary and almost impatient sigh filters through his modulator. “And why’s that?”

Something’s off. You’re used to his abrupt tone, but tonight there’s a heaviness to it that makes you hesitate with your answer

“Everything okay, Commander?” Your tone softens, concerned as you ignore his question.

“Fine,” he replies curtly, glancing over his shoulder. When he sees the worry etched on your face, he sighs again, this time sounding more human than soldier. “It’s just been a long day.”

You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I can imagine. You usually don’t finish this late at the Senate.”

He turns fully to face you, leaning back against his desk. His arms cross over his chest. “I’ve finished later,” he says dryly. “Is everything sorted for the morning?” He then asks, changing topic swiftly.

“Yes, Commander. Everyone has their files, and I put through an order for more supplies.”

“Such as?” He presses.

You hold your tongue and maintain a neutral expression. Back to his grumpy self, it seems.

“Extra medpacs, ammo, and rations. They should arrive by 0900 hours,” you list off, trying to sound efficient and competent, even though his scrutiny makes your blood simmer.

Fox nods absently, his visor fixed on you. Then he starts rattling off a checklist of additional tasks. Everything from inventory updates, personnel reports, security drills. You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, wondering why he insists on making everything harder than it needs to be.

“Like I said, Commander,” you interrupt gently but firmly when he finishes, “I’ve taken care of everything. For you.”

The ‘for you’ slips out sharper than intended, and you can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you see his posture stiffen slightly. Turning away, you head for the door, masking your irritation with a forced calm. Just before you step out, you hesitate, glancing back.

“I stayed because the boys wanted to see if you’d join us at 79’s tonight. I’ll tell them you’re busy.”

Because ‘busy’ always sounds better than ‘tired’.

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

“There she is!” Stone cheers the moment he spots you, raising his glass in a mock toast.

You grin as you weave through the packed club, the bass of music thudding in your chest, lights flickering in shades of blue and violet. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Typical 79’s.

As you reach the group, a chorus of nods and smiles greet you. Thire, Hound, and a few other Corrie Guards stand clustered together, already a few drinks in.

“Lookin’ good.” Hound nods appreciatively, earning a playful jab from you but accepting the compliment regardless. It’s not often you dress up, after all and the shirt you bought last month was too cute not to wear.

“Surprised to see you all behaving,” you tease, eyeing Thire’s drink before shifting to the man himself. “Especially you. No table dancing tonight?”

Thire groans, rubbing his head like the memory physically pains him. “I thought we all agreed not to bring that up.”

“Too hard to forget.” You smirk. “Especially the part where you fell flat on your face.”

Hound chokes on his drink, while Stone grins over the rim of his own. “I swear, the look on his face right before he went down—priceless.”

Thire mutters something about betrayal under his breath but smirks anyway.

“So, I take it the Commander isn’t coming?” Hound then asks, shifting the conversation as he leans closer.

You bite back a smart remark, still holding a minor grudge from your last interaction with Fox. Instead, you just shake your head. “Nope. He was really busy. Lots of files to go through.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Stone mutters, downing another sip.

You nod along, but despite your irritation, you can’t shake the image of Fox’s slumped posture, the exhaustion practically radiating off him. Still, you push the thought aside and excuse yourself, heading toward the bar.

Sliding onto a stool, you drum your fingers against the bartop, scanning the crowd until a familiar voice breaks through the noise.

“There’s my girl!” Pia grins, practically launching herself over the bar to pull you into a quick hug. “It’s been forever!”

“Oh, I know,” you sigh, grateful for the warmth of her presence. “Work’s been eating up my life. I haven’t had time for anything.”

“Tell me about it,” Pia groans, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “I’ve covered four extra shifts this week. Four! I basically live here.”

“That’s rough.”

“I wouldn’t mind if the pay was half-decent,” she grumbles, before quickly turning to serve an impatient trooper waving a handful of credits. She hands him his drink with a pointed look before spinning back to you. “Anyway, let’s get you a drink.”

As she sets a fruity, colorful concoction in front of you, you instinctively reach for your credits, but Pia swats your hand away with the tiny umbrella meant for your drink.

“Absolutely not.” She tuts, popping the umbrella in your glass for extra flourish.

You arch a brow. “You sure?”

“Of course.” She’s already dashing off to serve someone else before you can protest, so you just shake your head with a laugh.

“Don’t expect a tip, then,” you joke.

“Wouldn’t expect one from you anyway!” Pia calls over her shoulder, grinning.

You take a sip, humming in satisfaction. Perfect, as always. As the straw hangs lazily from your lips, you scan the bar, looking for any more familiar faces—though, ironically, in a room full of clones, everyone looks familiar.

Then you spot him.

Across the bar, a clone sits alone, elbow propped up as he rests his head in his hand. He looks… tired. Maybe bored. Maybe just hoping no one will bother him. But there’s something about him that catches your attention.

Salt-and-pepper curls frame his face, the dim light emphasising the lines along his forehead. He wears his blacks, leaving his battalion unclear. But you can’t shake the feeling that you should know who he is.

Before you can think too hard about it, Pia appears in your line of sight, snapping you back to reality.

“So, how is it?” she asks, wiggling her brows.

You blink. “How’s what?”

“The drink, duh .”

“Oh.” You flush slightly, realising you’d been too busy staring at the mystery trooper. “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”

Pia beams at the praise before suddenly flipping off a customer who’s been aggressively clicking his fingers for service. “ I said I’ll be with you in a minute!” she snaps, before turning back to you. “So, who’s your company tonight?”

“The Corrie Guards, of course.”

Pia gives you a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Well, do me a favor and make sure Thire stays off the tables this time.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Already warned him.”

As Pia busies herself with another round of orders, your gaze naturally drifts back to the clone across the bar. For a split second, you swear he meets your eyes, but Pia keeps unintentionally blocking your view.

“Hey! When am I gonna get my drink?” the same customer whines, earning a spectacular eye-roll from Pia.

“When I’m done talking to my friend .” She smiles sweetly, almost menacingly.

“You’re not even serving her anymore! You’re just chatting!”

Pia glares at him. He promptly shrinks back in his seat.

You take another sip of your drink before nodding toward the lone clone. “Say, do you know who that is?”

Pia grins knowingly. “Obviously. That’s—”

“Listen, lady, I just wanna get a drink and—”

“Kriff, fine ! Fine! ” Pia throws her hands up, stomping over to the persistent patron.

You sigh as she gets pulled away, your curiosity about the mystery trooper left frustratingly unanswered.

You try not to keep stealing glances at him, but there’s just something about him. It’s distracting.

Maybe it’s the salt-and-pepper streaking through his curls, maybe it’s the way his shoulders hunch, like he’s carrying the weight of an entire day on them. He’s got that whole brooding, don’t-talk-to-me aura, which—ironically—only makes you more curious.

And, apparently, more reckless.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a napkin from the dispenser and fish a pen out of your purse. You hesitate, pen hovering over the flimsy paper. What do you even write? Something casual? Flirty? Mysterious?

You roll your eyes at yourself—definitely overthinking it. Finally, you scribble down:

You look lonely. I can fix that.

As soon as you read it back, you cringe. Too forward? Too suggestive? Maybe you should—

Nope. No time for second-guessing. You fold the napkin before you can change your mind. Pia is still swamped, barely keeping up with the sea of 212th troopers ordering drinks, but thankfully, a server droid hums by.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you beckon it over, glancing toward the clone across the bar. “Can you take this to him?”

The droid gives a curt beep. “That is not my function.”

“Oh, come on,” you groan. “It’ll take two seconds.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll tell Pia you need rewiring.”

The droid snatches the napkin without another word, wheeling off toward the clone.

Your stomach knots as you watch it place the note in front of him, then—completely unhelpfully—point directly at you. Great. You quickly avert your eyes, suddenly regretting everything.

But you still sneak a glance from the corner of your eye.

The clone straightens slightly, unfolds the napkin. Reads it. Pauses. Then, without a flicker of reaction, folds it back up and finishes his drink.

And then… he stands.

Your stomach drops. Oh. That’s it, then. He doesn’t even look your way as he walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale, a mix of relief and secondhand embarrassment washing over you. You swirl the ice in your glass and mutter to yourself, “Well. Won’t be doing that again.”

A voice speaks up behind you.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You turn on your stool, and—oh.

The clone from across the bar is now standing right in front of you. Tall. Broad. Close.

Heat creeps up your neck. Your mouth suddenly dry.

“…Yeah,” you manage, a little breathless. “Kind of surprised, actually.”

“How come?” He gestures to the empty stool beside you, waiting for your nod before he sits.

“You looked like a man who didn’t want to be bothered.” You take a sip of your drink, hoping it steadies you.

“And yet, you were bold enough to send a note,” he muses, lips curving just slightly. “Very sweet.”

You giggle, shrugging as you set your glass down with a soft clink. “You don’t know if you don’t try.”

His amusement lingers. “Looks like it paid off.” He chuckles, then tilts his head. “Can I get you another drink?”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

He signals for another round, ordering one for himself, too.

“So,” you begin, tilting your head, “I haven’t seen you around before. What battalion are you with?”

The clone pauses just a fraction too long before answering, “Coruscant Guard.”

Your brows lift. “Oh? Me too! I feel like I would’ve noticed you… what’s your name?”

Another brief hesitation. Then: “Whisky.”

You arch a brow. “Whisky?”

“That’s right.” He nods, taking a deeper sip of his drink. There’s a flicker of nerves in his expression, but you don’t press. “Big whisky fan.”

You chuckle. “Fair enough. Cool name.”

“And yours?”

You offer your name along with your hand, flashing a bright, playful grin.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then, he places his hand in yours. His palm is warm, his grip firm but careful.

“Lovely name,” he murmurs.

His voice is smooth, just a little too low, and it sends a surprising shiver up your spine. There’s something about the way he holds your hand—like he’s not sure if he should, but doesn’t want to let go, either. The earlier nervousness is gone, replaced by a small, amused smirk.

And you?

You’re intrigued.

Still, you release his hand before yours can get clammy. “So, the Corrie Guard?” You lean back slightly, studying him. “I still feel like I should’ve seen you around.”

He clears his throat, taking another long sip. “I’m not exactly frontline.”

That explains it. “What department?”

“Mechanic.”

That really explains it. You nod, feeling a little sheepish. “Ah, that’s probably why. I love working with my boys in red, though. They’re good to me.”

“Good,” he says, then hesitates. “So, uh… what’s the Commander like?”

You blink. “Fox?”

He nods.

You smirk, turning away slightly as you consider your answer. A hundred words come to mind—moody, buzzkill, abrasive, miserable, exhausted…

“Grumpy,” you settle on, swirling your drink. “Big grump.”

He chuckles. “Can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but he is.” You huff, thinking back to earlier that night. “But… he works hard, so sometimes the grumpiness is excused.”

“Sure,” Whisky nods, idly swiping at the condensation on his glass. He hesitates again. “He… does he treat you okay?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Why? You planning to put in a word for me?”

The teasing is lighthearted, but Whisky seems oddly stiff about it. You wave it off before he can dwell. “He’s okay,” you say simply. “He just gets under my skin sometimes. I don’t think he means to.” You sigh, taking another sip before turning back to him. “You know him?”

He shakes his head, then drinks. “Nah. Just heard he can be a little hard on people.”

You hum. “You got that right.”

You don’t notice the way Whisky shifts in his seat, rubbing a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping into his glass. He’s quiet, thoughtful—until you break the silence again.

“Actually,” you say, warmth from the alcohol making you bolder, “I know a secret about him.”

He raises a brow. “You do?”

You giggle and scoot closer, lowering your voice. “I’ll tell you but you have to keep it between us.” You hold up your hand, pinky extended. “And all my promises have to be pinky sweared.”

Whisky stares at you for a second, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Then, with a small smirk, he hooks his pinky around yours. “Alright. Spill.”

“So, about a year ago, I was in the office, sorting files or whatever. I came across one of his, and being the amazing worker I am, I marched right up to him at his desk and dropped it in front of him.” You start grinning, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

“And you know what he said?”

Whisky watches you closely, his gaze flickering to your lips as you lean in, your voice dropping secretively.

Closer, closer, closer…

“No,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

His brows draw together. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, eyes alight with mischief. “Because he was snoring under his bucket.”

There’s a moment of silence followed by laughter. You tip your head back, giggling as you wipe a tear from your eye, and Whisky laughs along with you, shaking his head. It’s not even that funny, but the irony of it is too good.

“He always tells us to work harder, no time for rest,” you say, rolling your eyes. “And there he was, sleeping on the job. And it wasn’t even the first time! He sleeps upright, so it looks like he’s just watching us. But nope. Out cold.”

“So he’s a slacker?” Whisky smirks.

You shake your head. “No, not a slacker. He works hard. Really hard.”

“But you didn’t wake him?” He eyes you curiously.

“Nah. He barely gets any rest as it is, so I let him sleep.” You glance at Whisky, smirking. “Besides… it’s kinda cute.”

Whisky watches you closely, his lips twitching at your laughter, but his eyes seem to linger on you a moment longer than necessary. He swirls his drink idly, then asks, “You think he’d be mad if he knew you caught him slacking?”

You shrug, still grinning. “Maybe. But what’s he gonna do? Fire me? I know he’s my boss but those lot won’t function without me.” You laugh. “Besides, I doubt he gets much rest, so I let him sleep. Figured he needed it.”

There’s something in Whisky’s expression that shifts—just slightly. His fingers drum against his glass, his posture relaxing, but you catch a flicker of something you can’t quite place. It’s gone as soon as it appears, replaced by that same amused smirk.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he muses.

You roll your eyes but smile.“It’s not sentimental. Just… practical.”

“You like him,” he says. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You hum, tilting your head. “I admire him,” you correct, swirling your drink. “Fox works harder than anyone I know. He doesn’t just give orders—he takes the weight of everything on his shoulders. Every mission, every casualty, every prisoner, every mistake. And I don’t think anyone really sees that.”

Whisky watches you carefully, listening.

You sigh, resting your elbow on the bar. “I just wish he was… a little nicer, sometimes. He’s got a good squad. I mean, the guys look up to him. I think if he let himself relax, let himself be one of them instead of always keeping himself separate, they’d follow him even harder. But he never does.” You exhale, shaking your head. “I dunno. It’s not my business, really. Just somethin’ I think about.”

Whisky is quiet for a second, “Maybe he doesn’t know how,” he says finally.

You pause. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s softer this time. “You’re a bit of a softie, huh?”

You scoff, playfully nudging him with your elbow “Shut up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing.” He takes a sip of his nearly empty drink, eyes flicking over you. “You care about your squad.”

“Of course I do,” you say, as if it’s obvious. “I spend all my time with them. They’re like family.”

Whisky hums, contemplative. He watches you for a moment longer before he shifts in his seat, leaning a little closer, his arm brushing against yours.

“So,” he says, voice dipping lower, more conspiratorial, “if Fox is the grumpiest, who’s your favourite?”

You huff a laugh. “Oh, come on, I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I pick one, I’ll have to deal with the rest of them whining about it for the next month.” You shake your head. “I’m not walking into that trap.”

Whisky grins. “Smart.”

You take a sip of your drink, then tilt your head at him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re in the Guard, too. You’ve gotta have a favourite.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. Then, he smirks. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Liar.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he taps the side of his glass. “Alright, fine. Who gives you the most trouble?”

You groan dramatically. “Thorn . Hands down.”

Whisky raises a brow. “That bad?”

“He’s so smug,” you complain, exasperated. “He knows he can get away with murder because he’s one of Fox’s best. And he loves rubbing it in my face. I’d also argue Stone because he’s cheeky but Thorn can be devious if he wants to be.”

Whisky chuckles. “Sounds like a menace.”

“Oh, he is ,” you confirm. “But I can’t even be mad about it, because he’s also stupidly good at his job. So I just have to suffer .”

He leans in close. “Poor thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t patronise me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and— Maker , his eyes are intense when they settle on you like that.

Your breath catches slightly, but you mask it with another sip of your drink. The air between you has shifted—still playful, but heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

You clear your throat. “So, Whisky,” you say, changing the subject. “Tell me something about you .”

His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. “What do you wanna know?”

You tap your fingers against the bar, pretending to think. “Mmm… what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done while on duty?”

Whisky chuckles, shaking his head. “Now that’s a dangerous question.”

“Oh, come on,” you nudge him. “I won’t tell.”

He eyes you for a moment, considering. Then, he leans in slightly, voice lowering just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“Alright,” he murmurs, “but if I tell you… you owe me another secret in return.”

You grin. “Deal.”

And just like that, the night stretches on and the hours slip away without either of you noticing.

⋅───⊱༺ 🦊 ༻⊰───⋅

It starts with secrets, little things at first. Just small confessions that wouldn’t ruin you if they got out.

You tell him about the time you ‘accidentally’ shredded a report you were supposed to file, and how you spent half the day trying to piece it back together before finally giving up and blaming it on a faulty data pad. Or how you once snuck into the supply room after hours because Thorn had been too busy to eat, and you stole rations for both of you under the pretense of ‘inventory control.’

Whisky listens with quiet amusement, the occasional smile flickering across his lips as he watches you talk. He’s not a big sharer. His own stories are vague and kind of always deflecting back to you. But when you mention your upbringing, your life before the Republic and the war, he leans in slightly, genuinely intrigued.

“You ever think about what comes after?” you ask at one point.

His brow furrows slightly. “After?”

You nod. “Yeah. Like… what happens when the war ends? What do you want to do?”

For the first time, Whisky hesitates—not the way he had before, when he seemed like he was choosing his words carefully, but like he’s genuinely never considered it.

“You don’t have to answer,” you say quickly, suddenly feeling bad for asking as he stares into his drink.

“No, it’s not that.” His voice is quiet. “I just… don’t know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, and before you can say anything else, he shifts the conversation.

“What about you?”

You exhale, leaning back against the bar. “Dunno.” You smile a little, but it’s laced with something soft and wistful. “I’d love to travel. See what’s out there, you know? Maybe settle somewhere quiet. Own a little shop or something.”

He studies you. “You’d leave Coruscant?”

You huff a small laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

The music has quieted now, the heavy bass that once thrummed beneath your feet nothing more than a distant pulse. The strobe lights have stopped their restless dance, leaving the room bathed in the softer glow of overhead fixtures. It’s only then that you realise most of the patrons have left.

You turn back to Whisky, surprised to find him watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and intense.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

“You’re really beautiful.”

The words catch you off guard. You blink, lips parting slightly before you shake your head, laughing softly. “You don’t know me.”

“Do I have to?”

You frown slightly, not in offense but in confusion. “How can you find a person beautiful if you don’t know them?”

Whisky exhales a small laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. “I… you look beautiful,” he says, voice steady but soft. “And the way you talk about your family, about your squad… it’s nice.”

You watch him before smirking a touch. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome.” Your voice is teasing, but there’s warmth beneath it, something genuine that makes his grip on his glass tighten.

He smirks however, trying to play off your compliment. “That means you think all my brothers are handsome.”

You hum in mock consideration, swirling the last of your drink. “Maybe so…” You take a slow sip, then let your eyes meet his again. “But maybe I find you the most attractive.”

There’s a shift between you, a flicker of something deeper in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorising the moment, the words, the way you say them. His lips part slightly, a breath drawn in like he’s about to say something, but then—

“Kriff.” You sit up straighter, suddenly glancing at the time. “I’ve gotta get going! If I don’t sleep tonight, I’ll be late, and the last thing I need is to miss one of Fox’s drills.”

He reacts almost instantly, standing when you do, setting his drink down. “S-sure, no problem. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I’m taking a cab, but thank you.”

Still, he follows you out, insists on making sure you get into one safely. Outside, the night air is crisp, cool enough to make you shiver. You wrap your arms around yourself, exhaling. “Knew I should’ve brought a jacket.”

Whisky chuckles, stepping a little closer. “I could warm you up.”

The words hang between you, charged, almost daring. You tilt your head at him, amused. “Bold offer.”

He grins. “It’s there if you want it.”

A cab hovers down in front of you, and he opens the door, but you hesitate. Looking up at him, you smile softly. “It was really nice meeting you, Whisky. I hope to see you again sometime.”

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, but he nods. “I’m sure we will. Sooner than you think.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but there’s a thrill in the mystery of it. He holds out his hand, and you roll your eyes playfully, swatting it away. “I’m not shaking your hand goodbye.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you step closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. You linger for just a second, enough to feel the way he tenses, the way he barely exhales.

When you pull back, you smirk. “Goodnight, handsome.”

He inhales sharply, watching as you step into the cab. His voice is quiet, soft.

“Goodnight… beautiful.”

He stays there as your cab lifts off, watching until it’s out of sight. Then, with a deep breath, he turns—only to hear someone calling his name.

His real name.

“Fox? Fox! We didn’t know you came out tonight! Where have you been?”

Thire stumbles toward him, voice slurred, movements a little too loose. Fox rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I’ve been busy.”

Thire squints at him, blinking blearily. “Busy, huh?” He lets out a slow, knowing grin. “Didn’t take you for the social type, Commander .”

Fox huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”

His brother wobbles slightly, throwing an arm around Fox’s shoulders. “Right. So where were you?”

Fox debates answering honestly for all of two seconds before shaking his head. “None of your business.”

Thire gasps dramatically, pointing at him. “ Oh. So it’s like that ? You sneak off, disappear for hours, come back looking all—” he waves his hand at him vaguely, “— not miserable… You met someone, didn’t you?”

Fox sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go back to the barracks, Thire.”

But his brother is relentless. “ You did! ” He stumbles back a step, laughing. “Oh, I gotta know. Who is it?”

Fox shakes his head, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Go. Now.”

Thire groans, rubbing his face. “Fine, fine. But I swear , if I see you all giddy at work tomorrow, I will find out.”

Fox rolls his eyes. “Go sleep it off.”

As he stumbles away, still muttering about Fox meeting someone , the Commander exhales slowly. He turns back toward the sky where your cab had disappeared, rubbing his jaw where your lips had touched his skin.

He should feel guilty. He should feel stupid for going along with it, for making up a name, for listening to you talk about him without you even knowing.

But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he just wonders what he’ll do when he sees you again.

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librarycards · 6 months ago

Text

I’ve heard people say that when you learn a people’s language, you learn their culture. It tells you how they think of the world, how they experience it. That’s why translation is so difficult—you have to take one way of seeing the world and translate it to another, while still piecing the words together so they make sense.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the fact that there is no Mohawk word to differentiate between reactive and melancholic depression. No scientific jargon to legitimize and pathologize. Just wake’nikonhrèn:ton, and wake’nikonhra’kwenhtará:’on. A mind hanging by a thread, and a mind spread out on the ground. A before and an after. What does that mean about our culture?

Though the two phrases differ in severity, perhaps, when you think about it, they’re referring to the same thing. Maybe all words for those feelings are—endogenous, exogenous, depression, melancholia. All in their own way describe a person in pain who needs help to heal.

Is there a language of depression? I’m not sure. Depression often seems to me like the exact opposite of language. It takes your tongue, your thoughts, your self-worth and leaves an empty vessel. Not that different from colonialism, actually.

In fact, the Mind Over Mood depression inventory checklist could double as an inventory for the effects of colonialism on our people. Sad or depressed mood? Check. Feelings of guilt? Check. Irritable mood? Considering how fast my dad’s side of the family are to yell, check. Finding it harder than usual to do things? Well, Canada tried to eradicate our entire way of being, then forced us to take on their values and wondered why we couldn’t cope. Definite check. Low self-esteem, self-critical thoughts, tiredness or loss of energy, difficulty making decisions, seeing the future as hopeless, recurrent thoughts of death, suicidal thoughts? Check, check, check.

And if colonialism is like depression, and the Onkwehon:we suffering from it are witches, then I guess it shouldn’t surprise anyone that our treatment has always been the same: to light us on fire and let us burn.

I know now why that therapist in that church reminded me of residential schools. When I think of that man sitting across from me, chastising me for not saying the right words, the words that made it easy for him to understand me and cure me, I think of how my grandparents and greatgrandparents felt when priests and nuns did the same to them. The difference is that therapist was trying to cure me of being depressed; those priests and nuns were trying to cure my ancestors of being Indian. In some ways they succeeded. In many they did not.

Alicia Elliott, A Mind Spread Out on the Ground in Shapes of Native Nonfiction. [emphasis added]

#her memoir/essay collection is excellent too #alicia elliott #psychiatry #madness #colonialism #readings #mine

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angelaness · 2 years ago

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⑅ Self Discipline ⑅

Self-discipline is like having a personal cheerleader in your head, helping you stay focused and achieve your goals. It's the ability to control and direct yourself, making choices that align with your long-term objectives rather than giving in to immediate impulses. Think of it as the secret sauce for personal growth, productivity, and success. It involves setting priorities, making conscious decisions, and consistently putting in effort to reach your desired outcomes. Self-discipline empowers you to stay on track, overcome challenges, and ultimately become the best version of yourself.

Let's break down the essence of self-discipline in dfrnt aspects of your life

1. Morning Routine Magic:

Your morning routine is like crafting a daily sanctuary. Beyond skincare, imagine incorporating moments of tranquility like yoga or a quick workout. It's not just a checklist; it's setting the stage for a day of conquering.

2. To-Do List Love:

Your to-do list is a dynamic tool, more than a mere inventory of tasks. It's a glam planner, outlining your roadmap to success. Writing down your ambitions transforms them into tangible goals, making the conquest all the more empowering.

3. Snack on Goals, Not Junk:

Goals aren't just targets; they're your daily sustenance. Instead of mindless snacking, consider each accomplished task as a delicious victory bite, satisfying your hunger for achievement.

4. Wardrobe Power Moves:

Dressing for success isn't a superficial act; it's about embodying confidence. Your outfit becomes a statement, shaping your mindset for the day. It's akin to wearing a tangible boost of self-assurance. I want you to wear for the day you want, not the day you have !!!

5. Breaks Aren't Breakdowns:

Taking breaks is a strategic recharge, not a sign of weakness. It's not about slacking off but strategically powering up. These moments are not breakdowns; they are breakthroughs, allowing you to return with renewed sparkle. So don't beat yourself up when your really need the rest :)

6. Learn, Don't Stress:

In the face of challenges, see them as opportunities for growth. Self-discipline is not a pursuit of perfection but a commitment to a journey of continual learning. Remember, nobody is born with all the answers; it's about evolving.

7. Consistency is the Glow-Up Secret:

Consistency is more than a routine; it's the highlighter of your life's narrative. It infuses your journey with an extra pop, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. Even on tough days, maintaining consistency becomes your guiding light.

8. Celebrate Small Wins:

Every step toward your goals, irrespective of size, is a cause for celebration. It's not just recognizing achievements; it's throwing a confetti party for yourself. Celebrate not just the destination but the entire journey.

9. Consistent Routine:

Envision self-discipline as a daily sanctuary, akin to your skincare routine. Skipping it is like neglecting a crucial step in your beauty ritual. Embrace it daily for a consistent, empowering glow.

10. Setting Goals:

Picture self-discipline as the GPS that is guiding you to your dreams. Establish small, attainable goals as waypoints on your journey. These goals serve as markers, leading you steadily toward your grand aspirations.

11. Prioritizing Tasks:

Think of self-discipline as your wise older sister, advising you on what truly matters. Prioritize tasks that contribute to your glow-up, whether it's acquiring a new skill or taking care of your well-being.

12. Resisting Temptations:

It's important to saying no to that extra slice of cake when you know you're full. Self-discipline aids in resisting temptations that might divert you from your goals, whether it's procrastination or unhealthy habits.

13. Building Habits:

Like establishing a routine of daily water intake, self-discipline helps in cultivating positive habits. These habits become second nature, contributing to your overall well-being and success.

14. Time Management:

Imagine self-discipline as a magical time-turner. It assists in managing your time wisely, allowing you to balance academics, self-care, and the pursuit of your passions effectively.

15. Learning from Mistakes:

Self-discipline is forgiving; it encourages learning from mistakes rather than dwelling on them. It's a compassionate guide, acknowledging that growth comes from understanding and overcoming challenges.

16. Celebrating Achievements:

Consider self-discipline your personal cheerleader. It not only recognizes but actively celebrates your achievements, big or small, in your journey of self-improvement and success.

Visualize self-discipline as your personal superhero cape, guiding you through the journey of glowing up and being super productive. You're on the path to becoming a true girlboss.

Keep shining doll !

Xoxo signing off,

Angela ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

ps: this is my first post I hope it was informative enough as I am also in my own journey of being better mentally and physically and I see self discipline as something essential for that to happen.

#angelaness #girlblogging #it girl #pink pilates princess #glow up #that girl #wonyoungism #self discipline #motivation #tips #self improvement #self care #girlboss #this is a girlblog #avokaidoll #first post #first tumblr post

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kikis-writing-service · 5 months ago

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Spicy Curry (Bakugou Katsuki x F!Reader) Chapter 6

Summary: Pro-hero DynaMight hides his developing hearing loss from the public. He doesn’t want them or the villains to know about what he considers his only weakness. His family knows. His best friends know. And now you, the owner of his favorite little curry shop, know. You want to live a quiet life & to protect your son. The last thing you want is to draw attention to yourself. You hide your identity, you hide your scars, and you hide your quirk. And then Bakugou, Katsuki walks in one day with dried blood on his ears, and you can’t help but help him.

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Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | ? ? ?

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Content Warning: This fic will contain mentions of past abuse from a “partner”, including sexual assault. It will also contain depictions of ableism, both from external sources and internalized ableism.

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Steam rose in fragrant clouds as you stirred the simmering pot, the familiar scent of turmeric and cardamom filling the kitchen. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced in golden beams across the worn wooden counter. Your muscles moved through the familiar rhythm of morning prep—chopping vegetables, checking inventory, preparing the bases for the day's curries—a dance your body knew by heart after years of repetition.

"Mom," Kouichi signed from his spot at the small table tucked in the corner of the kitchen. "I don't understand this." His small hands moved with growing frustration.

You wiped your hands on your apron, glancing at the clock. Still two hours before opening, but the prep list seemed to grow longer with each passing minute. With a deep breath, you moved to Kouichi's side, studying the kindergarten workbook spread before him.

"Which part?" you signed, your movements fluid and automatic even as your mind divided itself between his schoolwork and the mental checklist of everything still needed before opening.

Kouichi pointed to a sequencing activity where he needed to arrange pictures showing the growth cycle of a plant. You could sign the instructions easily enough—that wasn't the problem. The issue was explaining the underlying concept in a way he could understand.

The homeschooling arrangement was only temporary—a necessity after the incident at school when his quirk had manifested. Ms. Onsawa had been understanding but firm about Kouichi needing time away to "develop appropriate control measures." The clinical phrasing had done nothing to soften the reality: your son had accidentally burned a classmate badly enough to require hospitalization.

"These pictures show how a plant grows," you signed, trying to explain. "You need to put them in the right order."

Kouichi stared at the images with a furrowed brow. "But how do I know which is first?"

That simple question highlighted exactly what you'd been dreading. You could communicate the instructions, but you lacked the teaching skills to help him understand the concepts. How did teachers explain these things? What approach would help these ideas click in a five-year-old's mind?

"Let's think about it," you signed, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "What do plants need to start growing?"

His expression remained blank. You tried another approach, but your explanations only seemed to confuse him further. The timer for the rice chimed insistently from the corner. The curry base needed stirring, the delivery of fresh produce would arrive any minute, and you still hadn't prepped the pickled vegetables that had become such a popular side.

You sat down beside him, torn between your roles as teacher, parent, and chef. This should be simple—Kouichi was bright and curious—but without proper teaching skills, you were struggling to help him grasp concepts that Ms. Onsawa would have explained effortlessly.

"I don't get it," Kouichi signed after your third attempt to explain, his small hands moving sharply in frustration. "It's stupid."

"You're doing fine," you assured him, though your stomach knotted with worry.

The school district had offered minimal guidance for this temporary homeschooling situation—a packet of worksheets and a list of learning objectives for the kindergarten level. But packets couldn't replace a trained teacher who knew how to present information to young minds.

A sharp rap on the back door interrupted your thoughts. The produce delivery, right on schedule. You glanced at the clock, stomach dropping as you realized how quickly the morning was slipping away.

"I have to get that," you signed, giving Kouichi an encouraging smile. "Try to think about what a seed needs first. We'll figure it out when I come back."

The delivery took longer than expected—a substitution for the backordered ginger you'd need to adjust for, an invoice discrepancy that needed resolving. By the time you returned to the kitchen, the rice timer had long since stopped, and Kouichi sat glaring at the workbook. His expression was stormy, face flushed with anger, and you immediately noticed the visible heat waves distorting the air around his small body. The paper under his hands had begun to brown at the edges, curling slightly from the intense heat emanating from his palms. The plastic coating on the table beneath the workbook had started to warp, a small curl of acrid smoke rising from where his elbow pressed against it.

"Kouichi!" Your hands moved in sharp, urgent signs. "Your quirk!"

He looked down, eyes widening as he noticed the browning paper and warping plastic. The temperature around him continued to rise, his skin taking on the reddish glow that preceded a full manifestation of his heat quirk. Panic flashed across his face as he realized he'd lost control, which only seemed to intensify the heat radiating from his small body.

You moved quickly, careful not to touch him directly. "Breathe," you signed, your movements calm and measured despite your racing heart. "Deep breath in, now out. Focus on cooling down."

Kouichi tried to follow your instructions, his chest rising and falling with deliberate breaths, but his eyes kept darting to the damage he'd already caused. Tears welled up, threatening to spill over. "I'm sorry," he signed with trembling hands. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," you signed, keeping your movements steady and calm. "Just keep breathing. You can control it."

Gradually, the red glow faded from his skin as his temperature lowered. The air around him stopped wavering with heat distortion. You sighed with relief but couldn't ignore the scorched workbook or the permanently warped spot on the table—small but visceral reminders of how quickly things could escalate.

When you were certain his temperature had returned to normal, you fetched a glass of cold water for him. Your mind raced with worry. If a simple frustration with schoolwork could trigger his quirk activation, how could you ensure he was ready to return to school where stressors were multiplied and less predictable?

"I ruined it," Kouichi signed, looking miserably at the damaged workbook.

"It's okay," you assured him, though your stomach twisted with anxiety. "The important thing is that you controlled it. You stopped the heat when I reminded you."

He nodded, but his eyes were downcast, shame evident in the slump of his shoulders. You checked the clock again. Less than an hour until opening.

"Let's set the schoolwork aside for now," you signed, making the decision even as guilt pricked at you. "We'll try again after dinner when we have more time."

Relief flooded Kouichi's expression, his eyes brightening despite the lingering embarrassment. "DynaMight is coming today, right?"

"Yes, after lunch," you confirmed, watching his face light up. Today would be their first training session, and Kouichi had been counting down since you'd told him. The prospect of spending time with his favorite hero had been the only thing keeping his spirits up.

"Can I help you with the curry sauce?" he signed, already moving to wash his hands at the sink, eager to leave the schoolwork and the incident behind. The eager set of his shoulders as he reached for his step stool made you smile despite your exhaustion.

"Of course," you signed. "You're the best sous chef I know."

Together, you fell into the familiar rhythm of preparing the shop for opening—Kouichi carefully measuring out spices with the focused precision that always impressed you, while you moved between tasks with the efficiency born from years of necessity. For a brief moment, the worries about his education and quirk control receded, replaced by the simple joy of working side by side.

But beneath the surface calm, your mind continued its anxious calculations—how could you teach Kouichi effectively when you had no training as an educator? How could you help him control a quirk you barely understood? How much more damage might occur before he mastered his power?

The morning sun climbed higher, casting shorter shadows across the wooden floors as you flipped the sign to "Open." You couldn't help but feel grateful that Katsuki had offered to help with Kouichi's quirk. His expertise with powerful quirks might be exactly what your son needed. Though you tried to temper your expectations—after all, this was just one training session—you couldn't help but hope it might be the beginning of real progress for Kouichi.

You busied yourself with final preparations, pushing aside the nagging voice that wondered why a pro hero would bother helping a single mother and her son. Whatever his reasons, today might make all the difference for Kouichi, and that was all that mattered.

The bell above the door finally chimed, and your head snapped up as Katsuki pushed it open, the familiar scent of curry spices wrapping around him like a welcome. Relief washed over your face at the sight of him, your hands momentarily stilling above the vegetables you'd been arranging. Kouichi immediately looked up as well, his face lighting up with unrestrained excitement.

"You're here already," you signed, wiping your hands on your apron. Your movements betrayed a nervous energy that hadn't been there during your usual interactions.

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figured I'd get here before the lunch crowd."

Kouichi practically vibrated with excitement, hands flying in rapid signs that Katsuki struggled to follow.

"Slow down, kid," Katsuki signed, his movements more fluid than they had been at the laundromat, evidence of late-night practice sessions he'd never admit to. "Can't understand when you go that fast."

You smiled at the exchange, something warm unfurling in your chest at how natural they looked together.

"Well, good thing I already prepared lunch for all of us," you signed, gesturing toward the counter where three bowls sat waiting. Kouichi climbed onto one of the high stools at the counter, eyes bright with anticipation, while Katsuki settled beside him with surprising grace for someone of his stature.

The three of you fell into a comfortable silence as you ate, interrupted only by Kouichi's occasional excited signing about the upcoming training. Katsuki savored the familiar spice of his curry, the heat perfectly balanced against the tender katsu. The food here had become a consistent comfort in his increasingly unpredictable life - one of the few constants he could count on.

"So," you signed after a few minutes, setting down your spoon. "About today."

Katsuki looked up, catching the shift in your demeanor. The casual calm was gone, replaced by the unmistakable tension of a mother preparing to entrust her child to someone else's care. Something about that protective instinct made his chest tighten in a way he wasn't prepared for.

"Kouichi's quirk is heat-based," you continued, your signs precise and methodical. "It manifests strongest when he's upset or frustrated. If his skin starts to glow red, that's the first warning sign. If you see steam rising off him, you need to help him cool down immediately."

"Got it," Katsuki nodded, absorbing the information with professional focus while trying to ignore how the afternoon light caught in your hair as you leaned forward, the golden glow making you look softer somehow.

"He needs frequent breaks. And lots of water—at least every fifteen minutes." Your hands moved faster now, driven by protective instinct. You bit your lip between sentences, a small gesture of worry that drew his attention to your mouth. "My number is programmed in his watch. If anything happens—anything at all—"

"I know how to handle powerful quirks," Katsuki signed, his movements gruff but not unkind. Something protective surged in him at the sight of your anxiety, a sudden urge to brush his thumb across your lower lip where you'd bit it. The thought sent heat crawling up his neck, and he quickly averted his gaze. His hands formed the signs with practiced precision, though still lacking your natural fluidity. "I've been training with mine since I was four."

You paused, hands stilling momentarily as you studied his face. The gentleness beneath his gruff exterior never failed to surprise you—how someone with such explosive power could communicate with such careful consideration when it mattered.

"This is different," you signed after a pause, the movements smaller, more vulnerable. "Kouichi is still learning to recognize when his quirk is activating. Sometimes the heat builds so gradually he doesn't notice until it's already dangerous."

Kouichi watched the exchange with growing dismay, his small shoulders hunching slightly. "I won't mess up," he signed, the movements small and close to his body. "Promise."

Your expression immediately softened. "This isn't about you messing up, baby," you signed, reaching across to brush his hair from his forehead. "This is about making sure everyone knows how to help if things get overwhelming."

Katsuki observed the interaction with quiet intensity, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. There was a tenderness in how you handled Kouichi's insecurities, a perfect balance between protection and encouragement. It reminded him of his own mother in a way—beneath her brash exterior and tough love had always been that same fierce protection, that same unwavering belief in his strength. But your approach was quieter, softer around the edges in ways his family had never been. Your gentleness didn't coddle or weaken—instead, it seemed to give Kouichi a foundation of security from which to be brave. Katsuki found himself drawn to that quiet certainty, that steady calm in the face of fear.

"There's a park about ten minutes from here," you continued, turning back to Katsuki. "It has a concrete area away from trees or buildings. I thought that might be safest for practice."

Katsuki shook his head. "I've got something better."

Your brow furrowed, a flicker of anxiety crossing your features that he found himself wanting to smooth away. "What do you mean?"

"UA training grounds," he replied, watching your eyes widen. "They're designed for quirk training. Fireproof, reinforced, with emergency suppression systems if needed." He leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more earnest than you'd seen before, crimson eyes holding your gaze with surprising intensity. "It's the safest place in the city for him to practice. I wouldn't suggest it otherwise." The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt—this wasn't just convenience, but a professional assessment from someone who understood the dangers of an untrained quirk better than most.

You hesitated, and Katsuki could see the internal struggle playing across your face—the desire to provide the best opportunity for Kouichi warring with the instinct to keep him close, to minimize risk. He found himself watching your expression more intently than he'd meant to, noticing how easily he could read your concerns without you saying a word. It was the opposite of how he operated—keeping everything locked down tight, never letting anyone see what he was thinking. Your openness should have made him uncomfortable, but instead, he found himself waiting for your decision with unexpected patience.

"It's a bit far," you signed slowly, caution evident in each movement. "If something happens—"

"Nothing's going to happen," Katsuki stated with such calm certainty that you found yourself wanting to believe him. His steady gaze held yours, and for a moment, it felt like he could see right through all your carefully constructed defenses. "But if it does, I've got clearance to use Recovery Girl's office. Best healer in the country."

Kouichi watched the conversation with rapt attention, his eyes darting between you and Katsuki. "Please, Mom," he signed, excitement radiating from every fiber of his being. "I want to see the hero school!"

Something in your expression changed, determination hardening beneath the worry. You reached for your phone, sliding it across the counter to Katsuki. "Put your number in," you signed after he looked up. "And I want updates every half hour."

"Every hour," he countered, entering his information with quick, efficient movements.

"Fine. Hourly." Your hands stilled, hovering uncertainly before continuing. "And you'll call immediately if—"

"If anything happens," he finished, sliding the phone back. His expression softened in a way that caught you off guard. "I'll take care of him. I promise."

His eyes drifted to your hand, noting the fresh bandage wrapped with careful precision where he knew the burn was. The sight of it made something protective surge in him—a feeling that surprised him with its intensity. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingertips ghosting over the edge of the bandage.

"You changed it," he signed, his movements becoming more natural with practice. "Good," he said aloud, the word rumbling from his throat.

His voice caught you off guard - you hadn't heard it since he'd arrived, and the gruff, slightly unused quality of it sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. The simple approval in that single word settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and weighty. Customers praised your cooking daily, but this was different - this was someone seeing you, not just what you could provide.

His touch, light as it was, sent a flutter of warmth through your chest that caught you off guard. You found yourself studying the planes of his face, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his usual scowl had softened into something almost gentle. It was dangerous territory, this awareness of him as more than just the gruff hero who frequented your shop. Of course you'd noticed his good looks before—anyone with eyes would—but allowing yourself to feel anything beyond that was a luxury you couldn't afford. A man like him, young and brilliant with his whole career ahead of him, wouldn't be interested in someone like her - someone with a complicated past and a life already built around different priorities.

You found yourself suddenly aware of how close he was, leaning against your counter, the familiar scent of caramel and smoke that clung to him mixing with the curry spices of your shop. There was something both unsettling and exhilarating about having him in your space like this—not just as a customer, but as someone who was becoming a friend. You pushed away the unwelcome flutter in your chest. He was here for Kouichi, not you. The sooner you remembered that, the better.

The bell above the shop door chimed, signaling the first customers of the lunch rush. You glanced at the clock, surprised at how quickly the time had passed, almost disappointed at the interruption.

"That's our cue," Katsuki announced, sliding off the stool. Kouichi immediately jumped down, nearly vibrating with excitement as he rushed to collect his small backpack from behind the counter.

You stepped around the counter to walk them to the door, your heart tight with the familiar ache of watching your child step into the world without you. Kouichi threw his arms around your waist in a quick hug before darting toward the door, already impatient to begin his adventure.

Katsuki paused at the threshold, turning back with unexpected gentleness in his expression. "We'll be fine," he said, his voice quiet beneath the bustle of arriving customers. "Trust me."

The simple request lingered in the air between you, weighted with meaning beyond this single afternoon. Trust was something you gave sparingly, a luxury you'd rarely been able to afford since fleeing your past. But something about the way he looked at you—steady and certain—made you want to take that risk.

"I do," you signed, the admission surprising you both.

A hint of color touched his cheeks, gone so quickly you might have imagined it. But the way his shoulders relaxed told you he understood the weight of what you'd offered. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement that somehow felt more intimate than a smile would have.

You stood in the doorway, watching as they made their way down the street—your small, excited son bouncing beside the towering figure of the explosive hero. Kouichi's hand found Katsuki's with natural ease, and to your surprise, Katsuki didn't pull away. Instead, his larger hand curled protectively around your son's, the gesture so careful and deliberate it made your throat tight with emotion. The sight of them together stirred something both hopeful and terrifying in your chest: the possibility that maybe, just maybe, you weren't as alone in this as you'd always believed.

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The journey to UA took longer than Kouichi expected, his excitement building with each train stop and street corner. By the time they reached the towering gates of the hero academy, he was practically vibrating with anticipation, his small hand clutching Katsuki's tightly as they were cleared through security.

UA's Gamma Training Field stretched out before them, a vast expanse of reinforced concrete studded with rubble piles and partial structures designed to mimic urban combat zones. Afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the terrain, glinting off metal support beams and highlighting the scorch marks and impact craters that told stories of countless training sessions.

Katsuki walked a few paces ahead, scanning the area with practiced efficiency. He'd specifically chosen this training ground for its isolation and reinforcement—built to withstand the most destructive quirks in UA's arsenal. His own signature blast marks scarred several concrete pillars, permanent reminders of his time as a student. Behind him, Kouichi stood frozen in awe, his small mouth hanging open as he took in the sprawling facility.

"This is where you trained to become a hero?" Kouichi signed, his hands moving in quick, excited bursts that matched his wide eyes as he took in the vast training grounds.

The corner of Katsuki's mouth quirked up as he watched the boy take everything in. The kid's expression mirrored how he felt his own first time stepping onto these grounds—that mixture of intimidation and exhilaration that came with standing where legends had trained before him.

"Yeah," he signed back, hands more fluid than they had been even a few days ago. "I used to train here when I was a student." He pointed toward a particularly impressive crater in a nearby concrete wall. "That one's mine."

Kouichi stared up at the massive crater in the wall, his head tilted back to take in its full size. "Did you get in trouble?" he signed.

"Let's just say I got better at aiming," Katsuki signed. "Let's get started. First, I need to see what you can do."

He positioned Kouichi in the middle of a reinforced circular platform, then stepped back to give him space. The boy looked suddenly small and uncertain in the vast training ground, his enthusiasm dimming slightly as reality set in.

"I don't know how to control it very well," Kouichi admitted, his signs smaller now, closer to his body in a gesture Katsuki had come to recognize as insecurity. "What if I mess up?"

"That's what we're here to work on," Katsuki replied, his movements deliberately confident and steady. "This place can take whatever you dish out. Trust me."

He tapped his watch, activating a screen that would measure temperature variations in the immediate area.

"Okay," he signed. "I want you to activate your quirk. Just a little. Show me what happens when you first feel the heat start."

Kouichi nodded, his small face setting in concentration. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing as he focused inward. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, the air around his hands began to shimmer with heat distortion.

Katsuki watched intently, the monitor on his watch registering the steady temperature increase. Kouichi's hands began to glow with a faint reddish hue, like metal beginning to heat. The boy's eyes opened, looking to Katsuki for approval.

"Good," Katsuki signed. "How does it feel?"

"Warm," Kouichi signed back, looking at his faintly glowing hands with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. "Like I have a little ball of sunlight inside that wants to come out."

"Can you make it stronger?" Katsuki asked, eyes never leaving the temperature readings. "Slowly."

Kouichi nodded, his face tightening in concentration again. The red glow intensified, spreading from his hands up his arms. The concrete beneath his feet began to smoke slightly, and Katsuki could feel the heat radiating from where he stood several meters away. The temperature monitor jumped abruptly—100 degrees, 150, 200—climbing rapidly.

"Okay, that's enough," Katsuki signed quickly, stepping forward. "Now try to dial it back. Imagine turning down a stove."

Confusion flashed across Kouichi's face, followed immediately by panic as he realized the heat was still increasing. The red glow intensified, steam now rising from his skin. His eyes widened in fear as he stared at his hands, which were now glowing bright orange-red.

"I can't!" he signed frantically, tears welling in his eyes. "It won't stop!"

The temperature reading continued its alarming climb—300 degrees and rising. The concrete around Kouichi's feet began to blacken and crack.

"Yes, you can," Katsuki signed firmly, forcing his movements to remain calm and steady despite the rapidly escalating situation. "Look at me, Kouichi. Just breathe."

The boy's frightened eyes locked onto Katsuki's, seeking reassurance in the midst of his panic. Katsuki made an exaggerated inhaling motion, then exhaled slowly, nodding for Kouichi to follow his lead. The boy mimicked him, his small chest rising and falling in the deliberate pattern.

"Good," Katsuki signed, maintaining steady eye contact. "Now imagine water. Cool, blue water flowing over your hands, your arms. Picture it pouring over you, cooling everything down."

Kouichi's brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the mental image. Gradually, the intense glow began to fade from orange back to red, then to a dull, barely visible warmth. The temperature readings on Katsuki's watch slowly descended, and the steam rising from the boy's skin dissipated.

When the readings finally stabilized at normal human temperature, Katsuki approached, crouching down to Kouichi's eye level. The boy's face was pale, his eyes still wide with the aftershocks of fear.

"I'm sorry," Kouichi signed, hands trembling slightly. "I couldn't stop it."

"Hey," Katsuki signed, his movements surprisingly gentle. "You did stop it. It just took a minute."

Kouichi looked down at the charred concrete beneath his feet, his shoulders slumping. "I ruined the floor."

A short, gruff laugh escaped Katsuki's throat. "Kid, this place has seen way worse." He gestured at the numerous craters and blast marks scarring the training field. The shame gradually melted from Kouichi's face, replaced by tentative relief as he took in the evidence of past training sessions surrounding them.

"Take five," Katsuki signed, pulling a water bottle from his bag and tossing it to Kouichi. "Drink."

While Kouichi settled on a nearby concrete barrier, Katsuki pulled out his phone. He snapped a quick picture of the minor damage to the concrete and the temperature readings from his watch, typing out a message: Training underway. Everything's fine. Small patch of concrete will need repair, but nothing major.

A response from you appeared moments later: Just the concrete?

Katsuki's mouth twitched at your barely concealed worry. Kid's fine. No burns, not even winded. We're taking a break.

A few seconds passed before your message appeared: Thank you for letting me know.

Pocketing his phone, Katsuki turned back to Kouichi, who had already drained half the water bottle. "Alright," he signed. "I've seen how your quirk works now. Gets stronger with your emotions, right? When you're scared or upset?"

Kouichi's shoulders hunched slightly, his hands moving closer to his body as he signed. "Yeah. Sometimes I don't mean to use it at all, but when I get frustrated..." He trailed off, looking at the scorched concrete beneath his feet.

"Tch. Same thing happened to me when I was your age," Katsuki signed, his movements sharp and certain. "Blew up everything when I got mad."

Interest sparked in Kouichi's eyes, replacing some of the shame. "Really? How did you stop it?"

"Different for everyone," Katsuki signed. "But I noticed something when we were training just now. When you were thinking about water, your quirk actually listened. Your mind controls more than you think."

Kouichi's brow furrowed in concentration. "But when I get upset, I can't think about water. All I feel is hot inside."

"That's the real training then," Katsuki signed, his movements becoming more animated as he recognized the core issue. "Not just controlling the power, but controlling what's in here first." He tapped his temple for emphasis. "When you feel that heat rising, what's the first thing that goes through your head?"

"I get scared," Kouichi admitted, his signs small and hesitant. "I don't want to hurt anyone again."

"And that fear makes it worse," Katsuki signed, watching understanding dawn in Kouichi's eyes. "So we start there. Before any more quirk training, you need to learn how to keep your head cool even when your quirk wants to run hot."

Over the next hour, Katsuki focused on helping Kouichi recognize the early signs of his quirk activating. They practiced deep breathing exercises while Kouichi deliberately triggered small bursts of heat, teaching him to feel the rising temperature before it got out of control. Each time the heat started building, Katsuki would guide him through visualizing cool water, watching the boy's face scrunch in concentration as he worked to maintain the mental image.

They had several close calls where frustration or excitement made Kouichi's temperature spike suddenly, steam rising from his skin. But each time, Katsuki remained steady, demonstrating the breathing pattern until Kouichi could follow along and cool himself down.

By the third hour, sweat beaded on Kouichi's forehead from the mental strain of maintaining such intense focus. Quirk control was exhausting work, especially for someone so young, and Katsuki could see the fatigue in how the boy's signing became less precise, his attention drifting.

"Time for a break," Katsuki signed, gesturing toward the water station at the edge of the training ground. He refilled both their bottles, tossing one back to Kouichi, who caught it with surprising dexterity.

They sat on one of the concrete barriers, looking out over the training field now marked with small scorch marks from their session. Kouichi drained half his water bottle in one go, some of it dribbling down his chin in his eagerness.

"You're picking this up fast," Katsuki signed once the boy had caught his breath. "Better than I expected."

Kouichi's face lit up at the praise. "Really?"

"Yeah," Katsuki nodded. "You've got a powerful quirk. It's not easy to control something that strong right away."

"Were you good at controlling your quirk right away?" Kouichi asked, genuine curiosity in his expression.

The question made Katsuki pause, memories surfacing of shattered windows, singed curtains, and his mother's explosive reactions that matched his own quirk. Those early days of learning control were just part of getting stronger - like building calluses or muscle.

"No," he signed, a hint of pride in the memory of how far he'd come. "Blew up everything in sight when I was your age. The old hag used to chase me around the house with a wooden spoon, but that's just how it goes when you've got a powerful quirk."

Kouichi's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with something like suspicion. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I don't say things just to make people feel better," Katsuki signed with a snort. "Not my style."

"Did you get in trouble at school too?" Kouichi asked.

Katsuki recognized the real question beneath the surface: am I the only one who hurt someone with my quirk?

"Yeah," he signed, choosing honesty over comfort. "I burned a kid accidentally during quirk assessment day. Not badly, but still." He flexed his hands, remembering the horror on his teacher's face, the fear in his classmate's eyes. "It happens to a lot of kids when their quirks first manifest. The important thing is learning from it."

Kouichi's shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his small frame as if a heavy weight had been lifted. "Mom says I can't go back to school until I have better control," he signed, his movements less hesitant than before.

"That's why I'm here," Katsuki signed. "We'll get you there. Just takes practice."

Kouichi nodded, determination replacing the fatigue in his expression. "I want to try again."

For the next hour, they worked with a small stone, practicing the mental techniques they'd developed. Instead of just trying to heat it, Kouichi had to hold the image of warmth in his mind, like sunlight on a summer day. When the stone started getting too hot, he'd switch to picturing cool rain falling on it.

By their fifth attempt, Kouichi managed to warm the stone just enough to be comfortable in someone's palm, maintain that temperature while counting to ten, then cool it gradually without any sudden spikes of heat.

"Yes!" Kouichi jumped up, fist pumping the air in excitement. "I did it!"

"Good job, kid," Katsuki signed, allowing a small smile. "That's enough for today. We'll come back tomorrow."

As they gathered their things to leave, Kouichi tugged at Katsuki's sleeve to get his attention.

"Thank you," he signed, his movements carrying a depth of sincerity that belied his age. "For helping me. And for saying I did good."

"You did do good," he signed back simply. Kouichi beamed at the straightforward praise, standing a little taller. The genuine approval seemed to mean more to him than any elaborate compliment could have.

"Let's go show your mom what you learned today," Katsuki signed, watching Kouichi's face light up at the mention of you. The boy had been practically vibrating with excitement to share his progress.

As they walked toward the exit, Kouichi's hand found Katsuki's again, small fingers curling trustingly around his larger ones. He pulled out his phone with his free hand, knowing you'd be waiting for an update.

"Just finished training. He's doing better than expected." The message felt inadequate somehow, not quite capturing the quiet pride he felt watching your son begin to master something that had scared him only hours before.

"That well?"

Instead of answering, he sent the selfie Kouichi had insisted on taking earlier - the kid throwing up an enthusiastic peace sign while Katsuki maintained his usual scowl, though his eyes betrayed a hint of pride. The late afternoon sun had caught in Kouichi's dark hair, highlighting the pure joy in his expression.

"You must be doing something right. He looks ready to take on the world."

His chest warmed at the praise, a smirk playing at his lips as he typed: "Of course I know what I'm doing." The familiar bravado softened at the edges, a gentleness he only seemed to find around you creeping in despite himself.

"I'm a fool to have ever doubted you," you responded, and he could almost see your teasing smile.

"You on your way back now?"

"Yea."

"Okay. I'll have dinner ready for you both. :)"

The promise of you waiting for them, of having somewhere - someone - expecting him, settled warm and deep in his chest. The setting sun painted the city gold, casting long shadows as they made their way back, and for once, he didn't mind that the world around them was quiet.

#spicy curry #bnha imagine #mha imagine #bakugou katsuki imagine #bakugou imagine #katsuki imagine #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #katsuki angst #bakugou angst

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notchedwhip · 2 months ago

Text

☥ World of Darkness Meetcute Event ☥

Art by @belthegore, who owns Gabriel. The writing and Belmont can be blamed on @bonecraftprodigy. This was posted on a co-admined sideblog.

Belmont just wants to get through the workweek without his new coworker finding out he's a vampire. But he's not the only one hiding something.

Content warnings: canon-typical violence, brief Christian fanaticism

Nick, night manager at Quik'N'Go Gas, waited in cheerful ambush at the store’s timeclock. “Hey, Kevin, say hi to the new hire!”

Kevin Belmont typed the remaining digits of his employee number with slow. Emphatic. Jabs. Of his forefinger. Deep breathing, he reminded himself. Just like that YouTube video said. In-two-three, out-two-three.

As a vampire, breathing exercises didn’t usually work well for him.

“You said I could trade shifts with Andrew to handle that family business and we both confirmed with you that’s what we were doing. So if I’ve got no call/no shows on my record, it's not my fault, and making me train my own replacement–”

Nick had the decency to look genuinely appalled. “God, no, Gabriel here is replacing Andrew ‘cause Andrew’s the one racking up no call/no shows. Show him how to clock in and open a register, would you? I set up his PIN already.”

Belmont pictured all the tension and anger draining down, down, through his body, down to his feet, dissipating into the floor. When that didn’t help either, he moved on to visualizing a training bonus on his next paystub. Something reasonable - fifty cents an hour? Ooh, maybe seventy-five….

Nick cleared his throat.

“Uh, right. Sorry, third shift sleeping problems. I’ll be fine once the RedBull kicks in.” He finally turned to face the men and size up this Gabriel person. The kid matched his height, give or take an inch. Long face, bad haircut, a scar carved from hairline to jaw. He stared back at Belmont with sullen tension. Well, that was fine. Belmont didn’t plan on getting too friendly either.

He showed Gabriel the nightly cleaning checklist, the supply closet with its broken door lock, how to wiggle the register drawer loose if it jammed. The kid didn’t make small talk and Belmont heard his teeth grinding when they paused beneath a buzzing fluorescent light.

“My old boss hated those things too,” he said, pointing at it. “Almost as much as he hated scented candles and admitting he screwed up. Do you smoke?”

Gabriel nodded.

“So do I. Take your smoke breaks whenever you want, as long as we aren’t busy and it isn’t midnight or three AM. That’s when I take mine and I’ve got seniority.” Belmont watched for any reaction.

The kid nodded again.

“Any other questions? …And you have worked a register job before, right?”

“None right now, and yes, I have.”

“Cool. Once you’re logged in, I’m gonna go restock the coolers. It takes forever even if you know where all the inventory is so you get to stay up front tonight.” That was tonight’s real gift, Belmont decided: someone else to park at the register so he didn’t have to deal with every kine who waltzed in smelling like dinner.

Five nights later Gabe and Belmont still hadn’t said a word to each other that wasn’t directly work-related. The kid kept his mouth shut and head down, although his eyes rarely left Belmont’s back when they were alone.

It made Belmont’s fangs itch. He watched Gabe right back, tracking him out the corner of his eye when Nick wasn’t busybodying around.

Six nights later, Belmont slogged back from his break to an old man a head taller and half again as broad as either of them getting in Gabe’s face about– rising chocolate prices, or something equally stupid. The poor kid was backed against a shelf clutching a pricing gun like it was his only salvation, his whole body so tightly wound that fight or flight would be equally disastrous.

Wuss, sneered Belmont’s nasty little inner thoughts.

Be nice. Poor kid’s about to crap himself, said his second thoughts.

Should probably do something before Nick checks the camera feeds and calls the cops, his common sense pointed out.

“Hey,” Belmont snapped, jogging closer. “Hey, he’s new, let me see if I can–”

The man wheeled around, face red and hand raised, the moment Belmont touched his shoulder. Everything in the vampire’s mind screamed FIGHT. Vitae surged through dead veins. Fangs pricked, threatening to emerge. Cold black malice crystalised the air.

Belmont caught the man’s fist before it was halfway to connecting with his face. Very quiet, very deliberate, he said: “You should leave. Don’t argue,” he added, slowly squeezing his grip tighter. “Just go.”

The man left.

Gabe stared bug-eyed at him. Belmont shrugged away the lingering Presence. “Sorry about that. You want to take your ten now? Clear your head?”

“You don’t look like someone who could do that,” Gabe blurted out, still staring.

Aw, fuck. “I used to do full-contact combat LARP stuff, live action roleplay? Once someone dressed like a dollar store Uruk-hai clobbers you often enough, you figure out how to stop getting hit. Had to quit when I left college but I guess the reflexes are still there, heh.”

“I see.” Gabriel’s tone indicated that he did not.

“The Uruk-hai are a kind of orc,” Belmont offered. “From The Lord of the Rings?”

“Oh.” Gabe faintly shrugged. “I was told that book had witchcraft in it, so I never had a chance to read it.” He turned a dial on the price gun and resumed applying stickers to bags of chocolate-covered pretzels.

“Oh,” Belmont said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

On the seventh night everything went wrong.

Gabe always let Belmont empty the big outdoor trash bins, which he was in the middle of doing when some jackass with a lifted truck parked at pump 5 decided the guy who pulled up to pump 6 dinged his paint. Six Guy matched Five Guy’s volume while denying the allegations. Five Guy got up in Six Guy’s face. Six Guy stood on tiptoe like a bantam rooster ready to throw hands. Wings? Whatever roosters fought with.

Belmont called over to them, “Hey, sorry, yeah, if you’re going to fight can you do it about twenty-five yards away so it’s not on Quik’N’Go property?”

“Fuck off,” came the response from Six.

“I really do not care if you kill each other as long as you do it somewhere that won’t make me fill out an incident log.”

Six chose to punch Five in the nose. Five retaliated in kind.

Belmont’s teeth ground together so hard the enamel squeaked. He set down the roll of garbage bags. He stalked closer. He warned them, “Break it up. Now.”

They did not break it up.

Well, Belmont decided, they asked for it.

He wrenched them apart by their shirt collars. Five threw himself at Six anyway, fabric tearing free. Belmont dropped Six and shoulder-rammed Five. Old reflexes flared along with his vitae. He snarled in the man’s face, fangs bared, eyes bloodshot. Five went rigid and printer paper white with fear.

Good. He should be afraid. Fucking kine. Belmont wheeled around to tackle Six who was crabcrawling away, also terrified. He pulled a fist back for a bone-cracking fight-ending blow–

“Kevin!” Gabriel yelled, barrelling out the door.

Belmont’s blood flashfroze like a cold Pepsi slammed on a table. Fuck. Oh, goddammit shitfuck. He’d blown it. He’d have to vanish, move cities again, start all over from nothing a-fucking-gin….

He let Gabriel yank him off Six and drag him back inside the store. Mental alarms didn’t start ringing until he realized they were headed for the giant beer cooler in the back. The one with no view of the front windows. And only one security camera because the store owner was too cheap to rework the system.

Uh oh.

“Hey, can we just talk about–”

Gabe shoved him against a wall of Bud Light 36-packs. “Devil. Demon! Unclean thing, tainting the earth wherever your poisoned blood takes you! Our paths were meant to cross so I could save those mortal lives from you,” he spat the final word, “Vampire.”

Belmont kept his hands raised. “Gabriel. Gabriel, you’re not wrong about that, but we need to know how much time we have here. Did you call the cops?”

“‘We’? Your time, stolen from others, is reaching its final moments. You may make your peace now.” Gabriel fumbled a boxcutter out of his back pocket.

“Gabe, respectfully, fuck that.” Belmont grabbed Gabriel’s wrist and yanked. The boxcutter clattered to the floor as they switched places. The kid’s skin was cool under Belmont’s fingers. “Listen. You’re obviously not from one of the organizations, and if my old boss sent you he did a really shit job choosing a hunter to–” He frowned, adjusted his grip to feel for a pulse.

There wasn’t one.

“You’re shitting me. You’re fucking shitting me. You too? Since when?!”

“The whole time, you blind beast!”

“Oh, my god.” Belmont adjusted his glasses with one hand, keeping a squirming Gabriel scruffed with the other. “Okay. Look. I know we probably have about thirty seconds left before the cops show up and bust both our covers, but since this might be the last teachable moment we get, maybe don’t try to kill the Brujah with twenty years of Sabbat experience using a utility knife.”

“I don’t bring my rifle to work,” he snapped, clawing at Belmont’s arm.

“That might work. What is it, a deer gun? AR-15? –Never mind. Christ, this is just my fucking luck.”

“Stop taking the Lord’s name in vain!”

“If I stop, will you tell me what sect you’re with? I’m guessing Anarch.”

Confusion flickered in Gabriel’s zealous eyes, just for a moment.

“...Do you know what the Sabbat is? Camarilla?”

“Vampires are vampires,” hissed Gabe. “All of you will burn in Damnation where you belong.”

“Fucking hell. Your sire ditched you or something, I bet. Okay. Look.” Belmont weighed his directions of conversational attack. “I really don’t want to kill you. I screwed up, I get it. But those two guys are still alive because you stopped me, and now that we know a little about each other I can help you save more people. Twenty years in this rodeo, remember? I know things. Hell, by Sabbat standards I was basically a career academic. The clans, tricks of the blood, legends about where we came from - I’ll teach you. But we have to get through tonight first, okay?”

Gabriel scrutinized him as if deciding whether or not to feed his heart to a crocodile. “Every night that you want to live, you’ll tell me something that will help purge your kind.”

“Our kind, but okay. You got a deal.” Belmont kicked the boxcutter out of reach and released the other Cainite. “So what are we telling the cops?”

“I didn’t call them,” Gabe mumbled. “I was going to kill you, lock the store, and leave.”

“And I think one of those guys pissed himself, so with any luck he’ll be too embarrassed to file a complaint. Well, Gabe, here’s to the start of a beautiful hostageship.”

#wodmeetcute #ooc tag #bonecraftprodigy was formerly corellianflyboy #I changed my url in the middle of the event. sowwy

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