#just a comment from a mobile-bound reader

[killerpancakeburger]

I'm the powder, you’re the fuse

SUMMARY: Soap finds out that his girlfriend is a skilled mercenary. And that he likes it... a lot.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader

TAGS: Established relationship, Badass!Reader, Smitten!Soap.

WARNINGS: Canon violence, misogynistic comments/insults, mention of: blood, death, kidnapping/hostage taking, torture, weapons, suggestive content (Soap is Horny), military inaccuracies, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

A/N: yes I am still writing the civilian fic with Ghost and Soap... but then I had this idea and thought I could finish it ""quickly"". Written on mobile so if there are mistakes feel free to tell me!!

Soap let out a yawn big enough to dislocate his jaw, staring at his captain with mild resentment.

“This couldn’t hae waited til after breakfast, sir?”

“‘Fraid It could not, John. Actually in just a few minutes you'll be barking at me to know why we haven't gotten a move on already.”

Johnny looked back at his superior with perplexity, before glancing over at his teammates around the table, hoping for a scrap of information. Ghost remained imperturbable while Gaz shrugged.

“We received this video thirty minutes ago. Addressed to a certain Sergeant MacTavish.”

His captain turned on the projector and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall behind him. It was his teammates’ turn to glance at him questioningly, and to him to shrug with ignorance.

The Scottish soldier rubbed his face in an attempt to get rid of his lasting drowsiness as the video projected on the white screen facing them was starting.

A group of armed men in balaclavas were occupying a room. The one in the front spouted the classic ransom demand in exchange for a hostage. Nothing worth being summoned at the crack of dawn for.

Then the spokesman moved aside, revealing their detainee, bound to a chair and gagged, shooting daggers at her captors, and Soap almost knocked over the table with how brutally he stood up. Carried away by white-hot fury, he slammed his hands on the table.

“Fuckin’ - what the fuck is this!? When did this happen? Where are those fucking bastards? I -”

Rage had roughened his usually smooth voice, granting it a gravelly pitch, turning his shout into a growl.

“Control yourself, Sergeant”, interrupted Price, “It's not over yet.”

On the screen, the same man as before grabbed your hair, ignoring your murderous glare, forcing you to look at the camera, and coaxed you with disdain before taking off your gag:

“Come on doll, gonna have to beg real pretty for your man to get him to rescue you.”

The second your mouth was freed, you snarled at him, baring your teeth like you were about to bite.

“I'm gonna rip your throat out with my bare hands, you f-”

“Fuck, someone muzzle that rabid bitch”, swore your agressor, your belligerence clearly having thrown a wrench in his plans.

Soap could not help the flare of pride soaring in his chest at the view of your defiance and your grit.

After receiving their orders, the team left the room to prepare themselves for the assault. 

“A friend of yours?” asked Gaz, while Ghost questioned “Ya know her?”

“That's mah girl”, admitted the Scotsman, a bit sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking away. The cat was out of the bag. For your own sake, you had been a well-kept secret, but it was blatant that it didn’t protect you.

“Been together for a year. Never meant to drag her into this, though.”

“She sounds like a bloody riot, mate.” teased Garrick.

“She doesn't seem fazed to be taken hostage. Mainly pissed.” pointed out Ghost, wary.

“She's fearless.” admitted Soap with an enamored little smile. “Doesn't mean we don’t have to get her out of this though.”

His expression shifted from fondness to cold determination.

“‘F course.”

“We've got your back.”

“Gaz? You copy?” called Ghost over coms.

The afornamed was tasked with overwatch. His response arrived, marked by hesitation.

“...  I don't think she needs our help, guys.”

“The fuck s’that supposed to mean?” grumbled the Lieutenant.

“It'd be better if you'd see for yourselves. Third window on the right, second floor.”

Ghost took out a pair of binoculars and pointed them at the given position.

“Fooking hell…”

The expletive was mumbled with a mix of surprise and… awe?

“What? What! Lemme see L.T.!” pleaded Soap.

Ghost quickly passed him the tool, eager to make him shut up. The sergeant hastened to shove them against his face. His gaze took in the sight in front of him and he let out an appreciative whistle.

“Steamin’ jesus…”

He drank in the view that was your bloody display of fierce skill and deadly efficiency. You staggered between the enemies with fluidity, making them seem like clumsy amateurs. Slicing a throat there, shooting a head here, he watched with fascination as you used a dead attacker as a human shield.

“I think I'm hard.”

“TMI,  Soap.” 

Gaz coupled his comment with a gagging noise.

“Can ye blame me! Mah lass is oot there bein’ a bonafide badass ‘n’ that's the hottest shit a've ever seen.”

“M not blaming you for being a horny bastard, I'm blaming you for not keeping it to yourself.”

“If you two are done bickering, we could go pick her up.” groaned Ghost.

Letting Garrick past, he grabbed Soap by the shoulder as he was walking by him.

“You knew?”

“Knew what?”

“That you were going out with a killer.”

“Nae, but it turned out to be a good thing, didn’t it? Cannae imagine how badly this would have ended with a civilian. The wounds, the trauma…”

Ghost let out one of his grunts that Johnny knew meant “I disagree but it's not worth debating you about it.”

Positioning themselves near that final entrance, Soap nodded in response to Ghost's hand signal, waiting for him to break the door down. They were still on their gard in case some of the assailants survived.

In the ensuing silence, your voice reached his ears through the wall he was propped against.

“Come on doll”, you taunted, imitating your captor's scornful tone from earlier, sickly sweet then venomous. “Tell me who you work for and I won't gouge out your remaining eye.”

Johnny gulped. Eavesdropping on this definitely did not help with the… situation in his pants.

The racket produced by Ghost dealing with the door had the merit to make him focus once again. 

His body moving automatically, his training taking over, Soap charged into the room, pointing his rifle at the only person left standing there. Like a reflection of himself, you were aiming your own firearm at him. Your eyebrows were frowned in concentration, your eyes glinting with cold determination. Then recognition dawned on your face, and you heaved a sigh of relief, lowering your weapon.

“It's you! You scared the shit out of me.”

Relief flooded through him at the sight of you, bruised, battered, and blood-spattered, but alive. He tossed his gun aside as you put down yours, ready to embrace you, but Ghost's voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Back off, Soap.”

An order. Johnny stared at him in shock.

“What the hell, L.T.?”, he hissed in his direction.

You docilely raised your hands in the air as the masked man lined up the end of his gun's barrel with your head.

“Worst rescue party ever”, you mumbled to yourself.

“Sorry, Johnny”, grumbled Skullface, not sounding sorry in the slightest, never taking his eyes off you. “But do your usual conquests take down a dozen armed men on their own?”

Illustrating his words, he gestured with his rifle to the ground littered with corpses. The man you had started to interrogate - the only one left alive - whined in pain.

“So what's your deal? Ya a mole? Shagging Johnny for intel?”

“Ghost!” Soap gasped, offended for himself as much as for you. “M not some clueless newbie!”

You made a face at the question. You understood where he was coming from, hell you’d do the same if the roles were reversed, but that didn’t mean you enjoyed sharing details of your sordid past, especially with a stranger. The less people knew about it, the better.

“I used to be a mercenary for a family who did organized crime. Been clean for years though.”

“Oh yeah? They let you leave just like that?”

“The boss’ daughter had a soft spot for me.”

The lieutenant stared at you for a few more seconds, as if judging the veracity of your statements through sight alone, before lowering his weapon.

A resounding “Bonnie!” rang out. Next thing you knew, your boyfriend's muscular arms closed around you, causing you to yelp, pain running through you at the overeager contact. Soap cursed and apologized profusely.

“Bloody hell, a'm sorry, didnae mean tae hurt ye. Are ye alright? Show me where it hurts. If those bastards leid a hand on ye, I swear-”

There was something both flattering and arousing with how the more Soap lost his cool, the more pronounced his accent became, and the rougher his voice sounded. You placed a finger across his mouth to put an end to his verbal onslaught, an endeared smile on your own.

“At ease, soldier. I'm OK, just some bruised ribs and a busted eyebrow.” you summarized while pointing to the trickle of dried blood on the side of your face.

He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture that felt terribly intimate, an adoring grin adorning his lips.

“Cannae believe ye wiped out those sorry fuckers all on yer own. Fuck, that's hot.” he confessed in a subdued tone.

You threw your head back in laughter, only to wince when your sore ribs manifested themselves.

“Never heard that one before. Could get used to it, though.”

You laced your fingers behind his neck, nonchalantly leaning against him, not fighting back an impish smile. Soap's hands grabbed your hips in response. Your roguish expression must have gotten the better of his restraint, because one breath later, he was hungrily pressing his mouth against yours. You replied in kind, swiftly deciding you did not care for his colleagues’ presence, and he moaned in appreciation.

After a minute or two, you broke the kiss against your will, remembering an issue that needed to be solved. You smiled, amused by the vision that was Soap chasing your lips blindly, then pouting when you refused him.

“So you guys are gonna take care of the bodies, right…? I can deal with one or two, but this is a bit much.”

The last soldier, the one you didn’t hear from yet, a pretty man with dark skin that Soap would later introduce as Gaz, assured you that they would handle it.

Transferring your attention back to Johnny, you noticed a trace of guilt in those ocean eyes of his, as he was staring at you.

“Something wrong?”

“Ye not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” you frowned.

“It's mah fault if those bastards took ye.”

“Oh, Johnny…” you sighed wistfully, cupping his face. “I knew what the risks were when I chose to date a soldier. Plus, there will always be a chance that my past catches up to me. I was pretty fucking mad when I got a hood shoved on my head and my arms twisted behind my back before getting hauled away in the middle of the fucking night, but not at you.”

Once they gathered all the intel they needed and dragged away the only survivor, the team and you left the building. Your testimony was required for the mission report, so you accompanied them without protest, longing for the care that would be provided by their medical facility.

As you were walking to their vehicule, hand in hand with Soap, you noted how he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

His cerulean eyes kept greedily roaming all over you, like you were a vision so dream-like it was making him doubt your reality, like you would vanish the second he stopped contemplating you.

“Yer one badass lass, y'know that? ‘M so proud o’ ye. Proud tae be yers.”

A/N: Ghost's "grunts that Johnny knew meant “I disagree but it's not worth debating you about it.” " is based on my grandma 💀

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 KINKTOBER DAY TWENTY THREE : HELPLESSNESS 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 KINKTOBER 2023/2024」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — its not everyday you get kidnapped by a demon

「 WARNINGS 」 — smut, 18 +, [ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ],  kidnapping, restraints, sensory deprivation, gagging, blindfold, drugging, somnophilia, dubcon, rough sex, vaginal sex, penetrative sex, internal cumshot, vaginal creampie, male orgasm

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 980

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x danhausen

「 GENRE 」 — smut

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @mjfass @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @janetreader @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @selena-tyler-564 @alyyaanna @nightmare-freakin-viper @nev-danielgarciawife @teenagedramaqueenlisa @them4lice

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「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

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brisk cool air billows through shattered glass against your skin, all numb and frozen, naked and chapped. 

springs from a the thin mattress below you dig into your back, pricking and prodding the flesh

wrists bound with rope, or is it cord? you cannot tell, the ache, the material digging into your wrists hurts all the same.

and the taste, plastic. forcing your scared whimpers back down your throat.

even with your eyes obscured and mobility limited, your limbs flail and stretch in a desperate attempt for freedom

although you could not see, your vision grew foggy, not with tiredness, you’re body courses with too much adrenaline you could barely comprehend in this moment, it is more of a blur, dusty and hazy like a memory you could not quite put a finger on, even against the blackness of the eye mask. 

it is during your feeble attempt to escape you hear it, a shuffle followed by a soft groan. 

it is quiet, or at least attempting to be, hidden in the far reaches of whatever cramped shit hole you found yourself in. 

you froze, hoping that your lack of movement would deter whatever, whoever, was obscured behind the blindfold.

the soft grunt flutters though your ears, a moan follows, shaky and breathy as it attempts to stifle its noise. 

your blood runs cold at the thought of another being inhabiting the same space as you. 

a creak rings in your ears as deafening as church bells at morning mass, accompanied with another, than another henceforth and so on until you can feel the heat practically radiating off of the figure as it stand by your bedside

its breath laboured and weary, almost hesitant as it leans closer, soft exhales leave your skin tingling as its breath fans against your exposed nipples, all stiff and perky from the sudden waft of air. 

the figure does not speak, it had no need to, although you wish it did, maybe in your own twisted comprehension, it would somehow alleviate the fear.

it’s tongue lolls out of its mouth unbeknownst to you, teasing your nipple with thorough, meticulous licks, testing the waters to gain your attention. 

your body involuntarily leans into the sensation, your senses heightened by the lack of your two most dominant ones. 

as the sensation of its tongue falters, your body is met with another, one more sharp and sudden, at the side of your neck, a hiss leaving your lips, mind once again clouding with fog of a distant memory

one not to put you to sleep but more or less to envelop you in the sense of euphoria.

with shaky hands it lifts the blindfold from your eyes

your lack of reaction seems to please the figure, whose body now resides atop of you, a heavy compression straddling your hips. 

your eyes scan his figure languidly, taking him in for a moment, a mass of short, cropped hair lay dark like a tousled bird's nest on his head, body inked, face painted white, accompanying smears of black and red around his eyes. 

he made no attempt to speak, his body bare just as yours is, his cock stiffens at the predicament laid before him. 

he sits between your thighs, spreading them with his knee, your body far too heavy for you to react accordingly. 

by rights, if you were not bound by your wrists and forcibly inebriated you would have reacted. 

he offers you a sweet smile, once that seems more menacing that he’s willing to entail. 

two fingers dip between your folds, gathering slick that had managed to soak between your thighs. 

even you are surprised by that sentiment as he pulls two glistening fingers back up from between your thighs, wetness dripping from thick, inky digits in silky globs. 

he lets his tongue fall out of his mouth, gathering the slick on his tongue, sucking greedily at your taste, savouring it, silently begging for more. 

he shudders at your taste, his cock pulsing, half-hard against his thigh, he tugs at it, spreading precum up and down his shaft as a makeshift lubricant. 

he’s lucky you’re in the state that you are, half-conscious and imoblie. 

he so easily lifts your legs up onto his shoulders, your body compressed half on yourself as he manages to secure you into a mating press. 

his cock slips into you with little resistance, your cunt so pliable and warm. 

dripping around his length as he forces himself into. 

the intrusion was one you felt instantly, your walls clenching around him in an attempt of resistance, feeling him bully his cock head into you he met your cervix 

he stays in position for a while, pulling the blindfold back over your eyes with a sickening smirk. 

he began to move with violent thrust, punishing your petite cunt, not so used to a cock of his girth. 

spit pooled around the plastic he’d so haphazardly gadded you with, drool streaming down your cheeks 

the pain soon reached a limit where it dulled, spread through your body like a wildfire, and you enjoy it…very much so. 

you feel him in the caverns of your womb, about ready to empty himself into you with his potent seed.

your mind telling you to resist, relent against him, yet your body…it welcomes it…it welcomes him. 

he takes note of this, how your body becomes nothing more than putty in his palms, like sand of effortlessly slipping through his fingers 

he unloads a series of vicious thrusts, emptying his hot cum deep into your void, silently praying that it takes. 

he remains still for a moment, not wanting to waste any of his precious cum. 

after a few minutes he pulls out, you’re left empty and dripping with his seed, breathless and craving more. 

lucky you, the remainder of your days will be spent, barefoot, bound and full. 

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[emilou-keen-gear]

Request short story from AO3

Title: Stolen Luck Part 1

Writing Prompt: A reader from AO3 wanted a story with Gladstone and Lena.

Word Count: Approx. 4500

            Gladstone had the same fond regards for his great-grandmother as she had for him. Essentially they both mutually detested each other. His parents insisted on going to the Nursing Home once a month, and Great-Grandmother was pleased—even eager—to talk to her grand-son and his wife. But as for Gladstone, she made some sort of comment on his behavior or how he looked or something else, and that was enough of a hint for Gladstone to leave her room, away from her raised hospital bed and creepy antique dolls that stared at him with glassy eyes to go  wander around the rest of the building.

            And there was plenty to do in the Nursing Home. Some kids might not think so, but Gladstone didn’t mind it. Well, aside from the lingering smell of old people and whatever food they were eating that day. In fact, he liked it. In the common area, he could find a few of the more mobile residents watching TV or playing cards or doing a puzzle, and they always called for him to join them. Some constantly asked his name, age, and year in school, and he politely answered. He understood that memory was hard for some of them.

            A few even called him by the wrong name, mistaking him for their son or grandson or someone else. It was a little sad, so Gladstone was especially polite, and he wasn’t known for being a polite little boy.

            But that day, he didn’t go to the common area to see the regulars. Instead, as he was passing by some of the rooms, a voice called out to him.

            “Hey. Hey, you. Kid. Get over here.” The voice was quiet and raspy like a whistle that was rusting, but it was still strong and deep.

            Gladstone stopped, glancing in. The room wasn’t the same size as the others. It was huge, like four times the size of his great-grandmother’s. It had all the same medical equipment as the other rooms, but it was filled with some of the most beautiful things Gladstone had ever seen. There were paintings on the walls and shelves lined with so many little statues that must have been made of real gold with gems inlaid in them. The man’s hospital bed wasn’t the cold-looking metal ones the others had, but large and grand, like something a millionaire would own. There was other furniture in the room, a large, leather couch, a nice recliner, lamps and a coffee table. There were other things, too; a large-screen TV, movies, a cappuccino maker, and stacks of leather-bound books.

            The man was also different than the rest of the nursing home. Although he was just as old as the others, there was still a hint of youth about him as if something about him hadn’t aged. He was dressed in a silk bathrobe and nice pants. His room didn’t have that old-person, nursing home smell. Instead it stank of some sort of cologne and cigar smoke. The latter came from a fat stogie that the man was smoking while in bed.

            “You shouldn’t be smoking that. The nurses will get mad,” Gladstone said.

            “Not at me. They always let me smoke,” the man said in his raspy voice.

            “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get cancer?” Gladstone asked. It was all anyone talked about when it came to smoking. The thought of cancer was enough to make Gladstone not want to smoke, not that he was ever tempted since the smell was noxious.

            “I’m one-hundred and ten years old,” the old man said. “I don’t care about cancer.”

            Gladstone was surprised then skeptical. The man didn’t look old enough to be one-hundred and ten years old. But then again, Uncle Scrooge was supposed to be quite old himself and kept going on those adventures.

            “Do you want to know the secret of getting to be this old?” the man said, leaning closer to Gladstone. He made a gesture for Gladstone to come closer, then he reached into his robe and pulled out a necklace that appeared to be made of a broken bone.

            “Have you ever heard the phrase: Lucky Duck?” he asked Gladstone.

            Gladstone nodded.

            “And have you ever used the wishbone of a turkey after Thanksgiving and made a wish?” the old man asked.

            Gladstone nodded again.

            “Well, this is the larger piece of a broken wishbone of a duck. One of the luckiest ducks ever to have lived,” the old man said with a smile.

            Gladstone’s eyes widened. “You mean a wild duck, right? The kind that we feed in the park and fly south for the winter.”

            The man’s eyes turned steely. “No, not that kind of duck.”

            Gladstone gulped. He should have known. The bone was far too big to have belonged to a Thanksgiving turkey, much less a wild duck.

            “Legend had it that when the luckiest duck in the world finally died, his body was dug up by two sorcerers who wanted to use the duck’s luck. They took his wishbone and put a spell on it,” the old man said. “Then they broke it in two. The one who held onto the larger piece of the wishbone made this necklace, which gives the wearer unending good luck. As for the other, the one who had the smaller piece, I don’t know rightly what happened to him, but I heard he died of bad luck.”

            The story intrigued Gladstone. As far as made-up stories, it wasn’t bad. But he couldn’t help his eyes from straying to the wish bone necklace, wondering if it could be true.

            “How did you get it?” Gladstone asked.

            “I stole it,” the old man said, looking somber.

            “Stole it?”

            “Yeah. You see, my partner and I, we were archeologists,” the old man said. “You see, that sorcerer, he had great luck. But then a rival sorcerer stole the wishbone from him, wanting the good luck. Not long after, he died a horrible death. Then the sorcerer who stole the necklace got the good luck, but it was stolen from him and soon after died a horrible death. This happened for years and years until finally someone died of natural causes and the necklace was buried with him.

            “Then my partner and I dug him up, somewhere in Mesopotamia,” the old man reminiscence. “We’ll we called ourselves archeologists, but sometimes, we kept what we found. And my partner decided to keep the necklace after reading a journal of the history of the necklace. Pretty soon, he was getting lucky with a lot of things. He won every contest he entered. He gambled and never lost a single coin. Every horse he bet on crossed the finish line first. He found money on the streets.

            “And I’ll admit, that made me jealous. After all, we both found it at the same time. So I stole it away from him.”

            Gladstone could tell where this story was going. “And he died a horrible death.”

            “Not really. He did break his leg, though,” the old man said with a laugh.

            Gladstone frowned, feeling as if the old man was making a fool of him. “Why didn’t the necklace kill him?”

            “So, I have a theory,” the old man said. “When a person wears the necklace, good luck is attracted to them and it keeps bad luck at bay. But the bad luck is like a rubber band around your wrist. If you only pull the rubber band a little bit, it’s not going to hurt you. But if you stretch it as far as it goes and releases, it’s going to hurt like Hell. Well, my partner only had the necklace for a couple of months, not enough time for the bad luck to build up to kill him.

            “My partner knew I had stolen it from him and demanded it back. I suppose I could have run away because I was now getting a lot of good luck, but he was still my partner and I like to keep things square. So we made a bargain: he would have the wishbone for one week and me the next. That way the bad luck could only hurt us a little.

            “After a while, my partner and I noticed that even though we only wore the necklace a week at a time, the bad luck blowback was getting more and more dangerous. At first it was just little things like sitting on a tack or losing our wallets, then it got worse and worse. My partner was afraid of what would happen if he kept passing the wishbone back and forth, he would regret it. So he gave me the wishbone entirely to me.”

            “I bet you’ve been awfully afraid of losing the necklace or having it stolen,” Gladstone said.

            “You bet!” the old man exclaimed.

            “Well, if you’re so lucky, why are you here? You look as if you could take care of yourself,” Gladstone said. He wouldn’t want to live in a nursing home.

            “Well, the necklace can’t protect me from everything. My relatives said I was too old to live by myself. And this place isn’t so bad, as long as I get my own way,” the old man said, sitting back and chuckling. “But, it does get a little lonely. I don’t get any visitors. I’ve seen you here many times. You talk to a lot of the folks here.”

            “My great-grandmother doesn’t like me. So I find other people to talk to,” Gladstone said with a shrug. “It’s better than being bored or listening to Great-Grandmother.”

            The old man laughed. “You’re a good boy. I can tell. So I’m going to give you something.”

            Gladstone thought that the old man was going to give him some quarter or candies. The most someone ever gave him was a two-dollar bill, which wasn’t a common denomination and he still had it because he thought it was cool. But his eyes widened as the old man reached around his neck and took off the wishbone necklace, holding it out with two fingers.

            “You’re giving it to me?” Gladstone asked in disbelief. He only half-believed in the story, and his belief was dropping even more as the necklace was being offered to him. If the necklace was as lucky as the old man said, he would never give it up. And especially with many decades of bad luck hanging over his head.

            “Yes. Take it. It’s yours,” the old man said.

            “Aren’t you afraid of the bad luck?” Gladstone asked, trying to make it sound snarky but he was feeling a little worried.

            “I’ve lived long enough,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s time to pass the luck on to someone else.”

            Gladstone reached out for the necklace, thinking that he would take it just to appease the old man then dump it in the trash. The old man probably had dementia or Alzheimer’s or something, and the necklace was just junk. Who knows, maybe he gave weird necklaces to all the kids who came into his room. When Gladstone wrapped his hand around the necklace, the old man grabbed him, holding him tight.

            “You need to decide quickly. You either keep it for a short time then get rid of it, or you keep it forever. You hear?” the old man said.

            Gladstone nodded solemnly to the old man, who then let him go. The way that the old man was looking at him and how he talked, it was starting to scare Gladstone. Once he was free, he ran out of the room, just wanting to get away from the crazy guy. He barely stopped before barreling into Margie, an old woman who had met several times, who was ambling down the hallway.

            “Oh, aren’t you a handsome, young man,” Margie said, taking Gladstone’s arm. “Will you come play cards with me?”

            “Uh, sure,” Gladstone said, still holding the necklace. He put it in his pocket.

            In the common area, Gladstone played cards with Margie, and he found that no matter what game they played, he won every time. Not that Margie minded.

            “When a young man wins so many times, he deserves a reward,” Margie said, taking out her purse.

            She said this every time and would give Gladstone caramel sucking candies, which he didn’t mind although a bit too sweet for him, so he said “Thank you” and held out his hand politely. Instead of candies, she handed over a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

            “What? This is too much,” Gladstone said.

            “Oh, you keep it. You’re such a nice young man. Just don’t let your luck spoil you,” Margie said.

            “Uh…” Gladstone said, not quite believing things. Never had he been given so much money, not even by his own parents or relatives. But what made him nervous was Margie mentioning luck. “I think I should go find my parents now. Thank you, Ma’m.”

            “Such a good boy,” Margie said again and prepared her pack of cards to play solitaire.

            As Gladstone headed to his great-grandmother’s room, he pulled out the necklace and took a look at it. The wishbone had a gold chain attached to both ends of the bone through small holes drilled in it and galvanized with metal. The broken end where it was split apart looked to have been sanded so it wouldn’t poke anyone. The bone wasn’t white but different shades of grayish brown as it aged, and it was covered in a shiny resin that gave it a jewelry feel to it. But despite the work done on it, it was still ugly.

            Gladstone put it on, glad to see that it hung very low on his neck and that his shirt and stiff collar covered it up. With a deep breath, he stepped into his great-grandmother’s room. This would be the real test to see if the necklace was what the old man said it was.

            “Um…Mama. Can we go home, please?” he said quietly, trying to be as polite as possible.

            “How rude,” Great-Grandmother said so soon after Gladstone said. “You’re parents are visiting with me. Don’t interrupt them.”

            Gladstone’s mother smile wanly and whispered to her husband. “It is almost dinner time.” She started to stand up.

            “Now, you sit back down,” Great-Grandmother ordered crisply. “Don’t go rushing off because the child is a little bored. In my day, children were seen and not heard, that is if they were seen at all. We never got in the way of the adults, and your son can stand to wait a little longer." She cast a disapproving stare at Gladstone that made him wither away a little.

            Gladstone looked down at his feet. Stupid necklace. So much for it being lucky.

            But then the walls began to shake and the floor trembled behind them. The shelves vibrated and the medical equipment on wheels rolled slightly.

            “Earthquake,” Gladstone’s father said, pulling his wife and son closer to him.

            Great-Grandmother clutch the blankets on her medical bed, her eyes wide and mouth open. “Oh, my babies. My babies. They’re going to fall.”

            The antique dolls were dancing, wiggling back and forth with the shelves, but they were moving from sitting position to lying down, dangling from shelves.

            Gladstone didn’t really do anything. He never intended to. He just so happened to be near one of the shelves when a doll dropped in his lap. He was so surprised that he moved back, and another doll dropped on him. He instinctually held onto them, and watched in surprise as one by one the dolls flew into his embrace. It was even more surprising that their porcelain faces, arms and legs never once cracked against each other.

            When the earthquake ended, the entire shelf of dolls were in his grasp, and he could barely see above the mountain of curly hair and lacy dresses.

            “It’s over,” Gladstone’s father said. “Is everyone fine? Anyone hurt? Grandmother?”

            “My babies,” Great-Grandmother said, her hand to her breast. “Boy…Gladstone. Bring them here.”

            Gladstone carefully walked to his Great-Grandmother, not moving his arms at all. He waited patiently as the adults removed them from his arms one-by-one until they were all safe on the bed.

            “They’re all safe,” Great-Grandmother said aghast. “Not a single one is chipped. And thanks to you, my dear boy.” She patted his head and kissed his cheek.

            That was the most surprising thing of that day. Great-Grandmother didn’t call anyone “dear” but less gave them a kiss. And that wasn’t the end of things. She reached into her bedside table, took out a box that require a key to open—he knew she kept her money locked in the box to prevent the nurses from stealing it, as if they ever would—and gave him a twenty-dollar bill

            “Grandmother…that’s very generous,” Gladstone’s father said, just as surprised as Gladstone.

            “This is not spoiling the child,” Great-Grandmother said in her no-nonsense tone. “He did a good thing, and children should be rewarded for services.”

            “Thank you,” Gladstone said, putting the money next to its brother in his pocket. He was feeling very rich. However he did feel a bit guilty. After all, he didn’t do anything. He just so happened to be right under the shelves during the earthquake.

            They visited with Great-Grandmother for a while longer, the nurses rushing about in the hallways as they checked up on all their patients, sticking their head in to make sure nothing was broken or anyone hurt. And after a while, Great-Grandmother excused them with a smile and a wave, looking much different from the old woman they usually visited.

            “Can we have an earthquake every time we visit?” Gladstone’s father whispered in the hallway.

            “Hush, dear,” Gladstone’s mother said but she was smiling. “Let’s just hope that this fine spirit of hers lasts. And it’s all thanks to you Gladstone, sweetie. You were very brave during the earthquake.”

            Gladstone soaked in the praise as they walked down the hall. But they all stopped as a pair of EMTs pushed a rolling gurney out of one of the patient’s rooms, a black body bag right on top.

            “Oh, go ahead, folks,” one EMT said, spotting the family.

            “Oh, my,” Gladstone’s mother gasped, hand to her mouth. “How unfortunate.”

            “Was it the earthquake?” Gladstone’s father asked the EMT.

            “He had a heart attack, probably from the stress of the earthquake,” the other EMT said.

            As they passed by, Gladstone’s parents tried to hide Gladstone from the view, but as they passed, he caught a glimpse of the room beyond the EMTs.

            It belonged to the old man who gave him the necklace.

            Gladstone put a hand to his chest, feeling the necklace against his feathers under his shirt. He believed now. So he had to make a decision. Was he going to get rid of the necklace, pass it on to someone else or perhaps bury it before the bad luck built up too much? Or was he going to keep it?

***

Twenty five years later…

            Gladstone stepped out of the beach house at the edge of Duckburg, feeling refreshed and wonderful. He always felt refreshed and wonderful no matter where he slept. He once had stayed the night in a jail cell and had slept peacefully there—why he was in the jail cell, he had no idea, but it turned out to be lucky since he had overheard where a pair of thieves had hid their loot and earned a reward when he turned the information over to the police.

            He didn’t own the beach house. A man at the airport—a complete stranger—had rented the beach house for the week and he had been called in on an emergency at work. It was non-refundable. And Gladstone had talked to him for five minutes, five polite, lucky minutes, and the man called the rental agency and had everything transferred to Gladstone. What are the odds? With Gladstone, always in his favor.

            A week in a beach house.

            Gladstone was the type who went where the wind takes him, having never needed job or permanent home. All his basic needs were taken care of, and since he never kept anything that he picked up for very long, never collected souvenirs or anything other than memories, he could easily live anywhere in the world. Whenever he ended up in Duckburg, he always tend to crash at his Uncle Scrooge’s place, but once in a while, he’d win a free hotel room or something like that.

            This time, it was a beach house, which so happened to coincide with some of the most beautiful weather he had ever seen in Duckburg.

            He was so lucky.

            As he walked down the boardwalk to the eateries on the wharf, he tested his inner self to see what he was in the mood for. Pancakes? Parfait? Pastries? Maybe something more exotic. He had to decide, otherwise his luck wouldn’t know where he wanted to go. Or maybe it would just send him some money so he could decide later.

            As he searched the ground for the usual twenty dollars, he patted the front of his shirt which was his usual habit. The necklace that he always kept hidden under his shirt was always a comfort to him, although it didn’t look like the same necklace he was given as a child. Instead of a gold chain, he had replaced it with silver since gold was eye-catching, and after seeing so much of the color from his Uncle Scrooge, he thought it was a little gaudy. Besides, silver looked better with green. As for the bone, he couldn’t stand seeing it as it was and worried that someone would think him macabre for wearing something like that, so he had it plated in silver as well. It was a strange looking necklace, that’s for sure, but at least it didn’t look as if he were wearing ancient body parts.

            A flash of green caught his eye and he bent down.

            “Nice, twenty dollars,” Gladstone said, picking up the crisp bill. Now he was set for the morning.

            Just as he saw a pretty, little café that met his fancy, a person turned right into him and they ran into each other, shoulder to shoulder. It was only a slight bump, but it was enough to knock Gladstone to the ground.

            “Ow,” Gladstone said, feeling the pain of his tail cushioning his fall. He expected an apology and a welcomed hand to help him up, but instead he saw a man in a gray hoodie hurrying away. “Hey! What’s the big idea?” he shouted. Grumbling, he stood up and brushed himself off, finding a tear in his new jacket. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Rassa frassa jerk no good—“ He stopped himself. “Oh, no. Now I’m sounding like Donald.”

            It was a strange occurrence for something like this to happen to him. His lucky charm couldn’t exactly change people, but usually something that seemed like bad luck would lead him to good luck. In the meantime, all he wanted was a bagel and a cup of coffee.

            As he stumbled into the café, he said found almost every table filled and the noise level barely low enough that he heard from the hostess up front that it would be a fifteen minute wait. It ended up being thirty, and when he was finally seated, the table wasn’t wiped down and he stepped in a wad of gum.

            “What can I get you?” a curt waitress asked.

            Gladstone didn’t have to look at the menu. “Coffee and a bagel.”

            “We only have pumpernickel right now,” the waitress said.

            Gladstone blanched. He hated pumpernickel. “Toast then. Wheat bread,” Gladstone said with a sigh.

            He then waited much longer than it should have taken to make toast, and when it finally came, the toast was cold, had too much butter and was not wheat bread. As for the coffee, it wasn’t spectacular like he was used to, and the waitress didn’t bring any creamers for him. After he tried to flag down the waitress several times, he gave up, scarfed down his sub-par breakfast and went to the cash register to pay for the meal.

            “Here and the rest is tip,” Gladstone said, handing over the bill he had picked up. Not that she deserved such a gracious gratuity, he thought.

            The hostess snorted and muttered, “Lousy tipper. Go figure.”

            “Huh, what was that?” Gladstone asked.

            “Nothing,” the hostess said with a shake of her head.

            Gladstone frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, I did hand you a twenty-dollar bill, right?”

            The hostess shook her head. “No, you gave me a five. It barely covers your meal, sir.” She gave him a judgmental look.

            A five? No, that couldn’t be possible. He always picked up twenty-dollar bills.

            “I’m sorry. My mistake,” Gladstone said, reaching for his wallet. He was certain he would have several wayward twenties that he had picked up on his journeys. His hands came up empty after searching his pockets. His senses dropped to the floor.

            His wallet was gone.

            “No. No, where is it?” he said, searching his jacket and every pocket, coming up empty again.

            “Where is what, sir?” the hostess asked, looking irritated.

            “My wallet. It’s gone,” Gladstone said.

            The hostess had a look on her face as if she had heard that line before.

            “No, it’s really gone,” Gladstone said. “I’ve lost it. I lost my wallet. This never happens to me.”

            “Sure,” the hostess said, her beaks pressed in a thin line. “If you lost it here, it hasn’t been turned in, but you can check back later.”

            Gladstone realized that the waitress couldn’t grasp just how terrible of a thing for him to lose his wallet. But then he remembered the guy bumping into him, that had knocked him to the boardwalk and left in a hurry without an apology. The guy must have been a pickpocket.

            Gladstone fumed as he stormed out of the café. This shouldn’t have happened to him. Bad things don’t happen to Gladstone Gander. He had never been robbed before. He never was ignored like this before. And he never had such an unpleasant morning, not since that old man had given him his lucky charm.

            He automatically raised his hand to feel the outline of the jewelry under his shirt, but as his fingertips traced just under his collar bone, he felt nothing but his own body and feathers. He pulled back his jacket and shirt collar, looking down, expecting it to be askew or something, for there to be a reason why he didn’t feel it.

            But it was worse than he thought. The necklace was gone.

            And so was his luck.

***

This story will probably be in three parts. I didn't want to do more stories with multiple parts, but I felt I needed to post something soon because I've been having problems working on my computer. I got into a slump this week but I'm back up.

This story in no ways reflects any Gladstone Gander cannon information or my own headcannon. It was just something that I came up with and I just went ahead with it. I know it's very similar to the episode with the Phantom Blot, but I'm going with a different angle that I hope will sound great.

[taxi-boi]

so theres a problem ive noticed with how the pesterlog formatting works on ao3 (which im not sure if its from the work skin or homestuck5plus or if its just a standard ao3 thing)

but on mobile the logs render awkwardly, to where only half the log appears on the screen at a time

(my fic, I Think Therefore I AR ch 21)

and while you can just scroll back and forth, it becomes tedious with longer blocks of text, to the point where its practically unreadable for some

there is one client side solution to this (other than hiding creators style and removing all the fonts and colours) but im not sure if its universally on all mobile browsers and devices

theres a setting that can be found in my browser called desktop site, which adjusts the formatting to how the site would look on desktop, heres what the settings look like on firefox and chrome respectively (turned on)

and heres how the setting effects both browsers respectively

a little more awkward for firefox as they may have to zoom in to read the text but otherwise completely usable.

if this solution works for everyone thats great but the problem is im not sure if it works for every device / browser

so in case it doesnt im looking for an alternative solution that doesn't require the reader to do anything different on their end.

is there a way to have the pesterlog box automatically shrink to fit to the size of the device its on?

if not is there a way to manually shrink it to where it will fit within the bounds of the most mobile screens?( which may be slightly awkward for desktop but they can always zoom in where mobile cant zoom out.)

will i have to edit the homestuck work skin for this or will it just be an edit directly to the limited html box?

if you have any solutions please tell me

[ofbrochtuarach]

Dear people using banners for post titles

Please also give a text title. I’m on data 100% of the time, and pictures Do Not Load. I can’t read your banner title. I have no idea if your new chapter is for a fic I read or not - so often I just don’t read it. Same for other post titles but lately I’ve noticed it’s a trend in fanfic and I mean, that’s cool! Have fun with lovely banners, I’m sure they look amazing. The few that managed to load were. Just please also put the title in text somewhere?

Thank you!

[queenimmadolla]

could we have something with wayne? i love wayne 🥺 was he upset when reader first got pregnant? worried about how eddie would cope and the consequences of having a baby so young? or was he buying onesies and telling everyone in the trailer park he was gunna be a grandpa?

this was an absolute delight to write. the penny verse is an extension of another series I have (Call You Mine) and Wayne is heavily involved in later chapters. this contains a ton of spoilers for it but i don’t care all that much because I love Wayne too and I really like his relationship with reader and what I have going for his backstory with Eddie. hope you enjoy it!

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬

(Father-in-law!Wayne Munson and Daughter-in-law!Reader bonding)

warnings: mentions of pregnancy and drugs (reader does not use)

a/n: reader is 19, eddie is 20 and both are married to each other. daisy edgar jones is NOT reader, she is how i imagine Eddie’s mom to look so she’s used for the aesthetic. happy reading and let me know how you like it! as always, reblogs and comments (not jerk ones) are appreciated and mistakes will be fixed later!

more of the pennyverse here

It’s late, the sun is dipping below the earth visible to your eye, the trailer park lit only by the porch lights attached to a few of the mobile homes and light slipping through window blinds, drapes and curtains.

You’re standing in front of the window next to the front door, fingers separating the blinds and fingertips pressed against the cold glass. It’s warm in the trailer, compared to outside and courtesy of the space heater that goes above and beyond in heating your humble home.

The musical sound of Eddie, singing something of Whitesnake’s in the shower can be faintly heard but you aren’t paying him any attention. Your only focus is on the tan trailer four down from Maxine’s; spread out and relaxed in one of the lawn chairs under its awning is the Munson you’re most concerned about, at the moment.

It had been almost an entire month since you’d last spoken to him, something you hadn’t been aware of until you had purposely started to avoid him. 

Your relationship with Wayne Munson was anything but complicated. Well, until recently. When you’d first met him, not only did you discover he was about as wise as he looked and not nearly as scary as you imagined him to be (reminded you a lot of Eddie, actually), but you also realized he cared for Eddie, deeply. Enough to sit you down and tell you all about how he knew of Eddie’s deep affections for you before telling you all about his relationship with Penny—Eddie’s mother—and how he hoped you two would have a much happier ending. He’d asked you to take care of Eddie then, too. If you wanted to be with him, that was. And you did, so you agreed. 

Then you’d broken up with Eddie. You’d been heartbroken the entire time and positive you’d disappointed Wayne. Only, when you made your way to the trailer to fix what you’d destroyed, you had encountered Wayne again and expected to be turned away. Instead, he told you he knew you wouldn’t break your promise to him and welcomed you back.

The thing is, while you were sure he really believed you wouldn’t break your promise to take care of Eddie, you were also sure there had to have been a moment during your break up in which Wayne Munson regretted ever trusting you with his nephew’s heart, especially since that nephew was more his son than anything. 

Now, you were disappointing him again. It didn’t have anything to do with leaving Eddie, far from. If anything, you were now permanently bound to Eddie, in some way. You’re pregnant, as in you have his baby growing inside of you. 

It had come as a shock to you because you had no inkling that you were pregnant up until a couple of weeks ago (like two) and just as you were beginning to actually enjoy and soak in the fact that you and Eddie were going to be parents (you were gonna be someone’s mom! How fucking weird!), Eddie burst your bubble, informing you he’d seen Wayne recently and mentioned it to him. 

You love Eddie. Want to spend the rest of your life with him doing stupid shit like marrying him right after your graduation ceremony and having a baby at the apparently irresponsible ages of 19 and 20, but you wanted to strangle him right then. Not just because he’d told Wayne, but also because he’d done so like he was some random person from his past who asked him how he was doing and he’d casually mentioned that he and his young wife were expecting. Wayne deserved better than that.

Which is why, after days of cowering and avoiding him (it wasn’t all that difficult, Wayne spent about 98% of his time at his girlfriend’s home—the trailer you were staring at—so you hadn’t seen him often to begin with since that romance had developed) you’re determined to talk to him. Just need a couple more minutes to work up the courage.

You aren’t stupid. Well, you are, but not that stupid. You know what most “adults” (you’re an adult, too, but you’re talking about the old ass folks) thought about you. How dumb they assume you are for marrying young and Eddie, no less (they could suck your dick, he’s a fantastic husband), and now that you’re pregnant—and not even showing all that much—you know they’d think they were right. Like having a baby with the man you loved was some giant fucking punishment. Clearly, they need to rethink who they are married to if it was such a concern for them or mind their own business.

But Wayne…god, you had no idea what to expect from him. He was one of the few people in this town whose opinion you actually respected and valued. He’d wanted you and Eddie to wait a little but still gave him his blessing to marry you because he knew nothing would stop you. Your parents had been about the same, but that’s a different, messy story. Marriage was one thing, having a baby is much larger than that.

You’d been avoiding Wayne out of fear of hearing him voice what you knew was slowly making its way around Hawkins: you’re making a mistake. 

You’d be disappointing Wayne. Again.

Still, you can’t avoid him forever.

You see the man in question rattle the beer can in his hand, something you’d seen him do plenty of times on the couch outside of this trailer before he’d take the lack of liquid in it as a sign to get up, joints creaking, and make his way inside for the night.

You hurriedly slip on your coat and crash through the front door. It’s much colder than you anticipated but you ignore it and soldier on, making your way down the road.

You stare at your shoes as you sit in the empty lawn chair next to his, the cold of it numbing your butt on contact.

You know he’s not looking at you, probably still admiring the colors of the sky and taking everything in like he always is.

He breaks the silence first.

“Bit cold out for you, ain’t it?”

You wet your lips, hands curled in the warm pockets of your coat. 

“It’s not so bad. I prefer cold weather over the heat.”

He hums, low and always all-knowing. You know that he knows why you’re here. Just like Eddie, he’s patient with you; letting you come to him, letting you tell him when you’re ready. You think maybe Eddie picked up that particular character trait from how Wayne interacted with him. 

“I wanted─” You start and don’t finish. Another moment passes before you try again.

“I didn’t─”

Fuck! Why was this so hard? You hadn’t realized how badly you wanted to make him proud of you, after everything you’d put Eddie through (who probably put Wayne through a lot, as a result), you wanted to make up for it by being good to his boy and what was supposed to be a happy thing was beginning to feel like you trapping him. You knew that wasn’t the case, Eddie wanted the little being growing inside of you just as much as you did. 

Trying to explain that to someone so much older was challenging. Trying to explain it to someone older and someone you didn’t want to ever look down on you, was practically impossible. You probably appear young and dumb. 

You figure, maybe it’s time to succumb to defeat, shoulders sagging.

“You can say it.”

It’s a whisper but Wayne hears it, finally turning his head to take you in. You still can’t meet his eyes, don’t want him to see how sad yours are.

“Say what?”

“That I’m stupid. I’m ruining my life, settling. Trapping him. Screwing him over,” you don’t even notice you’re doing it, your hand moves to rest on your stomach, as if to protect your baby from the accusation you’re about to throw out. “I’m making a mistake.”

Wayne doesn’t say anything at first, just hums again. It’s not one of agreement. His thumb runs over the aluminum of the beer can in his grasp.

“You think that?”

You brave a glance at him, willing yourself to not cower under his gaze. Wayne Munson’s stare can have any sinner confessing, just from the sheer intimidation in it. 

You can’t find your tongue all of a sudden, feeling like a child. You just shake your head, timid.

“Then why would I think that?”

“Uhm, because. Uh, because it’s what everyone thinks. It’s what they thought when we got married in June, too.”

Wayne chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

“Didn’t seem to stop you from going through with it.”

It hadn’t. Before you even got to the courthouse, word had spread and one of the cheer moms who worked there had tried to offer you some unsolicited advice: don’t do it.

You did it.

“There ain’t nothing ‘bout you two that’s been conventional. Always got me rubbing my scalp.”

You giggle, biting your lip to try to stop yourself but you know Wayne meant to make you laugh, tried to ease you with humor he rarely expressed. For some reason, the jokes about him balding greatly amused you.

“Are you mad? That I’m pregnant?”

“No,” he shakes his head, gruffly clearing his throat. Doesn’t do much, his voice is always raspy. “Takes two to get in a spot like that. I didn’t see it coming, that’s for sure. But like I said, you two ain’t ever been conventional. Glad to see you’re following the order of things, ‘least. I’ll be honest with you, it’s always been a little hard to picture where Eddie would end up, what he’d be doing in life. Other than playing that loud music and going to those damn noisy shows. Made me a little nervous with those girls I knew he brought around, didn’t ever meet none of them but I knew. If it had been then, I’d probably have been more scared. ‘Specially if he felt like he had to hide ‘em. Or if they had to hide him.”

Wayne leans further back into the chair, making the stiff thing look as comfortable as a recliner. 

“It’s different with you. We had this conversation before. You remember?” You think you know what he’s about to bring up, so you nod.

“Mhm. You’re about how old Penny was when she had Eddie. Maybe a little younger. You ain’t married to an asshole, either. For the most part.” 

You laugh again and point out, “I thought Penny never married Otis.”

Otis is Eddie’s dad. The older brother (by 10 years) of Wayne’s who swooped in and stole his best friend from him, introducing the much younger girl to a life of a hardcore drug you’d never touch and one Eddie would make sure he never had any part of: meth. 

Wayne had told you she’d gotten clean when she found out she was pregnant with Eddie and stayed that way, for him. You know that’s when he fell in love with her. Sadly, their story would never involve romance. They were kept apart by Otis, distance and themselves, neither one of them speaking up when she’d returned to Hawkins with Eddie, unwilling to have him live in a meth lab. In a cruel ironic twist, she’d ended up dying of an overdose not much longer after her return; she’d been struggling to sleep with everything going on and unknowingly mixed two over the counter sleeping pills that shut her system down. She’d stayed clean only to die because she wanted a good night's sleep so she could take care of her son. Eddie had been forced by the system to live with his father, only being allowed to return to Wayne—with a shaved head when traces of the drug were found in his hair—after his father’s lab was busted.

“She didn’t,” Wayne agrees, that far off look in his eye when he recounts his younger days to you. “But he wasn’t exactly the type of man any woman would want to marry. You got lucky with Eddie, he ain’t nothing like Otis.”

You hum in agreement, mind flooding with thoughts of soft curls and even softer brown eyes. You know Wayne loves Eddie on his own and wouldn’t ever treat him differently, but you can’t help but be thankful—for Wayne—that Eddie is an almost exact replica of his mom, appearance wise. For both of them, actually. Eddie hates his father and you know he’d hate himself if he looked in the mirror and saw any resemblance. 

“You got your head on right.” You snap out of your thoughts at the comment, surprised. 

“Huh?”

“You might be young, but you sure ain’t stupid. I may not know everything that went on with you, but I know you saved yourself from it. You and Eddie been doing an awful lot of that your whole lives, ‘least you get to do it together now. I know you love Eddie, and I know you love that baby. So don’t you dare say you made a mistake. Would I have liked for you to wait? Sure. Hell, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have minded waiting either. Unless—was this…?”

“No! No! It wasn’t planned at all!” You don’t mention that you and Eddie hadn’t been using protection, just blindly trusting your birth control. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Wayne sighs in relief. “See? You ain’t stupid.” Debatable. “And even if it was, I trust that you know what you’re doing. ‘S the reason I let you two live in that trailer alone.”

You smirk, happy to have the opportunity to chime in. 

“Are you sure it’s not because of Ms. Maple?” You wiggle your eyebrows, not so discreetly nodding your head to the trailer behind you and the occupant you’re sure is inside.

You laugh as Wayne raises his eyes at the awning.

“Lord,” he mutters, with fake annoyance. He’ll tell you all about Penny but he won’t say a thing about Maude Maple. You suspect it’s because he feels like he’s betraying Penny in some way, even though they were never involved. Munson men are loyal. 

“Is that what you came over here to pester me about? Or are we gonna keep this talk serious?”

“No,” You pout, curling your legs up to your chest. “I just—I didn’t know how to tell you. Kind of forgot we have to tell people actually, and when Eddie mentioned that he’d brought it up in a chat─”

You’re cut off when Wayne booms out a laugh, surprising you considering you’d rarely heard him laugh hard.

He’s almost snickering when he calms down, “Is that what he told you? That boy called me up and asked if we could talk. Figured it could only mean he’d gotten you pregnant, considering he already eloped with you. He was shaking in his shoes the entire time he was over, he didn’t just bring it up in a run-in.”

Your mouth drops open, eyes squinting as you think about how you’re gonna chastise Eddie as soon as you get back to the trailer. That jerk! He made it seem like it was just something that came up in conversation, not something that he’d set aside time to talk to Wayne about! 

Another half of you wanted to kiss him silly for taking it seriously and having a meaningful conversation with his father figure about becoming a father.

“No wonder you were so well prepared.”

“That didn’t have nothing to do with it. Like I said, I figured you were. Not just ‘cause he wanted to have a talk, it may not be obvious to the two of you since you see each other every day, but you’re filling out a little more.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, though there’s no animosity to it. You know he’s not implying you’re gaining weight, he’s saying you’re showing. 

“Winter layers can’t hide it.”

Your mouth drops open and closed, gaze darting from what you thought was your normal looking stomach to Wayne and back again.

“You’re good!” You marvel, baffled at how observant and damn near omnipresent Wayne Munson is.

Wayne looks pleased with your statement, a small smile on his face. “I know. Eddie says it’s a girl. What color clothes should I be buying my grandbaby? You got any names picked out?”

You pull your hand out of your pocket to nervously bite at your thumb. Ever since you’d accepted the fact that you were gonna be a mom (still so fucking weird), to a girl, there was only one name bouncing around in your head. You hadn’t even shared the idea with Eddie yet. 

“I really like ‘Penny’.”

[gvalue]

Against all odds - chapter 1  

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Note: Welcome to my very first fic! I have been on this platform for the longest, but I have never dared to post anything before. This fic will be a mix of my love for STEM and Top Gun. It will have several chapters which I will be updating weekly. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Feel free to give feedback, leaving a comment, a like or sharing 💗

Disclaimer: This is an Alternative Universe - Modern Setting/Top Gun settled fic. However, Rooster is still a Lieutenant and I will be writing some canon compliant content.

Word count - 2.1k

Summary:

 “Rooster?” Joline addressed Bradshaw as he was already making his way down the hallway without barely having given a proper goodbye. He stopped altogether, but didn’t turn around completely, looking back from his place.

 “Yes?” 

 “I believe that you have already been informed, but I will remind you in case you have forgotten” Joline gave him an acknowledging look. “Y/N will be leading DRAGON’s project.” She stopped for a second before adding “She will be your superior during the course of this project.” 

 He stared for a moment before replying with an almost inaudible ‘Great’; turned around and continued his way without giving us a second glare.    

Or: When two acquaintances engineers sever ties due to a misunderstanding, and years later their path cross again. This time, they will be bound to work hand in hand for an upcoming project at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: angst, fluff, swears, mutual pining, Slow Burn, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Enemies to lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Academia, Graduate School, Jealousy, Miscommunication, Boss/Employe Relationship (kinda), Co-workers, Engineers, Secret Crush, Women in STEM

Before Washington  

10th of January 2018

The cold air of early January whipped against my rosy cheeks as I tried to make my way through the throngs of people pouring out of the subway entrance. I had been rambling on my phone for the last five minutes, my best friend at the other end of the line. 

 “Dear, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I love that you count on me at your most vulnerable times, but shouldn’t you be fixing this problem instead of talking on the phone with me?” I didn’t have to be with Arene to know that she had just raised her right eyebrow at me. 

 “Yeah, probably, but I just left a 2-hour meeting that, as you can see, didn’t turn out as well as expected and I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” I talked on the phone as calmly as I could. 

 “I believe that you are overrea–” A deafening sound muffled her last word. “Sorry, I am baking bread, and I am being a mess at the moment. I cannot find the oven tray…” Another blast came from the phone before Arene’s words made it through the line. “Never mind, found it” A couple of seconds elapsed until I heard Arene's voice again through the phone. “What are you going to do about it?”

 “Should I contact Albert and ask about the possibility of him having relevant information about e-fuels?” Albert has been a professor of mine the first year of college, and now he was working on a project about urban aerospace mobility plans at the same research department I was doing my thesis. 

 I already knew Arene’s answer, but I needed reassurance before taking any action. Albert wasn't a bad guy, but I knew if I asked him to do me this favor, he'd be reminding me of it for the next year.

 “If there is any chance that he could help you with that specific part of your project, you surely should do it. It’s not like you have too many options left.” 

 I took a deep breath before answering her. “That is the issue; I don’t know If he will be able to help me. He leads T&E work on sustainable aviation, he must know about new fuels and aviation’s substantial non-CO2 climate effects, but he has a degree in political science and law. He is not an engineer”. I whined. 

 “Well, right now, he is your closest contact who may seem to be able to help you. Get in touch with him and, if nothing comes from it, then you can freak out.”

 I had 10 days left until I had to hand in my master’s degree final project, and today my advisor ‘suggested’ that I should add at the State of the art a whole paragraph about efuels and synthetic kerosene. A topic that, on one hand, I wasn’t familiar with because my field of research for the last nine months has been urban mobility, not mobility sustainability, and on the other hand, apparently, there wasn’t much information nor published academic papers about the topic. My investigation strictly focused on comparative research into the associations between variables related to accidents in micromobility vehicles through empirical data from the cities of Barcelona and Amsterdam. Although I had to write about renewable energy and, therefore, decarbonization, I didn’t imagine that Martha would want me to write a full paragraph about it ten days before sending the final project. I had the whole next week already scheduled to make a final revision. Now, my plans have been modified, and I didn’t deal well with last-minute changes. 

—

 That afternoon I got home drained, exhausted but hopeful about the information Albert had given me. 

 “That smile can only mean two things. Either Albert got you a ten-page Elsevier paper about e-kerosene, or you just dropped out of university”, Arene pointed out as soon as she saw me enter the living room we shared in our tiny apartment. 

 “I wished, but neither are correct” I sighted. 

She waited for me to settle down before demanding explanations.

 “As I had imagined, Albert had some information about renewable energy, but everything was policy-making focused.” I made a quick pause to take a sip of my coffee. “However, he gave me a contact that, according to him, has the information I need” I explained. 

 “This is great” She gave me a bright smile. “Have you contacted that person yet?”

 “I was just going to; Albert gave me his email and phone number. I will just write to him and wait 24 hours before going all crazy-mode and call this poor man every five minutes.”

 “Great choice” she told me with her mouth full of toasted cashews. 

 I didn’t have to freak out about not having a reply, because less than 10 minutes later, I got a notification on my phone saying that Dr. Bradley Bradshaw had responded to my email. 

bradley.bradshaw@virginia.edu     10th of January 2018, 18:55 

To:  Y/N,  

Dear Y/N,

I had been expecting your email. My friend Albert called me this afternoon and told me about your situation. 

I have attached at the end of this email a bunch of articles that I am sure will be helpful for your research. However, do not hesitate to contact me again if you have any questions, or if you need more information about the topic. 

If it's not too much to ask, might I know what you're working on? As you have already seen, there is not much research on biofuels related to sustainable mobility, and I am always open to hearing about new investigations about it.

Do not feel in a rush to answer this email, I know that the last few days before the hand-in are the most stressful.

Best of luck, 

Dr. Bradley Bradshaw 

 I felt as if my heart was going to jump out of my chest as I read the e-mail. Bless Albert, I will have to buy him coffee every morning for the next month after that. 

 I opened the four PDF documents that Dr. Bradley Bradshaw had sent me and gave a quick read at each. I felt a weight stopping pressing on my chest, and suddenly I could breathe much better. This would definitely do, I thought. 

I re-read the email a couple of times before replying.

Y/N@alumnes.ub.edu        10th of January 2018, 19:12 

To:  Dr. Bradley Bradshaw  

Dear Dr. Bradshaw,

I cannot thank you enough for your help. Those articles have all the information I needed. 

Unfortunately, I am not doing my research into sustainable fuels. I am currently working on an investigation into urban micromobility road safety. There is a section about sustainable mobility because micromobility vehicles are zero-emission vehicles, but it is not the main topic.

However, if you want, I can still send you the academic work once published, if you are still interested in the subject. 

Once again, thank you very much for your help.

For anything you need in the near future, do not hesitate to contact me.

Best regards, 

Y/N

 After sending my email, I took the longest shower I have had in the past two years (being a student and having a part-time job wasn’t making me rich, plus global warming and the duty to save water and all). Then, Arene forced me to go out and grab dinner, because according to her, due to my anxiety attack from today, I lost at least five years of my life, and I had to make up for it. 

 That night, I didn’t check my email again, but the following day I woke up with an email from Dr. Bradshaw explaining that he had previously worked on an assessment about e-scooters, and its respiratory impact. He attached the article in the email and asked about previous studies I had been involved in, and if they were all micromobility related. 

 By the day of my project submit Dr. Bradley Bradshaw and I had exchanged nine emails, nearly one per day. Reading his correspondence and learning about what he was working on made me feel excited and curious about research once again. The last few months have been hell, and I realized that I had let this thesis burn me out. I took his advice and I committed to start working on my mental health. I was aware that I shouldn't have waited for a complete stranger to urge me to start taking care of myself, but the fact that it came from a person who had a doctorate in aerospace engineering, had published several papers and was working on a project with the US government made me feel like I could trust his advice. Hearing my best friend, who was currently in university, like me, ramble about the importance of drinking a lavender infusion before going to bed, writing down five things you were grateful for every day or doing at least 8,000 steps a day wasn’t encouraging my healthy journey. 

 Even after my thesis presentation and defense, Dr. Bradshaw and I kept in touch. Over the next couple of months, we exchanged emails, referring to new studies and research on mobility, and he introduced me to aviation, a subject that I ended up finding fascinating.

 In turn, we talked about day to day, and new projects that we had in hand. I explained to him that I would be starting my Ph. D. next September at the University of Barcelona for Technology and Modeling in Civil, Mining and Environmental Engineering, which he seemed to be very interested in. 

—

At the end of June, I got what would be my last email from Dr. Bradley Bradshaw. He informed me that he had just finished a long-term project he had been working on with the US government, and that everyone had been contended with the outcome. He explained that he was planning to take all August off, since he had been working almost non-stop for the past 15 months. I replied to his email encouraging him with his decision. 

 He deserved a rest after so much work. Even more if you considered the number of years that this man has been working, and a whole month of vacation sounded like paradise after so much effort. 

 I told him that I had been invited to an event that would take place on the 14th and 15th of August in the city of Lyon, France. The conference, titled ‘Connecting Europe by Air – the Green Transformation’, will be organized by the European Commission, and I will be attending with his friend and colleague of mine, Albert Abdel. 

 I waited for his reply. Ten days went by, and I still didn’t have an email from Dr. Bradshaw in my inbox, which was very odd, because the longest has elapsed between our correspondence has been four days since we started writing to each other. I wrote to him again and asked about a life update and explained that I had just officially signed up for my Ph. D. program. Ten more days went by, and I still didn’t have an answer. I felt ridiculous because I had the urge to contact him even though I had been given the silence treatment for almost a whole month. I thought about calling him. Albert gave me his mobile phone last January when I was in the middle of my thesis crisis, and I just wanted to make sure that this man was doing alright. I never asked him about his age, who knows if he was a 60-something grandparent who had cardiovascular problems and has been hospitalized for the last month. I quickly realized that it would definitely be over-stepping. Exchanging correspondence with each other was one thing and invading his personal space calling him was a whole other thing. 

 The last day of June came by, and I decided to accept that Dr. Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be answering any of my emails anymore. I searched for his name in Google Scholar and I saw that this past month he had published an article about technological components for sustainable air mobility. That was everything I needed to move on. It has been a great experience talking with somebody who has so much experience in sustainability engineering and air mobility, and about academic lifestyle in general, and I would be forever grateful for him giving me a hand when I needed it the most. However, I couldn’t keep trying to reach someone who, first of all, was a stranger, and also someone who didn’t seem to want to keep having any contact with me. 

 That 30th of July, my university email was deactivated, and I received what would be my new email related to my Ph. D. program. For a moment I thought about sending Dr. Bradshaw another email from my new account, but I decided against it. If he wanted to get in touch with me, he could contact Albert or search for me online. 

 Very much to my disappointment, I wouldn't be hearing from him for the next five years.  

[iamthenightcolormeblack]

My Experience with Jane Austen Part 2: Reading the Books

In part one I laid out which books I read, which ones were my favorites and least favorites, and the adaptations I've seen. Now I'd like to talk about my reading experience.

Disclaimer: I’m not an expert, just a casual reader sharing some observations, feel free to correct me if I get some details wrong. Out of the books I’ve read I’m most familiar with Pride and Prejudice.

Let's face it. Reading Austen can be challenging and I understand why some people dislike Austen.

It's easy to perceive her novels as "boring" because on a surface level, not much happens. The characters are well-off people (in the upper half of society) who spend their time at home or traveling between social calls and it's easy to dismiss their conflicts as "first world issues." Settings are often indoors, reflecting how "confined and unvarying" the lives of the rich (especially women) were. The plots often move forward through dialogue or conversations rather than big dramatic events. The focus on marriage can also make the stories feel like antiquated relics of the past and can be hard to relate to.

The writing style is also different. There isn't much dialogue at times because Austen slips in lots of very subtle commentary or prefers to describe a character's external appearance or characteristics. Often big events like proposals are described briefly after they happen rather than during, which can make the story feel rather "dry." The books are narrated in third person and sometimes there is unreliable narration (Pride and Prejudice) where we get characters' multiple points of view, but all narrated in the third person as to give each one credibility and prove that it's hard to trust others. Austen's writing style means that readers have to fill in the blanks with their imagination. For example, she doesn't give exact physical descriptions of her characters, often relying on general characteristics like "tall," "handsome," or "amiable." In my previous reviews of Pride and Prejudice adaptations, I explored that intentional ambiguity as a big reason why the character of Mr. Darcy is alluring--because the reader forms a personal connection with the character by sketching his portrait alongside Elizabeth. The characters (their physical appearance and some of their motivations) are purposely mysterious and while it gives the reader lots of opportunities for engaging with the text, without historical/literary context for "filling in the blanks" it's easy to see the characters as stiff mannequins in strange clothing rather than human beings.

Austen as a romance writer: Her romances don't always match up with our perception of what a romance should be. Some people start Austen expecting intense emotions and outbursts of passion but become disappointed when presented with formal courting and stately dances instead. Emotions are often veiled behind dialogue and for a first-time reader it can be challenging to see a romance developing. Most of the time readers have to rely on the clues given by Austen (descriptions of characters "blushing," looking "pale," or losing their composure) to detect the stirrings of love, but on a first reading it's difficult to do so when one's trying to figure out the plot and the characters. Finally, the dialogue can't always be taken literally; lots of people, including me, were disturbed when Mr. Knightley said he loved Emma since she was 13, but it was actually a joke made in response to something she said.

Her books are products of their time, and I sure am not an expert in Regency era economics or social norms. Sometimes the implications of certain actions can be lost on a reader if they don't know about the social norms of the time (I had no idea that Darcy following Elizabeth around, alone, on her favorite walk at Rosings was a sign of his love for her). Differences in social class are also very subtle and while one can generalize the characters as all "well-off" people, they are separated by many levels of hierarchy and their ideas about social position and status affect how they interact with others outside of their station. Darcy looks down upon those whom he perceives to be below him, and while Emma wants to make an advantageous match for Harriet, Harriet's lower social position means that Emma's schemes are not likely to work.

Because of the unique quirks within the novels, the reader is required to go beyond the surface level of plot and appearance and read between the lines to understand character motivations and actions. Without historical context (Regency era society having little social mobility, women having few legal rights and needing to make good marriages to secure material comfort) or literary context (the Enlightenment, 18th century Gothic novels referred to in Northanger Abbey, the birth of the novel, early Romantic writers just to name a bit) reading between the lines is nearly impossible.

So why do we read Austen? Below are my personal reasons.

The novels feature female heroines that have dignity and self-respect. It's significant that the stories focus on women who are trying to live according to their own values and speaking their own minds rather than acquiescing to societal dictates. Elizabeth Bennet is revolutionary in part because she wants a marriage based on mutual admiration and respect between two partners who know each other well, rather than an economic arrangement for a home. One could go on forever about how Austen is a feminist, but, the characters don't act like modern day feminists--they are still people of their time. However, it's easy to assume "feminist" heroines have to have "aggressive" characteristics (rebelling, fighting, defiance) in order to be labeled as "feminist." Importantly, Austen's women are allowed to be vulnerable (they cry or struggle with their emotions) without that being a shameful thing. We also see different types of personalities celebrated: Jane Bennet, who is kind to everyone, is seen in a positive light rather than shamed for seeing good in everyone. Anne Elliot, who is regarded as "old," becomes more beautiful as she gets older and has a second chance of love. Emma Woodhouse is spoiled yet confident and assertive and "not likely to be well-loved" (paraphrase of Austen's commentary on Emma). Fanny Price is a shy person but still achieves her happy ending. Her heroines are real people who have flaws and get opportunities to learn and grow so that they can make their aspirations reality.

A unique take on the universal conflict of humans versus society: Austen's characters are bound by social norms of etiquette as well as a value system that idolizes wealth and connections above all else. Persuasion is a great story in part because it focuses on how Anne Elliot learns to follow her heart and avoid being "persuaded" by others (and by society) to follow a path that will not make her happy. She's had to live with the regret of following the well-intentioned but harmful advice of others (Austen notes that Lady Russell values social connections too highly) over her own feelings and judgment, nearly losing her chance to be with Wentworth. The romances are significant in that they reinforce the dignity and self-respect of the female heroines. To a certain extent, Austen's stories are realistic in that marriage is necessary for material well-being in a patriarchal society that provides few ways for women to provide for themselves. But most importantly, she also sees marriage as a means of affirming self-respect and dignity of the women. It's one of the few parts of their lives over which they have any control because they get to choose whom they marry (for the most part, unless the marriage is arranged). Their wish to marry for love is revolutionary because they dare to aspire for something more than wealth. They want their future partners to be their equals, someone who they can love and respect (or be totally honest with them) and who will provide the same in return. This line from Emma (the 2020 movie adaptation) sums it up: "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Fame I do not want. Fortune I do not want. Consequence I do not want."

The difference between outward appearances and inner character is a fascinating theme that appears in several Austen novels, most notably Pride and Prejudice, where Wickham and Darcy are foils of each other ("one has got all the goodness, the other all the appearance of it"). A lot of the villains in Austen's novels are those who deceive others about their motivations or lie for their own advantage. A common trait these villains all have is that they have a charming outward appearance that masks their true natures; they don't look ugly nor are they unpleasant (ex. Wickham having great social skills, Willoughby following the trope of the knight rescuing Marianne as the damsel in distress but leaving behind many broken hearts, Mr. Elliott being charming and knowing exactly what to say and how to act but actually a swindler). In contrast, the "good" characters are honest, even at the cost of social displeasure, use manners/etiquette to show respect rather than deceive people, and act selflessly to prove their worth (actions speak louder than words). It can be summed up this way: "don't judge a book by its cover."

Psychology: Austen very effectively described hindsight bias when sarcastically commenting on how the village of Meryton turned on Wickham after the elopement with Lydia, when previously they regarded him as an "angel of light." She also understands how easy it is to manipulate peoples' minds through confirmation bias (Wickham telling Elizabeth all the dirt about Darcy, which she eagerly takes because she hates Darcy so much). She also knows that emotions can override people's judgment: "angry people are not always wise." It's fun seeing how her people are social animals who make flawed judgments based on first impressions/emotions.

The secondary characters: Mr. Collins the clergyman is the most famous and he's so funny because of his arrogance in spite of his low social position (he keeps worshiping Lady Catherine instead of respecting God). Another great one is Sir Walter Elliott, a nobleman who is vain and constantly checks himself in the mirror (the most obvious social criticism). Also Austen understood how women insult each other: through passive aggression (ex. Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst talking negatively about Elizabeth behind her back). Austen's female bullies use their talent and "good breeding" to intimidate or shame others.

The romance (no explanation needed): "You pierce my soul. I am half-agony, half-hope. I have loved none but you." I love how the couples learn about each other through many spirited conversations and become slowly fascinated with each other until they realize they are in love and then have a conflict between formality and their growing passion...or they fall back in love with each other...or they are friends who slowly realize that they are more than friends...okay I'll stop talking nonsense I've been trying so hard to be semi-scholarly

Tags: @talkaustentome @austengivesmeserotonin @austengeek @princesssarisa @appleinducedsleep @colonelfitzwilliams

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Mycroft Holmes x Reader (Part Five)

Word Count- 3921

Morning had come around a lot quicker than you had hoped it would, the sunlight peeking through the curtains and birds singing outside making drifting back off an impossible task. Though you felt well rested, you simply just didn't want to move anywhere any time soon. Last night had begun with Mycroft shyly placing his hand on your hip as your back pressed close to his chest, but this morning had ended with Mycroft on his back and you with your head resting between his chest and shoulder, hand crossing over with fingers hooked over the pyjama's pocket. You'd never expected to be the type to wake up earlier than Mycroft Holmes, particularly not two days on the bounce, but you wouldn't complain. He looked so peaceful as he slept, the sunlight turning his auburn hair far more ginger, his freckles on his nose matching. You slowly reached one arm backwards, blindly feeling around for your phone on the bedside table and reading through your messages. You grinned seeing a text from Greg and had to fight the small laugh that threatened to escape you.

'Hey, just thought I'd check in on you both and see how you're getting on. I hate to feel pushy but we do really need to start that paperwork, today ideally. Figured I'd pop round later if it's alright- I need a sodding nap first though. Spent the majority of last night receiving phone calls about mysterious activity around St James', load of dodgy cars sending people away, loads of papers.. don't suppose you saw any of that down your way did you, makes life easier?"

Your fingers typed a response- 'Uhh..guilty as charged.. Myc was in jeans and a Who top, daren't be seen by the public..I'll get him to fix it when he's up x'- a grin playing on your face. Yeah okay you felt a little bad, but Greg had dealt with worse. After pressing send, you scrolled further through your notifications, spotting one from John. Nothing major, just checking in and inviting you both over for late lunch, mentioning briefly how it'll do Sherlock some good seeing his brother, even if he doesn't believe it himself- evidently also receiving a message from Greg as he also explained how it would make Lestrade have to do one less visit for paperwork if you popped over a little earlier. Before you could type an answer, you felt Mycroft shift beneath you, stretching out the arm that wasn't trapped beneath your body.

"Morning Sleeping Beauty." You teased, turning your head and placing a small kiss on the Holmes' chin. Mycroft blinked, rubbing his eyes and offering you a 'good morning' in response as he eyed up you typing on your phone.

"Needed to be whisked away to catch a criminal mastermind already?" He asked, sitting up a little as you moved to give him a little more space, his arm still loosely tucked behind your back, though his torso now free.

"Your deductions in the morning are lacking.. though close. Mastermind, but not criminal. John and Sherlock have invited us to late lunch, Greg's popping over to start the first part of paperwork handling, only the basic stuff this time round, so figured it would make it easier on him only having to go to one home before we left." Mycroft breathed deeply, fingers raising to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I think I'd have rathered the criminal." He spoke, already mentally planning the afternoon, the conversations he would likely have, the way Sherlock would behave. What if he still hadn't forgiven him? It was surprising enough that you had let him off so easily, but Sherlock was different. Sherlock was a Holmes, and someone of whom already had feudal tendencies with Mycroft, it was bound to end terribly. As though you had read his mind, you moved your hand to take his from his face as you noticed his fingertips whitening as he pinched harder.

"Hey, it'll be fine. He doesn't blame you, he's been far too silent for that to be the case. From the way John sounded, it actually seemed more like he was worried about you, though you know he'd never admit that." Mycroft hummed in response, not being able to find the right words to say before reaching over and grabbing his own mobile. "World ending yet?"

"Not yet. Though with any luck, quarrels could happen before lunch." He mused, one side of his mouth raising slightly in a playful smirk.

"Mycroft you can't wish for conflicts amongst empires to get out of a meal with your brother."

"Can't I?" He raised a brow.

"Anthea wouldn't allow it anyway. We're on strict instruction to not go into work for the next couple of weeks, nations be damned. Lunch sounds far more appealing too." You slid yourself out of bed and grabbed one of the bags from Anthea that you brought upstairs last night, taking a handful of clothing items and tucking them under your arm.

"But it isn't lunch, is it? It's LATE Lunch, settled approximately around 3pm, too late for lunch, too early for dinner. It's impractical by any means; you starve yourself at real lunch so you do not ruin your appetite, and then by dinner time you're hungry once again. And if you eat at both of those times as well as the late lunch, your feeding schedules become on par with a bloody Hobbit." You rolled your eyes and headed to the bathroom. "Though you may be more accustomed to such choices given the height similarity between yourself and Mr Brandybuck."

"Cheeky sod, not all of us have glorious Holmesian legs. I'm sure you'll survive a few hours.. Oh, you also owe Greg an apology." You chuckled, opening the message back up and tossing your phone in the general direction of Mycroft's lap before going to get dressed. After reading the message, you heard Mycroft let out a laugh from the other room, the rare kind that you knew made the sides of his eyes crease and his head tip back slightly in amusement; you were sorry you missed it.

Leaving the bathroom, you couldn't help but notice the silk pyjama clad man standing mindlessly in front of his open wardrobe, glancing over each individual item of clothing. Wandering behind him, you moved up on your tiptoes and peered over his shoulder at the rows of suits. You were still dressed relatively comfortably in a pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt, which you felt was appropriate for the later meal that would likely be somewhere like Angelo's- but you equally knew that Mycroft's idea of 'comfort' lay within his three pieces, pocket squares and oxfords.

"Don't panic, I'm not going to begrudge you of your precious suits today. You deserve it after actually going through with my wardrobe choice for you.. I didn't actually expect you to do it." You laughed, squeezing his shoulder fondly. "We slept in late again, there's barely any morning left." You commented, glancing over at the clock that read 10:53am. "Can I tempt you in Elevenses, Mr Baggins?" You grinned, your Lord of the Rings reference not being missed by Mycroft. He cast you a playful glare, fighting the urge to childishly poke his two fingers up at you. "What? Not judging my bedside manner this time?"

"It is useless to meet revenge with revenge; it solves nothing." He quoted Frodo without hesitation, bastard probably already planned that you'd quip back with something smart and already armed himself with Shire related comebacks. You, in contrast to Mycroft, did have the tendencies to become childish and did opt for the two fingered response, an adoring smile unnaturally paired.

Not many people got to know of Mycroft's little nerdy side, and you took pride in being one of the few that did, though you took more pride in him for being able to easily reel off the quotes. Though he had told you before that The Lord of the Rings trilogy had been his favourite of everything you made him watch, then when he read the books? You wouldn't hear from him for hours at a time while he binge read through them for the tenth time round, and of course you had noticed the varying editions of the three books on his bookshelf in his personal office, rather than lining the shelves in his small library room. If anything, it just made him more endearing.

Though it was nothing compared with his love of Doctor Who. Bless his heart, you had taken him to watch David Tennant's Richard II a few years ago for his birthday and he was insistent on waiting behind after the performance to catch David leaving and got him to sign his special edition box set of his DW seasons. He even had a photo taken with him, his expression being easily comparable to the likes of a child who just got a puppy for Christmas- and, much to his dismay, the photograph had had a prime place on your desk at NSY since the event.

You made your way downstairs, calling out something about making omelettes and leaving Mycroft alone to get ready. His fingers skimmed across the expensive fabrics, tugging out an olive green suit and red tie and pocket square to match. The smell of the food you were preparing began to fill his nose, making his stomach growl as he rushed to the bathroom to get dressed. After removing his pyjama top, Mycroft caught a glance of himself in the mirror, prodding at the pudge of his stomach that settled just over his pyjama bottoms, before sucking in flat and looking again. Maybe he should forego the omelette and just wait until later.. another growl.. okay maybe just a little, just so he didn't raise suspicion. He sighed, stomach relaxing back to its natural state before finishing his morning routine, tugging his trousers up a little higher than usual to tuck away the offending belly fat.

Mycroft had always suffered with his weight, he knew that. He also knew of his past, how he would skip meals, or spend hours upon hours on his treadmill, or the time he was under Doctor Chinnery for just shy of three years following his habits of completing his meals with his fingers down the back of his throat over the toilet just after his job promotions exceeded and he found himself in much higher rankings- public appearance being far more important than any personal preference. Though his eating disorder had improved, the years of therapy didn't miraculously improve his self-confidence. It was one of the many reasons he preferred inviting others for dinners, or at the very least having his days to himself when he knew he would be going out later in the evening. Spontaneous meals out like the one he would be attending in a few hours, or having somebody at home with him while he waited for said meals threw him off balance completely- his usual routine of fasting beforehand as to not appear rude or raise suspicions when he ate in public being disturbed significantly. You knew of his past, deduced it, actually, and had been nothing but supportive, trying your best to convince him for years that he was perfectly healthy and encouraging him to eat better, to actually consume meals. He was thankful, of course he was, but it didn't help his insecurities around you, no matter how welcoming you had been or however many compliments you gave him. His body was covered in stretch marks and areas of loose skin from his weight loss over the years, his chest hair, though scarce, was a coppery ginger and his body was covered in so many freckles he looked like an explosion at a dot to dot factory. It led him to remember the other reason why he had never previously attempted to pursue a relationship with you; if he was disgusted and horrified at the appearance of his nude body then what on earth would you think when that time eventually came around? He daren't even try to imagine your face. You'd worked with Sherlock long enough to have seen him wander around naked and Mycroft had to admit that his brother at least had a body worth parading about in the nude, then there was Gregory who, despite not having an exactly chiseled body, still had the rugged good looks and toned chest- a physique that clearly represented the physical aspects of his occupation- there was no doubt you'd compare him to them and he would come up short every time.

"Myc? You gonna be long? Yours is going to be freezing!" Your voice had knocked him out of his thoughts and he quickly shrugged on the rest of his clothes, straightening his tie in the mirror and plastering on a small smile as he headed downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Apologies.. the cufflinks failed in succession to cooperate at first." You had eyed him suspiciously, knowing that Mycroft had worn enough suits in his lifetime that he could probably find a way to put one on to completion in 5 minutes in the dark with oven mitts on.

"I know I've been so against the suits, but I have to admit that you look incredible.. I think that one's my new favourite." You commented casually, placing a quick kiss to his temple as he sat at the table. "That colour is lovely." He quirked a brow.

"New favourite? You've had old ones?"

"Obviously." Imitating Sherlock. "Charcoal pinstripe with that light blue shirt- brings your eyes out wonderfully... and your bum." You winked, positively enjoying the pink that dusted the man's cheeks, and the way he would open his mouth to speak and then close it before any words came out. In his defence, he was really not used to receiving such compliments. And in your defence, you weren't particularly used to giving them, not like that anyway. You'd blame Greg, he was a terrible influence and an incredible flirt- using his charm to at the very least try and make you laugh when you had shitty days.

You lay his plate in front of him, a coffee to its side, before beginning to tuck into your own meal. You had learned early on that if you didn't wait until Mycroft was able to eat then he likely wouldn't eat at all. While drinking his coffee fairly happily, you hadn't missed that the vast majority of Mycroft's breakfast was still on the plate, cut in smaller pieces and rearranged to appear as though he had eaten more than he truly had. Frowning, you didn't press- knowing better than to point out his behaviour and just being thankful he had eaten anything at all (about a third of the omelette and half a slice of toast if your judgements were correct) but had elected to keep an eye on him. You finished your own food in silence before crossing the cutlery over on your plate and beginning to speak.

"I figured if we left now we could have a bit of time for you to go through the first set of paperwork, Greg should be getting there in the next 10 minutes or so, and then by the time we finish and have a cup of tea it'll be time to go out." You suggested, taking Mycroft's plate to clear away after he had sent a nod to show he was finished. He made a small groan at the need to go at all, but soon acquiesced, sent a text for a car and stood to go to the front door. Tugging on a hoodie, you opened the door and took a step back, the wind shooting in your face and making you scowl. Mycroft made an amused sound and offered you the scarf of his that you had worn last night. Rather than taking the garment, you stood and waited for him to wrap it the same expert way that he had the night before. "I also text Greg to run by my flat and grab my coat so I'll be able to stop stealing your expensive scarves soon.. though this one feels so lovely I may text him again to leave it on the tube." You laughed, stepping back outside once again and walking with Mycroft to the end of the road where a car was waiting. Mycroft had wanted to respond, to make a comment about how he didn't mind letting you wear his things, how he actually quite liked it. But he stayed silent, offering a small smile instead and a soft hand at the small of your back. Mycroft opened the door for you, climbing in after and settling against the plush seats of the lavish car.

As the car began to move you tensed a little, a thought popping into your head.

"Myc.. does Sherlock know yet? About us? I might have hinted at it a little when I spoke to Lestrade earlier but I didn't press.. I just.. I didn't know if you were telling people." You asked awkwardly. Christ it made it sound like you were in some forbidden relationship. Mycroft's jaw clenched a little.

"I wasn't aware it was secret knowledge, if that's what you are asking Y/N. In response to your question, no. I haven't spoken to Sherlock at all since.." He trailed. "And I am not the sort of man to walk into a room and actively announce that kind of thing. But you should know that he will likely deduce it the moment we walk through the door being as you are wearing my clothing, your hair smells like my shampoo and your skin still has traces of the scent of my soap. So if you didn't want anybody to know, then I strongly suggest we rearrange our plans for this afternoon." Who was he kidding? Of course you didn't want people to know that you were actually together now- you would look ridiculous being such a pretty young woman with a man like Mycroft in tow. You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off. "If you are going to say you could argue the soaps then it would simply be futile, he knows I have your regular brand at your disposal; he'd know you used mine in the form of... sentiment." The last word felt wrong on his tongue now, knowing you had hoped to keep your.. relationship.. behind closed doors. Mycroft Holmes was a very private man, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want knowledge of your relationship to be at least semi-public, having felt a little giddy when you'd chosen to cross that line with him.

"What? No, I wasn't going to talk about the sodding shampoo." You grinned, reaching a hand over to place on his knee. "Jesus Myc, I asked because I didn't know if YOU were comfortable with people knowing. I'm pretty sure everyone inside that flat knew I fancied you the last few years, I'd proudly walk in and show that my pining eventually paid off. I just know you have appearances to keep up and I didn't want to ruin that, or embarrass you in front of Sherlock." For what seemed like the millionth time in the last few days, your words surprised Mycroft. He felt his jaw loosen and he took a breath, moving only to briefly place his hand over yours for a small squeeze and moving back again. You didn't expect him to say much, he was Mycroft Holmes, not Romeo Montague, but the small smile you sent back his way let him know that you understood his thoughts. The drive to Baker Street was only 10 or so minutes from Mycroft's home so you soon arrived in no time at all, the slick black car smoothly pulling up outside number 221.

"I can only hope my dear brother deduces our relationship correctly and doesn't make a vast attempt to embarrass me in front of his peers.. again." Mycroft knocked on the door, his words casting you back to a Christmas you had all shared a couple years ago.

It was a small gathering, consisting of the pair of you, the Baker Street boys, Greg and Mrs Hudson, and a few weeks beforehand, after multiple arguments of whether or not presents should be shared, Mrs Hudson had come up with the wonderful (terrible) idea of secret Santa which, incase you wasn't aware, isn't a fun game when played with two Holmes' that knew everybody's present and Secret Santa before the packages were opened. You had pulled Mrs Hudson and couldn't have been more thrilled, neither could she when she opened her new tea set- a simple floral design decorated its sides, but she was thankful no matter the pattern, the last teapot having been found at the hands of Sherlock housing human eyes. Conveniently enough, Mycroft had pulled your name and elected to subtly buy you a personalised travel mug for work. After you had opened it, Sherlock had scoffed, muttering something along the lines of "Mycroft isn't that shit at buying presents. He bought you a necklace at first but felt too embarrassed to give it to you in such a public setting and panic bought that cup." Continuing on about how Mycroft had put a lot of thought into your original gift and how it was unusual and how it "obviously" meant he favoured you and was attracted to you. Mycroft had left shortly after that, not making eye contact with any of the silent people in the room and climbed into the back of his car, but you had followed suit and clambered in after him- easing the tension by ignoring Sherlock's allegations and giving him the envelope that you had in your pocket. You had told him you had bought him something special anyway, even though he wasn't who you were supposed to buy for, because you cared for and appreciated him- he had opened the envelope slowly and his eyes widened, that rare smile appearing on his face when he was presented with the Richard II tickets. After your exchange Mycroft had given you the necklace anyway, spouting derogatives about his brother's deductions as he did so. It was a small silver chain necklace with a sparkling silver pendant that, upon closer inspection, you had noticed was a police badge.

You smiled fondly at the memory and instinctively placed your hand above your sternum, feeling the small piece of metal beneath your clothing that you hadn't taken off in two years. You turned to face the man beside you a little more, placing a hand on his shoulder and reaching up on your tiptoes to place a lingering kiss on his lips, moving back only when you heard the latch unlock in front of you, and noticing the ever so slight pink tinge to Mycroft's bottom lip from the lip balm you had put on earlier. "That should make it easier to get it right." You commented, fighting the small grin from your face as you noticed Mycroft standing in the same way, lips parted slightly from where your own had been moments ago, a matching pink dusting his cheekbones. The door opened revealing a smug looking Sherlock.

"Be careful Mycroft, you'll catch flies like that if you aren't cautious enough."

[bubblyhoney]

my darling gogy

warnings: LaNgUaGe bc i’m a 17 year old writing for a 24 year old i’m bound to curse, gogy sass

tags: georgenotfound x gn!reader

words: i’m not counting words on a headcanon bc i’m writing this on mobile lolz

A/N: i love writing mc bf headcanons... it's gogy's time to shine. also i made him actually leave his house. sue me for wanting him to see the sunlight every once and a while

-

it’s time we talk about goereg

first of all, i don’t think he’s a huge fan of PDA

makes him feel like he’s bragging somehow

and generally isn’t a very physically smothering person

however,,

he is a huge “let’s sit together and do nothing” fan

whenever he has non-collaborative work to do he’ll scoot an extra chair over and plop your legs into his lap and just sit with you

if you have a hobby (something like doodling or painting or crocheting or anything tactile) he needs to see every inch of progress you make

he’s sincerely attentive when it comes to you talking about your hobby

“it’s actually necessary that you tell me. i require this knowledge. lay it on me.”

what he dubs “frozen fridays” are a tradition

you two will go out to the closest ice cream shop, buy two huge waffle cones, and sit on the curb and people-watch for at least 45 minutes. the ice cream is melted by then but hey, worth it

remember how he’s not super clingy?

not when it comes to sleeping

any and all of his limbs are wrapped around yours

“you’re suffocating me.” “sorry that i love you i guess”

you tease and tease but it’s actually really nice to be held

bit sweaty in the summer, sure, but they make modern air conditioning for a reason

another thing:

he keeps his house abnormally cold

like all the time

“it’s optimum hoodie atmosphere Y/N!” “my toes are going to fall off you prick”

thank god for the borderline disturbing amount of blankets he’s got or else your teeth would be chattering constantly

one thing he definitely is adamant about is going on walks

england is a bit rainy and cloudy a lot of the year but during late spring and summer it’s extremely nice outside in the afternoons

you two take trips down to the beach and see who can skip rocks the furthest

he’s an expert, of course, but he’ll let you win every once and a while

he’s good about that

one of his favorite looks on your face is your expression when he’s coming out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower

you wiggle your eyebrows and stare him down, saying “hubba hubba” until he throws something at you

not your fault messy hair looks good on him! not your fault shaggy and wet hair is pretty!

something else he enjoys on the off-days are baking competitions with you

you both will find a recipe on pinterest with less than 1,000 hits and try to make it

your favorite part is going to the shops to buy ingredients, while his (secret) favorite part is cleaning up. hey, it’s therapeutic to want to do it instead of having to do it

brownies with a salted caramel layer and cream cheese filling were a fail bc making caramel is too hard

peanut butter cookie cups a la Chef Georgie were fantastic though

almost as sweet as him ;)

-

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!

[bluefuckboy]

vampire!Dabi x m!reader

A/N: not enough Dabi x m!reader out there so here’s a contribution with a twist. Reader works at a bloodmobile donation center and receives a late night visitor...

WARNINGS: blood (obviously), non con elements, body horror, very brief references to homophobic slang, implied virgin reader, implied death,

Word Count: 4,276

“Thanks again man!”

“Yeah no problem.”

Except it was a problem. Or rather more of an annoyance, even if you were on the end shift anyway. Protocol was two people for transport back to the hospital, but your coworker was very adamant that if he didn’t get to his girlfriend’s right at 9pm then they were over. You’d neglected to ask how he “forgot.”

You were more than capable of managing the bloodmobile by yourself. It was just a little lonely since the drive back to the hospital was close to an hour. Not to mention the time it took to double check donation storage before you could even head back.

You were midway through the A- donations when you heard a knock at the door. It had been at least twenty minutes since your coworker left. It was past 9pm now and everyone at the donation event had left around seven, so you were slightly wary to go to the door.

Upon peering through the window on the door you saw nothing initially. Just the parking lot illuminated dimly. There were shadows from the trees that made strange shapes on some of the parking spaces. It made you slightly anxious, so you turned to go back to the donations when another rap sounded on the door.

This time there was a man in front of the door. He was tall and lanky, his messy black hair was tousled by the slight breeze. A cigarette was perched between long, pale fingers with black nails and what looked like tattoos that came up to the wrist. His other hand was tucked into the pocket of a trench coat, black of course, which almost reached the heavy duty combat boots he was scuffing impatiently on the pavement.

He tapped on the glass of the door with a knuckle, but didn’t look up, opting to take another drag of the cigarette while casting a bored look in the direction of a streetlight.

Your hand hovered over the door handle. You knew opening the door was probably a terrible idea, but for some reason this guy had piqued your interest. You were curious to find out what the heck he was doing in front of a mobile blood donation center at this hour of the night looking like the long lost member of My Chemical Romance.

You slowly unlocked the door to the bus and opened it a crack. The man turned around and looked up at you. His face was pale, and eerie. There were multiple piercings studded across his cheeks, and up to his ears. The lower half of his jaw was heavily tattooed, the ink winding down to his neck and disappearing below the collar of his shirt.

You cleared your throat.

“Can I help you?”

“I dunno, can you?”

The question was mocking and he ended it with a toothless smile. His tone irked you and you informed him that you were done taking donations.

His brow lowered and he mused, “Donations? I thought this was a late night food truck. I even brought my crazy straw.”

He produced an impossibly twisted black straw from the trenchcoat, holding it up for you to see. You stared at it as you tried to come up with a response.

“Sir, this is a mobile blood donation center, not a food truck.”

The man tutted his tongue and peered past you slightly. You moved to block his view of the inside of the bus. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms, taking another long drag of the cigarette and blowing the smoke a little too close to your face for it to be a mistake.

When he spoke it was almost to himself, mumbling, “I don’t know why I even bother to make conversation.” He chuckled. “And what a waste of a clever joke.”

He laughed again and then sighed, letting the cigarette dangle loosely between his fingers. You were thoroughly confused now. Your confusion turned to disgust and slight horror as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. Instead of taking another puff, he drove the still lit butt into the center of his tongue, putting it out without even batting an eye.

You gaped at him, speechlessly watching as he tossed the butt aside. He was unfazed, despite the fact that he had surely just severely burned his tongue. He was merely stretching now, as though he were getting ready for a workout.

After coming back up from a deep toe touch he quipped, “Nothing like a nice palette cleanser, hmm?”

You blinked at him, and then suddenly he was making his way up the steps casually. You put out an arm.

“Excuse me, sir, I can’t let you in.”

The statement made him laugh.

“Letting me in. How 18th Century. You’re cute.”

He made to come into the bus. You tried to stop him, but suddenly found yourself unable to move. It was like the muscles in you body were cramping all at once.

The man easily slipped past you and there was a strange sense of foreboding building as you tried to move again. Pain shot through your legs and you grit your teeth. You were able to move your eyes and found yourself staring into the face of the man as he stood in front of you.

Up close you could see the dark circles under his eyes, heavy bags that accentuated his gaunt features. His eyes were unsettling, cerulean and dangerous. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. As you stared at them they seemed to flicker between a darker color momentarily, but it could have been a trick of the terrible lighting within the bus.

You watched as the man shut the door behind him and strolled slowly through the bus. He had his hands clasped behind his back, casually peering at the equipment as though he were looking through a library.

Upon finding the open intake box you had been sifting through, his eyebrows went up and a smile crept across his face. He knelt down in front of it and picked up an A- donation packet. He tucked it under his arm and then shuffled through the other packets as though he were looking through a collection of vinyl records.

“Any AB-?”

The question was directed at you and you were suddenly able to move your tongue again, which had felt like it was stuck to the roof of your mouth.

You tried to keep my voice steady as you said, “Sir I need you to put that down and please leave.”

He looked over at you with an amused expression, then turned back to the donations.

“I’ll take that as a no then. At least you’ve got a couple O-‘s. Always a safe bet, if a little bland.”

He sighed and then did something which would have made your jaw drop if you could have. He stabbed the crazy straw into the bag and then took a long sip of the blood. He swallowed, smacking his lips.

“Decent enough I suppose.”

He took another sip and emptied the bag, tossing it aside before moving on to the one he had tucked under his arm. All you could do was stand motionless and watch as he picked out a few more bags and sat casually on one of the donation chairs.

He propped his boots up on the chair and leaned back, sipping form a bag of B+ plus. You could feel sweat dripping down your back. Your muscles were painfully tense and you could feel fatigue setting in, but you couldn’t relax.

You tried in vain again to move and the man’s unusual eyes flicked up to you. He wiped a bit of blood clinging to his lip and sucked his thumb into his mouth. It was overtly obscene and clearly done to annoy you as he knew what he was doing was not only illegal but downright disgusting.

You could feel your legs starting to shake and were worried they might go out and send you flat on your face. Instead, you found yourself suddenly released from whatever strange force had been holding you hostage.

It was so sudden you just fell to the ground in a heap. The man laughed.

“How graceful.”

Despite the feeling of utter exhaustion that was washing over you, you were somehow able to get up and spin around to face the man. You were a bit larger than him and you needed to get him restrained before making a call to the authorities and figuring out what inventory he had decided to drink.

You moved to grab a strap from the chair he was in, quickly buckling it over the wrist that was by his side. His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t make a move to try and fight as you put the straps at the bottom of the chair over his feet so he was bound by all but the hand that held the bag he was still sipping from.

He swallowed and said, “Do I need to give you may safeword?”

Before you could snap back at him for the sexual comment, he lifted the bound arm up. The restraint broke like a piece of dental floss, snapping in half. The restraints on his feet were broken just as easily and you backed away slightly as he swung his legs over the chair and stood up.

He inspected his wrist, even though there were clearly no marks on the tattooed skin. The bag he had was tossed aside and he looked at you.

“I don’t usually prefer to play with my food, but I suppose if you want to have a little fun we could. I prefer fresh anyway.”

Before you had time to react he was grabbing you by your lab coat, swinging you onto the chair as though you weighed nothing. He practically threw you onto it and you felt you head hit the wall of the bus behind it.

“Whoops,” the man said, cracking a smile.

Your own blood went cold as he parted his lips for this smile. His canines were abnormally long, pressing into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. As you looked into his eyes, you saw they had a reddish tint to them, almost staining the blue, glinting as he leaned closer to you.

Your mind went to the tales of blood sucking monsters you’d heard growing up. But those were just stories and fairytales. This had to be some psychopath or sexual deviant who got off on a kink that had to do with bodily fluids.

The man was inches from you face and you found yourself unable to move again. You were stuck sitting in the chair sideways, your legs dangling over the edge. Your heart was racing, making blood pound in your ears.

You felt a chill run down your spine as the man leaned forward. His breath against your skin as he spoke was almost unnaturally hot.

“Sounds like a marching band, doesn’t it?”

Somehow you knew he was referring to the pounding of your blood in your ears. You felt something wet on your neck and the marching band was a cacophony of sound. His tongue was right at your pulse point.

His voice was almost a whisper.

“I’m sure you say this daily, so hopefully you won’t be too surprised. This may sting a little.”

Your eyes went wide as he suddenly sunk his teeth into the column of your neck. You could feel the two points of his canines drive deep, puncturing your skin easily. Your body spasmed as he pulled the fangs out. Blood oozed from the wound, but it was lapped up before it could drip over your collarbone.

The man went back to the gouges and this time you felt yourself jerk violently as he began sucking. A hand was suddenly on your upper thigh, then another on the opposite side of your neck, holding you there. It felt like receiving the world’s most painful hickey.

You shuddered and the hand on your thigh tightened. The man had a strong grip, and was putting just enough pressure to give a warning. Not that you could move if you wanted to. You weren’t in control of my body anymore.

You were hyper aware of each area of your body he was touching. The skin of his hand against your neck was cold, but his mouth on the other side was warm and damp. You could feel his tongue press into the holes. The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before.

For some reason it wasn’t pain you were feeling. There was a strange warmth spreading over the back of your neck and down your shoulders. The man pulled away from your neck for a moment. You could hear him swallow as you felt saliva and blood begin to drip onto your shirt, staining the collar of your lab coat.

He put his mouth on you again, but this time there was no sucking. Just the feeling of his tongue laving over the broken skin. It made your stomach drop and your mind began to feel foggy.

You didn’t know how much blood you’d lost. You could still hear the pounding heartbeat in your ears, but your body felt off. You must have involuntarily jerked again because the hand on your thigh slid upward, almost pressing into the dip of your pelvis.

The man must have been trying to keep you from jerking. But the feel of his thumb at the jut of your hip combined with the pressure of his long fingers around your side was making you feel strange in a different way now.

His lips against your skin was now sending heat to other areas of your body. You felt panic begin to rise in your chest. All the sensations were too much for you to handle and the lack of control over your body led to a response you hadn’t anticipated.

The man pulled back and you were mortified as he glanced down at the obvious bulge in your jeans. He raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose that explains the poor flow.”

He sighed and you could feel cold air rush into the space between him and you as he backed away. There was red at the edges of his mouth. He did a circular swipe with his tongue to lick it away and you felt your pants get even tighter.

Your cheeks were burning and you wanted to cover yourself, but you were still unable to move. The man had put a finger on the side of his face, tapping it in thought. You inhaled sharply as he suddenly swiped his thumb over the twin punctures on your neck, gathering a thick glob of blood.

He put the digit in his mouth and sucked on it in thought briefly before saying, “You humans never change.”

You were able to move your eyebrows down, relaying a confused expression to which he replied, “You’re all driven by libido. Just the slightest stimulation arouses you. It’s rather annoying actually.”

He tutted his tongue and your eyes widened as his hands were suddenly at your belt, unbuckling it deftly. He pulled you toward him, yanking off your pants. You felt your breath quicken even more. You could see your cock tenting your boxers. You wanted to disappear.

However the man had other plans. You nearly jerked off the table as he put the tip of his pointer finger on the head of your cock. He rubbed at the fabric of your boxers. You could feel they were damp.

The finger was moved to the waistband of your boxers. The man tugged them off, not being gentle as he dragged them over your flushed cock. You inhaled sharply and desperately wished you could do something, anything, to stop him as he took you in his palm.

He gripped you, musing, “I’ll never understand the hype over drinking from you virgins.”

The blush on your cheeks spread down your neck and chest and the man laughed.

“I suppose there is the thrill of seeing you come undone at the slightest touch.”

He moved his hand up slowly and thumbed over the head of your cock, which was practically dripping now. You shuddered and let out a pathetic noise as he dug the nail of his thumb into your slit.

“You’re particularity responsive,” the man said, rubbing in a slight circular motion, “Do you perhaps, hmm, what do they call it these days? Bat for the other team?”

The man gave you a ornery smile. You couldn’t say anything. Your tongue was stuck pressed up against your bottom teeth. Even if you could speak it was a subject you didn’t want to talk about, especially with some random psychopath.

However said psychopath was now bending down, pushing your legs further apart, saying, “If you swing that way then perhaps you haven’t found yourself a catcher.” His hooded eyes glanced up at you briefly before he continued in a lower voice, “Or maybe it’s a pitcher you’re looking for, hmm?”

Your whole body spasmed violently as he brushed the pad of his thumb over your asshole. His slang was outdated and embarrassing, but it was obvious he was experienced. The thought excited you more for some reason.

The man grinned and suddenly you were able to move. You gasped loudly as your mouth dropped open. The spit that you hadn’t bee able to swallow dribbled down your chin and you grabbed the edge of the chair to keep myself from tipping over.

You glanced down at the man and was met with a sultry gaze, combined with a vulpine smile. You tried to bring a hand up to push him off, but you had no strength. It was taking nearly all of your energy to try and lean forward and close your legs to try and cover yourself.

He brought the hand not on your cock up to your torso, pushing your shirt up. His fingertips were like ice against your heated skin and you couldn’t resist him as he lightly pushed you so you were lying on your back, legs parted, completely exposed.

You gasped as you felt the man take your cock in his mouth. There was no warning, no tongue teasing beforehand, just the tightening of his throat around you as he took all of your cock in.

Your nails dug into the cheap leather of the donation chair as he pulled off, switching to sucking on the head of your cock while chilled fingers made their way down to cup your balls. You shuddered and then cried out as you felt a finger ghost over your entrance.

The man’s wet maw was on you again, saliva dripping down your shaft as he teased you. You whined slightly as he leaned back after sucking half of you for a brief moment. He was looking at you with lewd curiosity.

You were surprised as he leaned forward so your faces were inches apart. His eyes were definitely tinged red now and his features seemed sharper, the angles more prominent. You gaped at him and then cried out in pain as he suddenly bit you again.

It was a different spot, closer to the junction of your collarbone and neck. The bite was harder, but for some reason the pain was arousing now. He pulled back and you didn’t have time to react as you felt his mouth on yours.

His lips were cold, but everything else was hot. You could taste the copper tang of your own blood in your mouth as he snaked his tongue sinfully past your lips. His fangs tested your bottom lip for a moment before he started kissing you so forcefully it felt like he was trying to devour you.

When you finally parted you were gasping for air. Blood and spit were dribbling down your chin and you could see saliva dripping from the man’s fangs as he gave you a feral smile. Then his hand was cupping your chin, his thumb dragging your bottom lip down.

His voice was husky as he said, “It seems you’re enjoying yourself.” He yanked your face toward him. “Unfortunately I can’t finish eating until we can take care of this it seems.”

As he spoke he pumped your cock a few times, making you squirm under him. He smiled and then you were gagging as he stuck two fingers into your mouth.

“I’ll let you do the sucking for a while,” the man said.

His expression made you nervous so you obediently began sucking, despite the humiliation you felt each time you heard the squelch of spit. When he was satisfied with the amount of your spit he’d gathered on his fingers, he pulled them out abruptly.

He moved his hand below your waist and you jumped as a slicked finger nudged at your hole. The man’s mouth was back on the new bite and it felt like your body was going numb. You could feel him suck at your neck as he pressed a finger into you.

You’d never tried any anal play before, so the feeling of someone pushing their finger into your asshole was so foreign you instinctively jerked away. The finger slid out and the sensation made you shudder.

You shut your eyes and hoped that you might have lost enough blood to pass out. But you could feel every sensation as the man’s finger entered you again. He was relentless in his sucking and now you were beginning to feel dizzy.

Your mind was hazy and when you came back to yourself the man had worked two fingers into you. He curled them upward and you felt like you’d been struck by electricity. It was pleasurable and you could feel more precum drip from your cock as he moved his fingers inside of you.

The man’s other hand was suddenly on your cock, putting pressure in just the right area. He twisted his fingers as he pumped you slowly. It was too much and you cummed so hard you saw white.

Your ears were buzzing and the room was spinning. It felt like you were having an out of body experience, especially as you felt the man’s wet tongue tracing down your abdomen. You couldn’t lift your head to look, but you could feel as he swirled his tongue against your skin.

The wet sensation was gone and you heard him say, “I wonder what the police will come up with as an explanation? After all accidents do happen, but certainly they’ll have never seen a scene like this.”

You felt his nails sink into your thighs. They were abnormally sharp and you cried out. The man retracted his right hand and his face came into view, going in and out of focus as you tried to stay conscious. He caressed your cheek briefly and then the nails which were more like claws, were digging into your scalp.

The man forced your head back and kissed you again. This time the fangs that nipped at your bottom lip drew blood. It rushed into your mouth when he pulled away. There was red dripping down his chin and his fangs glinted as he licked them.

He placed an almost chaste kiss to your bloody lips. When he spoke his voice was almost a hiss, hot air just ghosting over your mouth.

“Such a shame really. A young man with his whole life ahead of him. Oh well. At least we were able to have some fun though, hmm?”

He pulled back enough for your eyes to focus on his face. His eyes were clearly red now, just like the blood that was smeared over his face. The sight was horrific and you felt sick.

Red tinged saliva dripped from his fangs as he opened his mouth to say, “My condolences.”

At those words you closed my eyes and braced yourself. Of course he was going to finish you off. There was no way he’d let you live. If he truly was a vampire like the legends of old, you knew far too much now. Plus you were nothing more than another meal.

You felt his nails rake down your thighs and then he bit into your inner leg. You could hear a scream echo in your foggy mind and you assumed it must have been your own. The man clenched his jaw with so much force, a terrible, wet crunch rang in the air.

He’d gone for your femoral artery. You only knew of it because you had studied it, browsed the pages and diagrams, reading how long it took to die after it had been severed. Was it a minute? Less?

You could feel your heartbeat becoming irregular. Blood, your blood, was seeping into the material of your jeans and your vision was beginning to go dark. What little feeling you still had in your body sent shooting pain through your leg and pelvis. The horrifying crunch must have been one of your bones.

Your vision blurred and for some reason your mind recalled the man’s question earlier regarding the blood types you’d gotten donations of for that day. AB- was what he’d asked for. It so happened that you were AB-, a fact you’re sure he found out as soon as he sunk his teeth into you. He’d gotten what he was looking for after all.

As the world faded away completely, you wondered if it was a cruel irony or almost poetic.

[hangmanbrainrot]

I posted 939 times in 2022

That's 939 more posts than 2021!

71 posts created (8%)

868 posts reblogged (92%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@rooster-84

@babyrooster

@bradshawsbitch

@forsty

@top-hhun

I tagged 619 of my posts in 2022

Only 34% of my posts had no tags

#glen powell - 102 posts

#jake seresin x reader - 85 posts

#miles teller - 51 posts

#fic rec - 46 posts

#jake seresin - 40 posts

#answered - 37 posts

#bradley bradshaw x reader - 33 posts

#comment reblog - 31 posts

#shut up sierra - 31 posts

#bradley bradshaw - 29 posts

Longest Tag: 127 characters

#i'm trying to model a character's father after him but i wasn't old enough at the time to remember the early days of his career

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Hi! I wanted to request for a hangman fic based on that Tiktok where the girl texts her bf asking where he is because somebody just sent her pics of him getting into some girl’s car and after a little banter, he asks for the pic and it’s a picture of a cockroach getting into a toy car 🤣

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CiYL43Dv719/?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

This was fun! I got none of the other writing done tonight that I wanted to! But I did this and it made me laugh so that's cool!

harmless fun

jake seresin x reader; 395 words; no warnings; written on mobile so be kind to me, pls. ❤

Truth be told, you knew you were needlessly testing the bounds of your boyfriend's love, all for a tiktok. But it would be fun... right?

I can't believe you would do this to me, Jake.

Babe I told you I'd be home when the game is over. Not ditching you

Not that. You know what you did.

What did I do???

You set your phone down, mostly because the fit of giggles you'd devolved into made it harder and harder to hold it and sit upright. You wondered for a moment how long you'd be able to sustain the joke, but thought it best to enjoy the moment. Jake Seresin was many things, but foremost he was actually a great and loyal partner — which only made this whole ordeal funnier. He was an attractive man, and he knew it, so that sometimes was... misread by strangers. Hell, it had taken 3 progressively more dramatic attempts for him to get your attention — and keep it long enough to ask you out on a date. And now look at you: all starry-eyed and wearing the man's old t-shirt while you did dishes in what was technically his house. You'd just moved in a good awhile ago.

And then you realized, in your efforts to be a good housemate and not leave your dirty dishes in the sink for your partner to come home to, you'd totally left him hanging in the middle of a joke that wouldn't seem like a joke if you forgot the punchline.

Hello??

Babe?

Missed call Jake

Can you at least tell me what I did

Missed FaceTime call Jake

Please

Fine!

He'd left you the perfect opening to claim you were waiting it out, but he'd replied in seconds anyway. Just a simple ok. You knew he was growing anxious, and you'd need to wrap this up soon. Poor guy. You could practically see his knee bouncing.

One of my friends just sent me a picture of you getting into a car with another girl!

???

I'm literally sitting here watching the game with Javy. Last I checked, he's not a girl

And then: Send me the picture. Let me see. Please

You were giggling again by the time you hit send on the picture you'd stolen from a quick Google search. Seconds later, your boyfriend replied:

I'm on my way home.

And you just knew he was already planning his revenge.

215 notes - Posted December 1, 2022

#4

idle time

a/n: this was supposed to be short, but here we are. thank you @luminousnotmatter​ for the sweet request!! <;3 warnings: 18+ for blink and you’ll miss it innuendo, anxiety mention, angst, a bit of fluff, a bit of slice of life / domesticity  word count: 965 summary: Bradley has a problem with down time, and you’re determined to help him relax. pairing: bradley bradshaw x f!reader

A rare rainstorm had rolled through Southern California, and the smell of it had settled into the air around the small home you shared with Bradley. You inhaled contentedly in front of the open window in your kitchen, and allowed a smile to ease onto your features. This ‘between deployment’ time was your favorite. The sight of your softly snoring husband curled up beside you, always touching you in some way even while he slept, never failed to soften your heart. It had taken a few weeks at home for his nightmares to lessen, but you knew as soon as he had healed his heart against what he'd put it through, it would be time to reopen those old wounds once more. Maybe less so now, as a TOPGUN instructor, but you weren't convinced he wouldn't find reason to get back in the air on a more regular basis. Still, there was no one else you’d rather help put back together, if it came down to it.

Today, though, today was quiet. After he’d coaxed you out of bed early with a stack of his famous blueberry pancakes, your husband had busied himself with running errands. You knew that he hated idle time and what it did to him, so you let him run himself almost ragged on his days at home, as much as he let you waste away on yours. No matter what Bradley got up to on any given day, he always found time to unwind with you. What was better than that?

You’d finally got the kitchen back into its usual clean state after this morning’s breakfast resulted in more than pancakes being on offer. The rhythmic hum of the dishwasher caused a slight smile to ease onto your features as you wandered toward where your Switch was docked in your living room, then cradling your favorite silly hobby in your palms as you headed outside to where your porch swing sat currently unused. Bradley had installed it not long after you moved in for your ‘future kids.’ The mention made you blush. But right now, it was all yours.

Eyes barely open, you were in the middle of contemplating a nap when you heard the tell-tale sound of Bradley closing the door to his Bronco. You weren’t sure how long you’d been curled up there on the porch swing; the allure of Disney Dreamlight Valley was never one you could resist. You called out a ‘back here!’ and realized you were shouting — the rain had gotten heavier. Idly, you wondered if that was what had your husband returning home. Though, when he rounded the corner of your home and came into view, you could instantly see the scowl of a bad mood planted firmly on his face. You sat up, placing your Switch on the small side table at your left. He didn’t say anything, just wordlessly, sullenly, planted himself beside you. You inhaled a breath to ask what was up, but he shook his head. A beat passed. Then another, and then another. It took another full moment before you raised your hands, palms smoothing over his back, the planes of hard muscle tense beneath his wet t-shirt. You applied a bit more pressure as you continued, and felt his posture lose its rigidity, slowly but surely. Then, you slid your arms around his shoulders, and rested your cheek against his shoulder blade.

Still, you didn’t pry. 

Instead, you gently pulled your husband to lay back with you, then coaxed him into laying his head against your chest. The man was 6’2,” and completely enamored with being held, cradled by you, just like this. As your fingers carded through his curls, you began to hum a faint melody. You were halfway through the song when he began to speak.

“The pantry and the fridge are fully stocked.”

“Okay,” you said slowly.

“And there’s nothing wrong with the Bronco.”

“That’s great, babe.”

“I worked out this morning.”

“Yes, I saw you leave.” 

“And I still have so much…”

“Time?” you finally dared to insert an opinion of your own. Never wanting to overstep, but rather provide space for your partner to open up as he wanted — like a flower, opening and closing of its own accord. You only ever wanted to tend to him, never smother.

But then, he affirmed your suspicion with a soft, huffed: “Yes.”

“Bradley,” you said quietly, “you are allowed to relax, you do know that, right?”

“No, I know—”

“See, I don’t think you do.” He grunted in protest, though he quieted as your fingers massaged into his scalp once more. “I know you hate idle time, and the anxiety that settles into you when you feel like you have nothing to do, but I promise you it’s okay.” 

“You’re safe, baby,” you continued, leaning down to press kisses into the soft bed of curls at the top of his head. His arms came up and around you as much as they could on your small porch swing, then tightened. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He wasn’t parroting the words back. Even without looking at your husband, you could tell he was sincere; he meant it with every solid, square inch of him. This beautiful anxiety-ridden man loved you with all he had. And you loved him all the same. 

One of your hands left its post in his hair and drifted toward his back, where your palm once again moved in slow circles. He didn’t say anything more, and neither did you. Even as the sky began to darken and the rain teetered off to a sprinkle. 

Bradley exhaled out a little sigh, and you thought he was preparing to speak again, but instead, you were comforted by the sound of his soft snores. 

277 notes - Posted November 18, 2022

#3

me: aw he's just a sweet lil guy the guy in question:

287 notes - Posted December 2, 2022

#2

more than this

a/n: HI. Me again! After talking with @rosiahills22, I simply HAD to give this idea a whirl. I hope y’all enjoy! Reader’s callsign is Van Gogh (to be explained) and I don’t use Y/N. :) special thanks to @bradshawsbitch​ for the encouragement. :’)

warnings: so much mutual pining, dash of angst toward the end. Generally, all my posts are 18+ because I don’t want minors interacting with my page! Probably naval inaccuracies.

word count: 3975

summary: You and Jake have been best friends for years now… Why mess with a good thing?

pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader, Jake Seresin x Aviator!Reader — callsign: Van Gogh

See the full post

1,236 notes - Posted November 24, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

worth it 

a/n: yet again this was supposed to be short but sierra cannot shut up!! <3 thanks anon for this sweet request! i’ll get back to work on my 7 wips now. 🫣 warnings: 18+ for mild coarse language and some shameless thirsting. domestic!hangman is my fave. just super fluffy. word count: 1275 summary: Jake is far more attentive than you previously gave him credit for, but it sparks a big revelation.  pairing: jake seresin x reader

It was rare to come home and not see your boyfriend already there, watching whatever film he was obsessed with this week, especially when he was on leave. You’d never complain, though it was comical to see him in your space. His muscular frame made your furniture look like it belonged in a dollhouse, sometimes. So, today, you were a little sullen to come home and not find him stretched out on your gray sofa, one arm curled behind his head — putting that delicious bicep on display — and one leg hanging off the arm of the couch. 

Though before you could allow your mild and unreasonable disappointment to settle in, your phone rang, your favorite coworker's name flashing across the screen. 

“Hey, you know I'm not currently being paid to talk to you right now, right?” The teasing lilt to your voice was unmistakable. 

“She quit!” Your coworker barked in response, before you could get another word in edgewise.

“What do you mean she quit?”

You put the phone on speaker, then set it down onto your kitchen counter, while you headed toward the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. 

“She marched into the office, handed over an envelope, then walked back to her desk. She’d already packed everything up, so she just grabbed a box and rolled.”

“What?” Your voice had jumped an octave. You stilled, standing at your kitchen island with your hands against the countertop. 

It was at just that moment, your front door opened, and Jake appeared in the doorway, arms full of grocery bags. You waved, then held a finger to your lips and pointed to your phone. He nodded and mouthed an ‘okay’ as he came nearer. Then, your coworker launched into the story, as well as her theories surrounding the resignation of the third assistant editor at the magazine you worked for. You let her go on, muttering a comment or two of your own when you could, for so long that Jake had replaced your bottle of water with a glass of wine. It had taken you a moment to recognize that it was your favorite brand, but last you checked, you’d ran out last week and had forgotten about buying a new bottle. You were definitely listening to your coworker, but your eyes followed Jake around the kitchen, while he busied himself with getting a start on dinner. 

At the next lull in the conversation, you cut in, “Darlin’, I gotta go. Jake’s here.” This earned you a particularly salacious sounding oooh. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you’re bright and early, so we can have front row seats to the mess.” 

When you hung up the phone, you inhaled to speak, but Jake beat you to it, still facing the stove. 

“That bitch Debbie strikes again. I’m telling you, somebody needs to put her in her place. I think it should be you, by the way, I’m just saying.”

Blinking slowly, you wordlessly stared at your boyfriend’s back. Your silence prompted him to turn around, fingers still curled around the handle of the pot he was currently sauteing asparagus in. “What?” He glanced down at himself, then a knowing look crossed his features. With a free hand he gestured toward his body, and the black hoodie he currently wore. “I know, I stole the Navy hoodie back, but it’s really comfortable. I promise I will wash it and return it to your closet where it belongs.”

“Not that, you doofus,” you snorted, closing the small space between you to hop up on the counter beside where he was cooking. You practically had stars in your eyes. “You remembered my boss’ name?”

A look of bewilderment creased your boyfriend’s brows as his gaze settled on you. “Obviously?”

And there you were again, blinking like a fuckin’ owl because what was your life right now? Your perfect boyfriend with his perfect, gorgeous smile, in your tiny kitchen, cooking you dinner and remembering the small details of your life. And, sure, the bar was in hell, but to say your past partners were less than ideal was an incredibly generous statement. 

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” you finally admitted, tone noncommittal. 

“What do you mean?” He seemed genuinely confused.

“I mean, I haven’t always received that level of effort before.”

His lips slipped into a frown for a moment, just long enough for you to catch it. “It’s you,” he said softly. “You’re worth it. You’re worth every level of effort. Every level? Any amount? However you say that properly. You’re worth it.” He paused then to point an accusatory finger in your direction. “Don’t make fun of me, English Major.”

He shot you a grin, but the tips of his ears were bright red — a telltale sign of embarrassment. Jake hated when he rambled on, but you loved it. Especially when he wasn’t cognizant of his accent, and it poured out over his words like molasses.

“So, anyway,” he continued, now returning his full attention to the stove. “Enough about Deb. Hate her. How’s Kelly and the baby? Did she and Jason like the gift you got them? I feel like babies can never have enough onesies.”

“We got them,” you corrected, gently nudging Jake’s arm with your own. After all, he had helped you select a gift for one of the other editorial assistants without having ever met the woman or her partner. No, in fact, most of your coworkers only existed as characters in stories to him, but he was fascinated by every little detail you told him. Moreover, as you discovered tonight, he’d retained every detail you’d told him, committed them to memory. Despite the busy, intricate details of his own job, he remembered all of these silly little things about the staff for the magazine you worked for. 

You watched with amusement as a blush colored the blond’s cheeks, though he nodded before parroting back a short ‘we.’ Your eyes continued to study him as he prepared your shared meal, watched the way his eyes lit up when he found you looking at him, the way he babbled on about his cooking technique. 

You were desperately, unshakably in love with this man. And if you were unsure before, you knew it now. And it didn’t matter that sometimes he was worlds away, didn’t matter that you wouldn’t always be in the same time zone, or that sometimes you’d have to fall asleep without the warmth of his embrace. No, this man, and the love he inspired in you, was worth it.

“Did you hear what I said?” he interrupted your reverie, eyes narrowed in playful irritation. 

“I’m in love with you, Jake Seresin.” 

And you weren’t nervous. You knew this man loved you, too, all the same. Because he came home to you and bought your favorite wine and listened to your ranting. Still, your heart was eased when a look of pure adoration crossed his features when he looked at you. He reached a hand out to turn off the fire on the stove, then came to stand between your parted thighs. 

See the full post

1,611 notes - Posted November 19, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[thran-duils]

Use All of Me (P.2)

Title: Use All Of Me (Part Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Steve Rogers. The Avengers are heroes saving the world but in this AU, they are also permitted by the powers in charge to have less than favorable business underneath their guise of mere superheroes. Steve and Tony are at the helm, keeping their empire’s wealth in check, both devious and perilous if crossed. Steve takes a liking to the reader at a party and it may be her undoing to her autonomy choosing to go home with him. Words: 2,384 Warnings: Dark AF, angst, emotional/mental abuse, smut, breeding, death Author’s Notes: This relationship is going to go ~downhill~ from healthy really quick. Please do not read if that is going to offend you.

Part One || Part Three || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

You woke up a few hours later to Steve still sleeping soundly. You were feeling closer to sober than not, which was good news considering you would most likely not have a hangover. Carefully, you crawled out of bed to not disturb him. Slipping your underwear and bra on, you kept quiet. Checking your phone, it was four in the morning. There were a couple missed texts from people. The one that mattered was sending one to Natalie to let her know you were okay; she had texted almost two hours ago and was probably sleeping now – albeit anxiously – and still you sent a quick text. It would put her at ease when she woke up. Everyone else would be asleep and could wait, you merely just read the handful of them.

Clicking on your uber app, you guessed that the prices be higher than normal considering the time of day, but you needed to get home. It was going to take them fourteen minutes to get there. You would have to move quickly to get dressed and get back outside.

Your finger was hovering over confirm when Steve sounded from behind you, “What are you doing?”

Craning your head over your shoulder, you saw he was still lying in bed, blanket still over him. It seemed he had been watching you with your back turned; for how long, you were unsure.

“Sorry, I tried to not wake you,” you apologized. You held up your phone weakly and said, “Just ordering an Uber.”

“I wasn’t sleeping all that much anyway. Don’t need much,” he told you and you rose your eyebrows. “Perks of being me. If you want, I can drive you home.”

“Oh. I mean, that’s not necessary. I can just order this Uber.”

“I’m not drunk if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Steve assured you and added with a small smirk, “A downside of being me. I can’t.”

“Wow,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“Yeah, wow.”

“That… kind of sucks.”

Steve chuckled, “Yeah, sometimes it does.” He threw the blankets back, nude as the day as he was born still. “But it does erase possibilities of me doing foolish things drunk and regretting them in the morning. Or being caught off guard.” He tossed a glance your way at that last statement.

“Good thing you can see the silver lining,” you said, closing the Uber app. You watched him for a few moments dressing himself, eyes tracing the movement of his muscles before reaching down to pick up your dress.

You were pondering what other things were different about him than the average person. You had thought him being a superhero was all about his strength, but it seemed there were far more things beneath the surface.

Steve reached for something in the bedside table, pulling out a handgun. He caught your watchful gaze, “What’s wrong? Guns make you uncomfortable?”

You had not seen him slip that into the drawer when you had come up to the room. Granted, you had gone to the bathroom. Was it all that odd that someone like him had a concealed weapon? You were sure Natasha Romanoff had been armed to the teeth.

Calmly, you joked, “No. But are we in danger?”

“Not when you’re with me, doll face,” Steve said, holstering it into the waistband of his dark jeans. “I’ll always keep you protected.”

Cocking an eyebrow, you teased, “’Always’? It’s just a car ride home.”

Steve merely hummed in acknowledgment as he threw his black jacket over his shoulders, slipping his arms in. He gestured to the door, “After you.”

<> <> <>

How is your day going?

Fine, just doing laundry with Natalie. One of my friends from the party. You?

“He’s texting me again.”

You were sitting on top of one of the washing machines in your laundry room as you and Natalie did your laundry a few days after Steve had brought you home. He had commented that the building looked secure and you found the comment odd. But he seemed pleased with that fact, for your safety, so you assured him it was. There were a couple of tables in the laundry room, so instead of traveling back up the stairs, the two of you brought work or something else to keep yourselves occupied.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Natalie intoned, looking up from where she was scribbling ideas away for her next presentation at work. “And stringing him along is an even worse one.”

“It’s not serious. He’s probably just bored. We just had a one-night stand. And if I recall, you were quite enthralled with another ‘dangerous’ person as well. So, are you really in a position to be chastising me?”

“I didn’t go home with her. I just had conversation.”

“She didn’t ask?”

“She insinuated. I may have said that I was seeing someone.”

A laugh escaped, amused. “So, you lied to her?”

“For good reason.” She then added, “You could have done the same, you know. You would have obliged his request for your company and still been able to escape it.”

“I didn’t want to escape ‘it’. He was good in bed.”

“I know,” Natalie returned, rolling her eyes. “That’s what frightens me about you, Y/N. You like danger too much.”

“He also added me on snapchat. Thinking about sending him some nudes.”

“Why? So he can revenge porn you?”

“You’re so damn cynical, Natalie.”

Your phone lit up, interrupting the conversation.

Working. On a small break. It is going to be a long week.

You meant to respond but you saw he was texting again, so you waited.

It would be nice to see you again after it. How about you come out with just me?

It sounds like you are asking me out on a date. Or am I being too bold in assuming that?

“What are you smirking at?”

“He wants to go on a date.”

“Christ almighty. Seems like he’s wanting more than a one-night stand if he’s still texting you asking you out on dates.”

You shrugged, reading the new message from him.

Not bold. That is exactly what I was doing. What do you like to eat?

Can’t beat a steaming bowl of banh canh tom cua.

You smirked, guessing he was going to have to google that unless he was a fan of the cuisine. It gave you a couple minutes to put your phone down to talk to Natalie.

Shrugging you said, “What’s the harm in going on a couple dates? He seems nice enough.”

“He’s a mob boss, Y/N.”

Waving her off, you said, “Those are just rumors.”

“I don’t think so. You know there’s some deep-seated corruption and you can’t have me believing that just because they save people, it’s strictly out of the goodness of their hearts. Seems they only care when it’s about aliens, not regular day problems. Or protecting their assets. You think all of Stark Industries is above water? His technology is all over the place I would bet especially since they work with the government.”

“Well, aliens are a catastrophe, which you would think would require someone like, I don’t know, superheroes? And if you think Stark Industries is so invasive, you probably shouldn’t talk about him in that tone. He might hear you.”

Natalie threw a pencil at you and you laughed. “Stop teasing me!”

“You’re making it really easy. Did I mention you were cynical yet?” you retorted as you noticed your phone light up again.

Looks like there’s a few places in Brooklyn. I could pick you up. Saturday, 7pm?

That sounds good.

“Looks like I’ve got a date with a hot guy and some really good soup on Saturday night. And I won’t have to pay for it!,” you chirped. Natalie just told you that you were hopeless.

<> <> <>

“You just fucking go around doing whatever the fuck you want! You would be nothing without…” a man, bound to a chair, to spit out but trailed off, knowing he was digging himself a hole with the man in front of him.

He had been caught trying to steal a shipment of drugs between one of Tony’s and Steve’s distributors, along with a handful of other men. The others had been disposed of, leaving him. The lucky one Steve – someone they had not expected to be there tonight, along with Natasha, and it had been happenchance he had stopped by. A tragic turn of events for the attempted robbery – had chosen to beat information out of. So far, he had not been helpful and Steve’s patience was wearing thin.

Steve flipped the chair across from the man around, sitting down in it, resting his arms on the back of the chair. His smile was cold, a few moments of tense silence building between them. The man was bleeding from his nose, abrasions on his cheeks from the beating. His blood was coating Steve’s gloves.

“No, no. Finish what you were going to say. You were so jazzed. Let’s see where that gets us,” Steve encouraged, a cruel glint in his eyes. “In fact, it’s the most talking you’ve done all damn night.”

The man was quiet again, spitting out some blood on the ground next to him.

Steve gestured impatiently for the man to continue.

“One day you’re going to get what you deserve, Captain America. You’re a fucking farce. You’re just as every bit dirty as the cops on Stark’s payroll.” He laughed darkly. “In fact, you might be the dirtiest of all. You act so damn pious out in the open, but down here? You keep those drugs moving and the money flowing to all the corrupt politicians. I at least own what I am. You’re going to get caught and I can’t wait to read that headline!”

Steve was staring at the man, that icy smile still plastered on his face. Suddenly, his gun was unholstered and he fixed the barrel of the gun underneath the man’s chin, clicking the safety off. Steve stared deep into the man’s fearful eyes, and said eerily calm, “See, now that was the wrong thing to say. And I am happy to you inform you that you won’t ever get the chance to read a headline like that.”

The man’s head painted the wall behind him, the gunshot rattling through the room.

“Prick,” Steve muttered to himself, placing the safety back on his gun.

Natasha pushed herself away from the corner she had been resting in, sighing. “Didn’t give us any information about who he was working for.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve muttered, Natasha shooting him a look. “He wasn’t going to tell us. They could have been working alone – which is doubtful since they knew exactly where to come. Or it could have been Adrian sending in some bums to do his dirty work. Who knows? What matters is this place was compromised. And whoever the hell let them get past the security lines…”

“Rhodes is dealing with it.”

“Good. I’m sick of this shit.”

“You seem more on edge tonight, Cap.”

Steve sighed heavily, checking his watch. It was almost eight o’clock at this point. “I had a date. This was supposed to be a quick stop, not turn into a shit show. I can’t even text her down here to let her know.”

“With who?”

“The woman,” he said tightly. She was right, he was in a bad mood. “From the party a couple weeks ago.”

Natasha nodded, “She was pretty.”

“Beautiful,” Steve corrected stiffly, and Natasha smirked in response at his defensiveness. “And now I must grovel in apology to her for missing tonight and essentially standing her up. It was only the second date. We had a great time the first time… had Vietnamese food.”

“Second?” Natasha asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Well… third. If you want to count the first night at the party. I need a change of clothes.”

Natasha snorted, “There should be some upstairs.” She followed him out of the room, as the began ascending the stairs. She gave the men standing outside the doors orders to clean up and mentioned there would be cleaning necessary upstairs too in the locker room. “I have never known you to go on more than one, Steve. So, three. Three is something. So, is she just that good in bed?”

“I intend to have her,” Steve informed Natasha, over his shoulder.

“Haven’t you already?” Natasha joked, much to Steve’s annoyance.

He spat, “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Chill out, Cap. I was just joking around. I’m not the one you’re mad at here; he’s dead back in the room,” Natasha pointed out as they approached the locker room. Before he could go inside, she asked, “You think it’s that serious? A wife? Babies?”

“I’m making it that serious.”

“What if she is just looking for a fling?”

“Like I said, I want her and I’m gonna have her.”

<> <> <>

Steve had stood you up. You had waited around for an hour, sent him a text when he had not shown up at six like the two of you had agreed on. He had not responded. You were disappointed but not too surprised. What had you been expecting? You had been truthful with your friends that you believed it was just going to be some fun with him; the duration of the fun had been in question. And now it appeared it was short lived. It was not the first time you had been ghosted.

You were already dressed up, so you texted a few of your friends, asking if they wanted to go out. You found yourself at a club, dancing, having fun despite the way your night had started out.

<> <> <>

Y/N’s phone went to voicemail the three times Steve tried to call her on his way over to her place. He did not like being ignored. He parked near her building and walked to it, circling it. None of the lights were on in the apartment, which struck him as odd. It was only 9:30pm.

Pulling his phone out, he opened Snapchat. Clicking on her icon, he scrolled down to where she was sharing her location.

~~~

Tags: @imsonick, @alexakeyloveloki, @kvzctam

[cal-kestis]

You’ve Been Lonely Too Long | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Part I of The Aftermath of Losing Everything) 

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: After parting with Grogu, losing his ship, and battling with the tenets of his Creed — Din is plagued by memories he fears will only ever exist in his past. But when he meets you, he’s surprised to see a bit of himself reflected in your eyes... and the family he still longs for. (Set after S2) Rating: M (for reasons that will happen eventually)      Word Count: 6572 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut (non graphic), Action/Violence, Mentions of Blood, Hurt Comfort, Slow Burn, no use of ‘Y/N’, Din is wistful while talking about Grogu :’), he misses him A/N: Here it is! I've done a lot of research when it comes to lore, planets, etc. But I've taken a few creative liberties. Replies/comments are very welcome!

[Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

Memories keep him awake more than he cares to admit.

They conjure themselves unbidden, slithering through the iron bars of his mind. And just before they burrow, just before they brand his brain, just before they emerge from the shadows and he can recognize them — images of bright eyes and petal ears, sound bites of gentle coos, memories he wants to keep locked like a treasure — they vanish like vapor.

Sometimes he tries to chase them, like a valuable quarry. But even illustrious bounty hunters like Din Djarin know what it’s like to lose. Especially at night, when memories morph into vicious nightmares... and he becomes the prey.

If he ever does sleep, he sure as hell never rests.

And no one would catch wise. That’s the beauty of beskar. Because — despite the deep purple rings circling his wrinkled eyes, the constant dry and chapped state of his lips, and the uncharacteristically unkempt stubble on his jaw — when he walks into a room, everyone only sees the harsh glint of metal armor, the precise swagger in his gait, the loaded blaster at his belt. A Mandalorian: legend coming to life. And everyone quakes in their boots.

Everyone except you.

After he had left Gideon’s light cruiser, helmet replaced on his head — an imposter’s crown — he’d expected to say his goodbyes and carry on the way he always did before everything changed, before the kid. Alone.

He hadn’t known his next move. But picking up another stray? Not part of the non-existent plan.

Yet here he is, coasting in hyperspace aboard his cold, newly bargained light freighter, watching his crewmate modify the jammers.

“Hand me that driver, will you?” You huff, wiping sweat off your brow.

He had found you on Tatooine almost three months ago, fighting off some spice-high lowlife in a dark adobe alley. He remembers seeing you throw a heavy punch to the man’s jaw, extending your other trembling hand toward his throat before softly shutting your eyes, brows pinched in gentle focus.

Something about you had felt familiar, something he couldn’t shake. Your outstretched arm had sparked a memory of tiny green claws. And it had all happened so quickly. You had your eyes closed, the man had reached for his blaster, but Din had always been the faster shot.

Smoke had wafted from the man’s chest, your eyes had opened in shock, and Din had disappeared before you could thank him.

Instead, you had managed to stow away on his ship that same night and hire yourself as his new crewmate.

“I have nowhere to go. No home, no family,” you had explained, eyes glistening. When he’d scrutinized you, he only found a small bag slung over your shoulder and a short, chewed-on pencil tucked behind your ear. “I’m a good worker. I can cook and I’m a decent pilot, a better mechanic. And I’m… crafty?”

“I work alone.” He’d said it so surely, but a cloud of sadness had hovered over the words as he’d forced saliva down his dry throat.

“You don’t have to. I can be a valuable asset to you. Take some weight off your shoulders. Be someone to talk to.”

You had glanced at his stoic frame, his silence filling the room like a smoke grenade.

“Well, you don’t have to talk. But I can be helpful.”

There had been something in your eyes, or maybe even beyond them… something in you, something so achingly familiar. He’d felt it floating around the ship, radiating off your skin, seeping through his beskar armor. And he’d sighed because he couldn’t have stopped his next words from tumbling off his tongue if he wanted to.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

He remembers how you’d gasped, your arms wrapping tightly around his torso without a second thought. And he’d just stiffened like solid carbonite, not allowing himself to dwell on how warm and soft you felt, and he’d gently pushed you off, disappearing into the cockpit.

You’re still chatting away as you continue tinkering with the jammers. You’re definitely a talker. But to him, everyone seems that way when silence is his chosen weapon of survival.

Below that primary qualification of ‘someone to talk to,’ he’d realized almost right after you joined his crew of two that your resume checked out. You’d been invaluable on this new, unfamiliar ship — helping him modify it until it had some of the Razor Crest’s best qualities. Some.

When small memories like that start flooding in and try to take him under headfirst, he thinks it’s better to be alone. At least then, he can decide whether to sink or swim. So, he excuses himself to the cockpit and you hum in acknowledgment, continuing your chatter despite being your own audience. 

He spends a lot of time here in solitary silence, staring at the stars as they reflect off the tiny metal ball that hangs from a string on an unused lever. It’s the only token he has from that life — the days of flying the Crest system to system with a giggling child in the backseat.

More often than not, you find him here exactly like this: helmet hung low, a silver sphere pinched between two gloved fingers, millions of confined thoughts racing through his mind faster than hyperspace and clawing at his skull.

When you find him like this, you try not to speak. Just sit in the co-pilot’s seat and watch the stars with him.

And as he studies the little gear knob from his past life, the one question that passes through his mind the most is:

What can you do when the reason you’re hurting is likely the only thing that can heal you?

 —

ii.

After many months on the freighter, you’re sure of two things when it comes to your new crewmate:

First, the Mandalorian doesn’t talk much. Or ever, really.

But you quickly get used to your questions — and there are many — being answered with a curt “yes” or “no,” sometimes a grunt or sigh thrown in when the question is just right. You don’t mind too much, it’s enough to get you familiar with the way the ship works and you always know what to expect from him. 

When he’s not outside hunting a quarry on some Maker-forsaken outer rim dustball, leaving you inside to tamper with the ship’s outdated systems, he’s usually on one side of the freighter and you’re on the other. If he seems busy, you leave his food outside his quarters, and later, you find his dish empty and washed in the storage cupboard. And when you’re fighting for sleep in your bed, you hear his footsteps echoing all night long. But there are times when you both find yourselves in the small, shared space of the cockpit, when your desire to see the corners of space beyond Tatooine becomes too great to stay away. In those moments under the domed viewport — faced with a myriad of vibrant hues and tremendous textures and infinite stars — he doesn’t speak and you can’t find the words, giving way to a tranquil, transfixing silence neither of you wants to escape.

The second thing you’re sure of is: the Mandalorian gets hurt, a lot.

You can’t count the number of times you’ve watched him drag himself and an unconscious body onto his ship or holed himself up in the fresher, hissing in pain as he tended to his own wounds.

But this time, he comes back and collapses outside of the ship, unable to even pull himself up the ramp, much less the dead weight of the quarry. There’s hardly a thought in your mind as your feet scurry to his side, sprawled across the ground beside his target. You don’t wait for permission before you’re reaching for the gloved hand pressed firmly to the side of his stomach. 

“No,” he grits out between his teeth, groaning when the tiny word seems to tear him apart where he’s already been gashed. “The quarry.”

You frown, almost rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. Always the job first.

Still, no arguments pass your lips when you turn to pull the heavy, unconscious Trandoshan by his bound wrists. It takes all of your strength to drag him up the steep incline of the freighter’s ramp, through the main corridor, and into the supply closet, Mando’s makeshift prison. You’d asked him about it before, one of your many questions, wondering if he should consider more secure holding quarters. And he’d responded with a surprisingly long (for him) statement, “Not as good as a mobile carbonite freezing system, but it does the job.”

After chaining up the quarry’s hands and ankles and locking the closet, you nearly trip over yourself while sprinting back to the groaning Mandalorian. You kneel beside him, pulling the hand pressed against his stomach over your shoulder to lift him on his feet. A harsh, metallic scent suddenly fills your lungs, drawing your gaze to the blood-stained palm of his glove dangling over your shoulder. You do your best to ignore it, refocusing your energy on lugging him into the ship. As soon as you reach the top of the ramp, your strength gives out, sending both your bodies collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. It’s a challenge disentangling yourself from his heavy limbs but once you manage, you quickly turn to examine him before his hand stops you again.

“Gang on our tail,” he rasps, coughing then groaning in pain. “Get us out of here.”

Your lips press into a straight line, a war waging behind your furrowed brow as you decide whether or not it’s smart to leave him alone, bleeding on the floor of the main hold. But his hand shakes as he squeezes your wrist in what you think is meant to feel comforting. You release a deep sigh before getting up to close the ramp and set coordinates in the cockpit.

When you return minutes later with a medpac, you find him stretched out on his back, his neck arching with a groan, and his glove clutching his stomach once more. You kneel beside him to assess the damage, reaching your hand to his waist before he grabs you again.

“You don’t have to,” he grunts. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” you say, gently removing the glove trapping your wrist. “But so can I. And I can actually move my limbs at a normal, painless speed, get the job done quicker. So, please, let me.”

He sighs, giving a quick nod of his helmet before allowing you to partially remove his armor.

You start with the breastplate, remove the thick padding over his stomach, then grab the ever-present pencil behind your ear and use the dull end to lift the edge of his brown undershirt, just enough to reveal the knife wound in his side.

“What happened?” You gasp, quickly gathering antiseptic, a laser cauterizer, and bacta patches from the medpac.

“Ambushed,” he grunts, wincing as you clean the cut, your breath sliding across his skin as you lean in close.

“I’ve sustained some pretty bad knicks myself. Nothing as bad as this,” you joke lightly, switching the antiseptic for the cauterizer. When the laser touches his skin, he gasps and curls in on himself as you burn the wound closed. Instinctively, you grab his hand, the one not stained with blood, and interlace your fingers with his on the ship’s floor, letting him squeeze your palm as a distraction. “Nothing I couldn’t fix up. When you’re surviving on your own, you have to learn how to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” he says quietly. I work alone, he’d said when you met. 

Even through the shadowy visor of his helmet, you feel his eyes on yours and stare back openly. But as always, you only see your own warped reflection in the silver gleam of his beskar.

“It helps to have the proper supplies,” you chuckle, tearing your eyes away from his helmet to finish closing up his wound. “This bacta patch should fix you up real good.”

After smoothing the gel bandage against his skin, your fingertips linger only a second too long on the exposed warmth of his tanned stomach. You pull down the hem of his shirt, starting to reach for the pieces of iron covering his arm but feel him stop you by squeezing your joined hands.

“They only got one jab in,” he says, his voice sounding more relaxed, almost cocky. But when he sees the worry on your face, his thumb sweeps lightly across your hand and he squeezes once more. “I promise. I’m fine.”

“You’d better be,” you warn, shaking your joined hands in front of your face like a cranky geezer. “Because I’m not carrying two unconscious bodies off this ship when we land.”

He huffs out a short breath, only wincing slightly at the movement. Without another word, you pull his arm around your shoulder once more, limping him toward his sleeping quarters to rest. But you stop just outside the door, not wanting to encroach on his privacy.

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his hand against the doorway.

“Your gloves,” you say, his helmet tilting in confusion when you stare at his hand pointedly. “Let me clean them for you.”

He tries to argue but you won’t have any of it, simply extending your palm out toward him until he reluctantly pulls at the yellow leather tips on his fingers and hands them over.

“You can leave your shirt outside your quarters, too. I don’t want you stinking up the ship with your bloody clothes. Wash up. Get some rest. And be more careful next time,” you say, smiling and walking backward as you talk.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and you swear you hear a ghost of a smile in his voice.

Before you can question him on it, he presses the button to his quarters and slips inside.

 —

iii.

Time seems to pass quicker on the Mandalorian’s ship since the Trandoshan incident. And this man of few words quickly becomes a man of… just slightly more than a few words. Nevertheless, as his crewmate, you’ve learned quite a lot more about him.

One, he never stays in one place for long. He’s a bounty hunter, of course, and he takes multiple jobs at once. That means, together, you visit at least four different planets in the span of a few weeks, expertly flying around New Republic and Imperial scanners without a hitch. Two, he likes your cooking, a lot. You can tell because, by the end of the night, after a soft “thank you” buzzed from his helmet, his dish would always be licked clean — two dishes when you’d made his favorite. Sometimes, he’d even surprise you and try to recreate your recipes, generously leaving bowls of delicious food at your door. But he never eats where you can watch, enjoying the meals in secret and quietly washing up for you when you’re on the other side of the ship and can’t argue with him about it. Three, he doesn’t remove his helmet when you’re around, maybe even when he’s alone. “This is the way,” he’d mumble on occasion, a Creed that sounds like a foreign language even falling from his lips. Four, although he says he works alone, you see the way his helmet leans toward you when you speak and notice how his knees point in your direction when you sit side by side in the cockpit, gravitating toward you yet deeply cautious of drawing too close. And five, he’s lonely. You know because you’ve carried the same sadness in your chest almost all your life.

Several months on his ship have opened him up to giving more detailed answers to your numerous questions, and you take each opportunity where you can, desperate to unveil new pieces of his mind.

Tonight, Mando is particularly relaxed after capturing the last of four bounties, coordinates already set to turn them in. An empty bowl of bone broth sits beside his first helping. He leans back comfortably in his pilot seat as the stars shine off his chest plate and you ask about his past adventures.

“Has it always been just you?” Your voice comes out as a whisper, not wanting to disturb this content stillness, but thinking of all the times you’ve found him sitting alone in the cockpit clutching onto a silver ball.

He’s silent for a moment, thinking over his words. He doesn’t turn to face you when he answers, “No. There was... a child. Not long ago.”

You think back to when you had first met him, how he’d said, “I work alone,” how those words had seemed devastatingly true — in the way only a person who’s lost everything could say them so honestly.

“Yours?”

A beat. “Yeah,” he answers, a small crackling sound coming from his helmet. “Yes, a foundling. But he was as my own.”

“What happened?”

The cockpit stays silent save for the dull tones of the control board’s beeps and ticks. Mando reaches for that silver sphere, leans forward in his seat, and he holds it to the crown of his helmet.

“I... had to let him go.”

His voice breaks over the vowels, just slightly but you hear it: the familiar shattered sound of loss. It radiates off of him in waves, penetrating your skin and crawling through your bloodstream until your own heart aches for the ghost this child left behind.

“What was he like?” 

He’s quiet again and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But suddenly, Mando swivels his chair to face you, the silver ball clutched tight against his chest, and he chuckles. It’s fleeting but it’s a sound you’ve never heard in all your months aboard his ship. A lovely sound you’ll never forget.

“This was his favorite toy,” the Mandalorian says, lifting the ball in the air for you to see. “He was a stubborn kid. Always getting into trouble.”

You smile, begging him to continue.

“He could do things I couldn’t even imagine. He saved me, in more ways than one. We were a clan of two.”

“A family,” you agree.

He stills for a moment, ponders your words, and hangs his head. “Yeah, a family.”

“What’s his name?”

“Grogu.” You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “His name is Grogu.”

“Grogu,” you whisper, testing the name on your tongue. “Can you describe him for me?”

You pull out a small, worn booklet of parchment from your pouch and the short pencil from behind your ear. His helmet tilts toward you curiously and you can almost imagine his eyes squinting behind the visor.

“Remember when I said I was crafty? Not a load of bantha crap,” you chuckle, waving the pencil at him. “I made a trade with some stingy Jawas to get these relics.”

He nods, quietly examining the antiquated drawing pad.

“Tell me,” you plead.

His helmet’s gaze drops back to the silver ball and he sighs a wistful sound.

“Grogu was — is special. A green, wrinkly, big-eared... very special little kid.”

“A green, wrinkly child?” You ask, looking up from the paper.

Mando laughs again and you can’t help but smile too. He describes Grogu like he’s a father mooning over his son’s first steps. You’ve never heard him talk so much, so joyfully yet sorrowfully all at once. There’s a wistfulness in his voice, a rasp that tells you he’s not used to putting it into words, at least not out loud, but he still wants to honor Grogu with every word he has. As he speaks, you can feel — almost see the image of Grogu in your mind. It’s crystal clear like your brain is reaching out and can somehow access every archive in Mando’s memories. It’s like a trance and you have to physically shake your head to release yourself.

“He means a lot to you,” you say, a matter of fact, tearing off the weathered page and giving him your quick sketch, your hand resting on one of his pauldrons. “I’m sure you mean a lot to him.”

Mando silently turns back to the controls, his fingers still clutching the little ball as he grips the page in the other hand.

He’s especially glad to have his helmet at this moment because he feels water pooling behind his eyelids as he stares at the uncanny drawing.

“That’s him,” he whispers, looking upon his boy. It’s almost an exact likeness, although in grayscale (he’ll have to find you other colors somehow). But it means everything to see Grogu again, even on a page, after months of only seeing him in fleeting dreams and distorted nightmares. 

“Thank you,” he says, his hand with the drawing joining your hand on his pauldron.

You smile as he neatly, delicately folds the paper and tucks it into the small pouch on his shoulder harness, keeping the drawing close to his heart. You sit together in comfortable silence as the ship drops out of hyperspace.

“I guess you weren’t lying when we met,” he finally says.

“What do you mean?”

“You are… crafty,” he chuckles, his fingers tenderly stroking the leather pouch on his shoulder. “And you’re a good person to talk to.”

 —

iv.

The Mandalorian doesn’t ask you to stay on the freighter while he works anymore.

He doesn’t want you with him while he hunts, can’t afford the distraction. But he doesn’t want you to feel trapped either. So, he tells you to explore villages and draw landscapes of forested planets with the set of pigmented chalks he’d sweetly gifted you after finishing a job one day. (“I saw them at some backwater trading post. Thought you might like them,” he’d shrugged.) 

He doesn’t say it out loud but you know he trusts you even more now, trusts you won’t get into trouble, trusts you can take care of yourself if it finds you anyway. And he knows you appreciate it after being stranded on Tatooine your entire life. Each time he lands on a new planet, he sees entire galaxies reflected in your awestruck eyes and he gains a new page of artwork to add to his growing collection.

His latest quarry leads the pair of you to Felucia, on the hunt for some scum who — according to the Mandalorian — is probably hoping to harvest the planet’s Nysillin, a valuable healing herb, to trade for hefty credits. 

Felucia is a beautiful world you could never have even conjured in your dreams. A dense jungle of flora extends toward the upper atmosphere, kissing the yellow-tinted clouds and glowing orange and teal when night falls. Vibrant purple fungi tower high above the ferns, providing shade that did little to combat the damp heat.

You felt a strange energy running through your veins the moment you stepped off the ship, blaming it on the humidity instantly sticking to your skin like honey, a welcome discomfort compared to the sands of Tatooine.

On Tat, the sand made a habit of blowing and whipping around your ankles, scraping slashes and slivers into your skin. You’d hardly ever felt it, soft skin having evolved into a numb armor over many years on the desolate planet. Even as crystal particles would fly into your eyes, fill your lungs, nestle into your hair — you’d hardly felt it.

Sand is nothing compared to the sinister shudder that would run down your spine as you’d make haste through dark alleyways. The hairs on the back of your neck would rise and stiffen. You’d feel it more than you’d see it: the mass of darkness constantly looming over your shoulder, disfigured shadows merging with yours on the sand. And a voice would ask you each time: are you willing to do what you must to survive?

You almost had that night you met the Mandalorian. You remember your attacker’s voice like you just woke up from a nightmare, coarse and rough, burying itself under your skin like the Tatooine sands. His hands had felt slimy and sticky like the Felucian air as he’d gripped your waist. That same question of will had rung in your ears and your soul had urged you with a whisper: “Survive.” Your hand had quaked as you’d lifted it and focused your thoughts on your attacker’s throat. 

Then, before you could save yourself, you’d heard blaster fire and exhaled a staggered breath, gazing upon the Mandalorian as your hand had dropped limp at your side. You never turned back.

Now, you explore more systems than you knew existed, a Mandalorian warrior at your side, filling your weathered drawing pad with sketches of worlds beyond imagination.

Felucia would be a quick job, he’d assured you when he’d left. Easy and clean. Besides, no matter how beautiful the planet seemed — you couldn’t afford to stay longer than one rotation.

The Mandalorian had warned you of carnivorous plants and mysterious beasts. He hadn’t asked you to stay on the ship, but you knew he’d feel better if you kept close by. In the low shrubs and behind sky-scraping stalks, a deep grumble echoed through the jungle — something hungry and menacing. You stayed far from the sounds, choosing to explore the other colorful flowers that lived nearer to the ruddy soil, not straying too far into the mystifying wilds. You scribble away in your booklet, airways filled with a fresh petrichor that reminds you of a watery star system the Mandalorian brought you to a couple of months back. Your chalks fly across the tiny page as you capture this planet’s inimitable beauty as best you can.

Hardly four hours pass before you hear the Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps returning. Behind him trudges a stout man, wrists in binders behind him as he follows the bounty hunter in defeat.

“You’re getting slow, Mando,” you say, grinning when he comes to a stop in front of you, hands on his hips, a slight tilt to his helmet.

“What are you drawing?” He asks, ignoring your previous comment. He kneels beside you, silently studying the chalk-smudged red flower on the page as you stroke the final flourishes of your sketch. You hand him your booklet, noticing how the quarry leans over Mando’s shoulder to sneak a peek as well.

“Beautiful,” Mando says, tone even, as if speaking a fact instead of opinion.

“Well, it’s easy to see beauty when it’s all around,” you answer, cheeks heated as you gesture to the plant life surrounding you.

“It is,” he agrees, tenderness seeping into his modulated voice. When you look up at him, his visor is already trained on your face, unwavering as you crouch eye to eye with each other.

“Hate to break it to ya,” the quarry says, coughing dramatically behind you. “But all this ‘beauty’ wants to eat us alive, so I suggest we get off this hellhole before we all become dinner.”

The Mandalorian sighs, tearing his gaze to probably glare daggers at the quarry. 

“Makes you wonder what you were doing on this ‘hellhole’ in the first place,” he says, sarcastic to a fault.

“It wasn’t my choice,” the quarry argues, lifting his hands in defense. “I’m here to do a job, just like y—”

A shrill, deafening screech cuts through the jungle like a blade and the group of you shrink at the violent sound. 

“Let’s go,” Mando says immediately, helping you on your feet and pushing the quarry into the freighter.

You watch from the ground behind him as Mando runs in to lock the quarry inside the storage closet, turning only when the screeching sound suddenly stops. Your eyes squint as you try to find a sign of movement in the dense jungle.

“Watch out!”

Before you can register the anxiety in the Mandalorian’s voice, you’re knocked on your back into the red soil by a hulking creature.

It towers over you, casting you completely in its shadow as it slowly stalks forward. Your vision blurs as the horrifying monster draws closer — wrinkled white skin stretching the expanse of its belly and blue spine-covered leather painting its face and shell-armored back. 

“I’m guessing this is the rancor you were telling me about?” You grit through your teeth, inching away like a pathetic crab along the shoreline. Drool leaks from the rancor’s jagged teeth in dangling strands as it reaches long, webbed claws toward you. 

Before they can reach your body, you see the Mandalorian’s whipcord wrap around its arm. On the other end of the cord, Mando yanks the rancor away from you, rapid blaster fire whizzing through the air, hitting the beast with deadly precision. But the blasts bounce off its thick, impenetrable skin as it continues prowling toward you with renewed anger.

“Good guess,” Mando grunts, flying above the rancor with his jetpack, shooting at it in quick succession.

The rancor turns its attention away from you to the shiny flying pest blasting at its leathery skin. It’s at least six times the Mandalorian’s height but seems worlds larger from your view on the ground. 

“Stars, I thought you said these things were peaceful!” You shout.

“The Felucians don’t mind them. You must have scared it with your aggressive craftiness,” he quips, and you imagine what his smirk might look like under his helmet, even as the rancor approaches closer.

Mando launches miniature whistling explosives at the beast, but they do little to deter it. He throws grenades but the rancor swats them away like insects. It stomps toward the Mandalorian, its maw gaping wide as it releases a petrifying roar.

“Mando!” You scream when the rancor’s claws grab him by his jetpack, plowing his body into the ground with brute force.

The Mandalorian groans as he tries to stand back up, falling on his back when his bones prove too weary to support his weight.

“Get to the ship,” he rasps, voice crackling through the helmet with static. He raises his arm, flamethrower igniting at the rancor’s face, making it fumble backward with another roar. Only seconds later, the fire sputters and dies out. “Dank farrik!” He curses, reaching for his hopeless blaster once more before the monster’s claws slap it from his hand. “Get to the ship!” He yells.

Rooted to the ground like the surrounding plants, you’re helpless bantha fodder as you watch the rancor slowly creep forward, stretching to its full height above the Mandalorian. It feels like you’re sinking in quicksand — your feet and your mind hopelessly going under.

Then, you hear a soft voice ask a familiar yet distorted question:

Are you willing to do what you must so he survives?

You don’t hesitate. Anything, your soul resolves.

Steadily braced on two feet, you throw out your hand like a whip, focusing all your energy and emotions toward the blue beast. It sends the rancor flying backward like a ragdoll, wailing as it crashes through the thick jungle, loud cracks echoing from the mist as its body breaks every plant in its path. It lands far away with a heavy thud, but you feel it in your veins when it immediately gets on its feet, vengefully sprinting back toward you.

“Can’t say it isn’t persistent,” you mutter.

“How? You—” Mando grunts, a thousand questions on his tongue that will have to wait.

“I’ll explain later,” you huff, yanking his arm over your shoulder and pulling him to the ship. “We need to get out of here.”

“What’s happening?” The quarry yells from inside the locked compartment when he hears footsteps boarding the ship. You drop the Mandalorian onto the floor of the main hold rather unceremoniously, a metallic clanging sound ringing through the freighter. You punch in his code to retract the ship’s ramp before running to the cockpit. Outside the freighter, the rancor’s screeching grows louder and your fingers flit across the control panel to get the ship in the air. The engines whir to life and you swear it’s the second most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

With one final glance at the glowing jungle outside the viewport, thunderous roars softening into a low rumble, the ship finally launches out of Felucia’s atmosphere. Sinking back in the pilot’s seat, you let out a breath you’ve been holding for what feels like years. A labored dragging sound echoes behind you and you snap your head back, instinctively on defense.

But your shoulders relax when you see the Mandalorian gripping the walls of the ship as he attempts to limp closer. You run to his side, carrying his weight as you lead him to sit in the co-pilot’s chair.

“You need to rest,” you whisper, standing in front of him to quickly scan his body for signs of a major injury. “Looks like you got away with just a few shallow cuts and bruises. Nothing a bit of bacta can’t soothe.”

Your words come out like the rapid firing of his blaster before a gloved hand on your wrist stops you from speeding off. 

“What happened back there? How did you...” He asks, his visor lifted at an uncomfortable angle to meet your eyes.

Your lips press into a straight line, brows pinched in worry as you turn away from him to rummage through the medpac.

“I don’t...” you start, letting out a long exhale as you gather your words. “I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I’ve been able to do things I can’t explain — move things without touching them.”

You turn back to him, bacta in hand as you study expressionless beskar.

“Sometimes, it frightens me. I have no idea where it comes from or why it happens or how to control it. I never do it around other people. I didn’t want them to know,” you admit quietly, dropping your gaze to his vambrace, wordlessly asking if he still trusts you to remove it. He nods, visor watching you with masked curiosity as you roll back his sleeves and expose bruised, tan skin. “I’m afraid of what could happen if people knew.”

You don’t tell him how you don’t sleep well most nights, your thoughts eating away at your mind as you wonder if your abilities are the reason why you’ve always been alone… if they drove your family away before you could understand and just explain.

It stays silent while you tend to his wounds, applying bacta wherever your hands coax sharp hissing sounds from his helmet. His armor lies on the floor of the cockpit, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to reveal a shallow cut and smattering of bruises on his abdomen. It’s not the worst you’ve seen and the bacta seems to already be easing most of the discomfort, allowing him to sit up straighter.

You leave him for a moment to allow him to tend to the bruises on his legs himself, walking to the supply closet to make sure the quarry is secure in his makeshift prison. When you return, you sit in the pilot’s seat, facing the zooming stars as if they hold the answers to every terrifying question you’ve held inside for so long.

You almost don’t hear the soft way the Mandalorian calls your name. It takes all your strength to pivot your seat in his direction.

“Do you remember when I told you about the mudhorn?” He asks.

You nod. The story of the mudhorn, of course you remember. After he’d first told you about his child, he seemed eager to tell you even more tales of their adventures across the galaxy. The mudhorn felt like their origin story, the birthplace of his connection to Grogu. 

“I didn’t tell you the whole story,” he says quietly, piquing your attention. “Grogu saved me. Not the other way around.”

You stare at him dumbfounded. “But how? He’s just a baby.”

Mando stands from the co-pilot’s seat, testing his leg’s stability before walking to the control board, leaning back on it, his knees brushing against yours.

“Grogu had powers too. He could heal people. And he could move things without touching them,” he mirrors your words, making your jaw drop as you take them in. “Just like you. I was quested to bring him to others of his kind.”

“You mean?” you ask, and he doesn’t miss the flash of hope in your eyes.

“Yes. There are others like him — like you.”

You listen with rapt attention as he unravels the legend of the Jedi — a fierce warrior he’d met named Ahsoka Tano and the hooded figure who had single-handedly defeated a platoon of Dark Troopers and became Grogu’s new mentor. He tells you the few fragments of what he knows about laser swords — lightsabers — the bright colors he’s seen them radiate. But he leaves out the heavy weight of the darksaber locked away in his weapons cabinet. Besides that, he tells you everything he knows, which he regrets isn’t much.

“The Force?” You ask in confusion.

“The Force is what gives you your powers,” he says, reciting the words like folklore passed down through generations. “It is an energy field created by all living things. To wield it takes a great deal of training and discipline.”

Ahsoka’s words have been imprinted on his brain since she first spoke them.

“I can take you to a place where you can communicate with them,” he whispers. Truly, he doesn’t want to do as he says, doesn’t want to repeat the heartache he’s still not fully recovered from. He wishes he could snatch the righteous words out of the air before you hear them. But he knows what it would mean to you to find others, a family when you’ve had none your whole life. “The… Jedi, I mean. On a planet called Tython. If you want to be trained.”

He imagines a familiar hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I… I’d like to hear what they have to say. Get some answers,” you say. “If you’ll take me.”

“Of course.”

You stand up, allowing him to take his place in the pilot’s chair.

“After we drop off the quarry, I’ll bring you to Tython.”

His breath stops when he sees your hand reach out to cradle the side of his helmet. His eyes screw shut, imagining the plush warmth of your palm caressing the skin on his cheek instead.

“Thank you, Mando,” you say, a gentle smile on your lips.

“Din,” he offers, grinning beneath his helmet when your chin tilts in silent questioning. “My name is Din Djarin,” he clarifies. “But you can still call me Mando if you want.”

You smile, so wide and so bright it could blind him.

“Thank you, Din,” you say, unexplored galaxies sparkling in your irises. For the first time, he lets himself daydream what it’d be like to discover each one of them with you, for as many years as you’ll give him. Even as he fears his time with you is ending. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

As you walk to your sleeping quarters, the soft sound of controls beeping and ticking in the ship, you don’t hear when he whispers:

“Anything.” [READ PART II HERE]

[clairdelunelove]

Ocean Blues

armin arlert x f!reader, young!armin x reader, timeskip!armin x reader

genre: fluff, romance, mutual pining, angst

warnings: slight spoilers? 

synopsis: some cozy comfort with armin as the two of you venture to the beach and admire the sea. The day is filled with shy glances, damp clothes, and sweet treats- as he tries to make you forget that he has to leave. It’s days like these that he adores. Unbeknownst to him, these memories would later come to haunt him in the future.

a.n: in honor of armin’s appearance in season 4, have some angst with our favorite blond boy! 

“This is beautiful.” 

The confession leaves your glossy lips in a lingering breath that dances out and mingles with the salty air. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, a smile crosses your face as the cerulean waves crash against the golden sand. It’s quite reassuring how empty the spot underneath the concavity of a beachside hill was and occupying the area seemed too fortuitous. 

Hauling the beach bag over your shoulder, your feet stay rooted to the spot that overlooks the entirety of the ocean. The sun setting within the horizon casted a glow that rested upon the fluffy, rare clouds that were scattered across the sky. 

“It really is.” 

Nestling your toes between the layers of soft sand, your gaze flicks to the sudden exhale that’s emitted beside you. Cerulean eyes, combating the water’s hue, meet yours as he slowly exhales. His jaw slackens instantly upon noticing the tinted blush on your cheeks, causing his lips to curl into a joyous grin. The indirect compliment goes straight to your heart as you sputter out a halfhearted rebuttal before veering closer to the water. Immediately, the blond calls out to you while lugging the rest of your personal belongings and his gentle chuckle rings true to your ears.

With a quick pivot, you note the haphazard way he’s heaving around the obnoxiously colored beach umbrella, picnic basket, and blanket while trying to closely follow behind you. A laugh bubbles in your throat as he suddenly yelps when the blanket rolls out of his grasp. Placing the belongings beside you, the male hurriedly arranges the set up when he notices your watchful gaze. He works quickly to gather the pastel cloth and shifts to lay it in a specific way. 

“So if the wind direction is north and wind blows north to south,” Armin’s caught muttering his thought process as his slender fingers tug the blanket over the sand, “it should be shifted this way.” 

Outstretching his hands, he gestures for you to sit on the covering so you’re comfortable and you do so with a grateful grin. The sand provides cushion when you plop down, fingers itching to scoop a handful up. Grains of glimmering white and beige slipped through the crevices of your hands. 

Armin cautiously settles next to you, eyes trained on the soft features of your face, “is this alright?” 

“It’s perfect.” 

Shrugging off his navy cardigan, he folds the article of clothing and tucks it neatly in your beach bag while casting a relieved smile to you. It’s the type of expression that causes his furrowed brows to relax, the crease on his forehead disappearing with the action. He moves to fold his white linen sleeves and cuffs the worn fabric with calculated mobility. 

You tuck your legs inward, resting your chin upon your knees to languidly stare at the ocean. The crashing waves chase after each ripple while concocting a foaming aftermath that sizzles on the sand. Faintly, seagulls squawked in the distance as their habitual flying pattern took up the evening sky. 

“So,” he suddenly speaks up while fixated on the same breathtaking view, “this is the ocean.” 

Small puffs of warm air leave his lips, intermingling with the chilly weather. The comment comes out in measured breaths. You can’t help but note that his tone is oddly bittersweet in the romantic moment and an unfamiliar tug pulls at you. Doubts, anxiousness, and heartache recurrently clawed at you in the previous weeks. 

“I couldn’t imagine being able to see this before I left.” 

At the remark, he thumbs at a broken seashell that’s barely visible within the sand by him. The creme colored shell is partially jagged yet smooth when overturned in his grip and he runs a finger over the sleek surface. Moving to settle closer to the male, you carefully rest your head against his shoulder while listening to his soft breaths. 

You’d perceived that as a result of his sensitivity to nervousness, Armin’s breathing evolved into gasping whenever the situation was too overwhelming. Interlacing his fingers with yours, you gifted him a reassuring hum before gazing at your interlocked hands. 

“Do you,” it was your turn to abruptly speak, “have to go?” 

The blond’s head whips in your direction and stares at the top of your head while he’s unable to utter an answer. His lips move as silence is the only known form of language to him at the moment. Internally, his heart drops at how broken your voice sounds at the inquiry and he desires to push away the logic that clouds his judgement. 

“Enrollment for the Training Corps starts tomorrow,” Armin mutters while his thumb lovingly caresses the back of your hand. 

It’s the same explanation you’ve received for the past three months and he evidently aspired to keep it that way. Nestling into the crook of his arm, the hollow of flesh there indicated the limited muscle mass that the blond’s readily going to exercise once he’s a member. A small smile flashes on your face, inwardly overjoyed that perhaps the male would finally get some type of proper nourishment if he’s enrolled in training. 

Rolling up your frayed sleeves, a crooked grin dances on your lips, “I know you’ll make it.” 

“As a member?” 

He seems bewildered at how resolute and strong your voice sounds at the statement. If he’d have known better, the blond greatly doubted his ability to physically outperform most of the recruits that were willing to try out for the member position. Scrawny physique, due to malnutrition, was one of his traits that he’d been self conscious about before he met you. Usually, others were bound to protect him from the onslaught of swinging fists and raucous cursing. 

“Yes,” you quell his racing mind, “and as a commander.” 

Armin commits a double take, almost getting whiplash in the process, and his mouth drops to indicate how flabbergasted he is by the comment. Smiling brightly, you reach out to dramatically close his opened mouth with a tap of your index finger. His brows amiably furrow while he sheepishly smiles at your compliment. 

“You must be kidding,” the male responds in a higher pitched voice. 

“I’m definitely not.” 

Resolutely closing his eyes while shaking his head, he actively dismisses his capabilities of being a leader. The blond could barely even defend himself on the streets so becoming commander was pushing it. Yet, your jaw was set as earnestness consumed your entire being. 

“That’s so absurd,” he runs a hand through his hair and presses his lips together, “that I’m willing to bet anything that I wouldn’t become a Survey Corps commander.” 

Eyes tracking the movement, you can’t help but let your own fingers reach out to swipe a blond piece of hair away from his face. He sputters at the intimacy, reeling back with an arm drawn over his face, but quickly regains his composure with an awkward chuckle. At the dramatic scene, you both can’t help but freely laugh. His hair seemed to catch the darkened hues of light, illuminating it to appear golden. You always adored his bob hairstyle, one that he grew up with, and decided to cast a wager on a consistent ideal to prove how confident you were in his abilities. 

Tousling the hair framing his face, the bet is uttered by you, “and if you do become one, you’ll have to cut your hair.”

At the mention, Armin draws a hand up to brush away his bangs. Tilting his chin, he seems to ponder the gamble with an intrigued raise of a brow. The blond didn’t mind the length of his hair, quite honestly, and just kept the bob because it was all he’d ever known. He relied on consistency. If the options were weighed then he wouldn’t lose anything too drastic in the situation. 

“I can take you on that offer, since,” his lip quirks up in an amused half smile, “the possibility of a Titan attacking is higher than me actually becoming a commander.” 

“You have to cut it though,” you reiterate as your gaze broke away from his, “even if I’m not there to see it happen. I’ll know one day.”

It would be a long while before the male would actually become in a position of power since climbing the ranks was it’s own adventure. Plus, you were both extremely young to genuinely make a difference. If anyone had an ounce of striving for change, it would be Armin starting his life in the Training Corps. 

He nods, exuding endless loyalty that men would envy, and continues brushing a thumb against your hand. There’s a particular type of happiness that veils his eyes when he stares at you once more. Perhaps it’s the bubbling joy of looking forward to reaching for the commander position or just the notion that you hinted that the two of you would continually stay together despite his absence. 

-

“We’re going to get in so much trouble! Where’d you get that from?”

Stabbing the confectionary through a wooden stick, your lips curl into a mischievous grin that invokes the male to shake his head at your sly ways. You’d taken a trip to the town’s open roofed bakery and paid a visit to the place by giving their products a try. In your parents’ words, borrowing was always an option if the reward was great. Armin’s wide smile was acknowledgement that there was no risk without a reward. 

“This is basically why I wanted to meet up with you today,” you mentioned while your fingers continued sliding down the marshmallows to properly align on the stick. 

The blond blew out a breath onto the kindling, settling back on his heels when the fire roared to life.  He runs his arm over his forehead to gather the beads of sweat underneath his bangs. His white linen shirt laid wrinkled upon him, a rare sight, as the sleeves were bunched up at the ends. The brown trousers were folded up his calves to display the sand that stuck onto his wet skin. Your own skirt was tied at the end to hitch up the fabric to avoid the waves of water. There had been obvious evidence from both sides that the two of you finished a session of splashing in the ocean water. 

“Is that,” he scoots closer to your seated position by the fire, “chocolate?” 

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, not expecting two sweets to be implemented in the highlight of his day. The town’s rations were highly strict recently and confectionaries were not even uttered to be given to the lower division families. Ironically, the two of you were treating the dark chocolate like it was an unlimited treasure. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out while handing Armin a stick of marshmallows, “I wanted to try something new so just put them near the fire.” 

The makeshift fire that the male set up laid blazing in intermingled colors of crimson and orange. He constructed the fire directly on the sandy beach, placing it near the water’s waves during high tide. Heat radiated off the bonfire in strong flickers, casting a dewy glow to Armin’s skin as he heeded to your instructions and held out the stick close to the fire. 

Once the marshmallows were roasted to a golden shade, your hands quickly reached to your beach bag to pull out the rest of the necessary ingredients. Stacking the remains of some muffin crumbs, chocolate, and Armin’s roasted marshmallows, you squish the dessert between your fingertips. The white confectionary oozes out, leading the blond to curiously glance in your direction. 

“Try it.” 

Prodding the treat towards his lips, Armin’s gaze flashes toward it and then at your giddy smile. He adores every fraction and angle of the way your soft features gleam. Each wave in your hair, every freckle on your nose, and the tint of your lips didn’t go unnoticed by the vigilant male. Accompanied with the sunset casting a halo above your head, there wasn’t a sight in the world that he’d rather fixate on.

Nibbling at the corner of the makeshift s’mores, he hums in approval as wide eyes connect with yours. Your knowing laugh aids him in properly chewing with a full mouth of the sweet treat. You share the same dessert, taking a bite out of the opposing corner, and crunching in delight. The savory chocolate is a delicacy that you haven’t tasted in months, causing nostalgia to rush through you. 

“I wish we could always stay here.” 

Muffled by his mouthful of the dessert, Armin’s melancholy utterance is barely registered in a serious tone. Yet, you could tell in the sharp glint in his blue eyes that the notion clouded his thoughts. His fingers find purchase in yours, a gesture that you’d greatly reminiscence when he left to the Training Corps and the blush that bloomed on your cheeks was a clear indicator. Perching on your knees, your arms reach over to envelop the blond in a gentle hug. It’s clearly awkward, by the clunking of your knees hitting his and how your hands are still interlaced with his, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it all. 

“Come back to visit the ocean,” you whispered as your muffled voice drifted to his ears, “I’ll always be at the ocean waiting for you.” 

“Waiting for me?” 

“Always.”

Hot tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, threatening to slip as your fingers desperately dug onto his linen shirt. It stung that your only school classmate, childhood best friend, and innocent crush would depart while focusing on his own success. You were stuck in Wall Maria. The repetitive cycle of your district life was just beginning and a hint of jealousy clawed at you. 

“I promise I’ll come back to the ocean,” Armin murmured as his fingers soothingly played with your hair, “and cut my hair if I become commander.” 

“Promise?” 

Lifting yourself off his chest, you peered up at Armin’s tear stained cheeks and let out a broken chuckle. Your own eyes were tinged red as your lower lip trembled at each remembrance of the memories you made with the male. Drawing a thumb over his cheek, you allowed the blond to reserve the rest of the night to memorizing each determinant of your beauty. The sad smile, scars, and flaws were the winsomeness that he would take in every battle. 

“Promise.”

-

He never did see you again. 

The onslaught of destruction that the Titans brought to demolish Wall Maria was too massive to the districts below. Havoc, chaos, and terror were the only images that you were able to witness before your final breath. Yet, your mind was full with the fleeting touch of Armin’s hand in yours and his joyous smile that stretched across his composed features. You didn’t regret ebbing away from the constraints of life since he was the last vision you saw. 

The male, grown and stronger in his years now, was a prisoner in the endless phase of guilt. Each day was a struggle to regain the confidence he once possessed and lead a new army into the depths of uncertainty. Nevertheless, Armin did visit the ocean in hopes of seeing a glimpse of you. He hadn’t. Still, years after the first incident, the blond ventured to the ocean again. 

Curling his toes against the soft sand, he ran a hand through his newly cropped hair. The commander badge, clipped on his Survey Corps uniform, glinted in the dusk hours. Alike to when you were both young, he decided on picking a time that was eerily close to that fateful day. You would’ve had no doubt that one day Armin would make a fine commander. He tugged his leather boots along with him, trailing the edge of the ocean as a bitter half smile curled on his lips. The waves crashing against the sand were almost loud enough to muffle his strangled sobs.

Yet, a promise was a promise. 

[annerly-san]

Progression - [Chapter 2: Limits]

Primary Character Pairing: Choso x Reader/Female OC Story Summary: Life is never stagnant. It progresses and changes as does the people who live through it. Like a complex differential equation, it twists and curves with its ups and downs with each person having their own unique curve. But for her, the rate at which she progressed in life was zero as she moved linearly despairingly with no end in sight. That was until she met a cursed spirit who set her life back in progression. Chapter Navigation: Previous Chapter

“He said that we could test out our new forms, didn’t he, Nii-san?” The flesh-colored curse spoke this time. “As long as we bring her back alive, right?” It sighed. “I’m not too keen on hurting her since we weren’t told to do so.”

While the sentience of the curses surprised her, the sentiment that they expressed bewildered her slightly. It was strange for a curse to not only not bear open hostility against sorcerers such as herself, but it was also strange for the curse to express itself in a sentient way with some resemblance of human emotion.

“Don’t worry, Eso. We won’t have to as long as she comes along with us willingly,” the human one answered.

“Nii-San, Nii-San, I want to play with her, Choso-nii~,” the turquoise one whined as he looked towards the one named, ‘Choso’, with as much emotion the strange curse could emote with his features.

“Be careful, Kechizu. She’s supposedly a Grade 2 sorcerer. Eso and I will be here if you need us.”

At the command, the turquoise curse launched itself at her and she immediately activated Differential and applied a derivative to the constant speed at which the curse was traveling to freeze him in place.

“E-eh? Nii-san, I’m frozen!” Despite that, the curse then bubbled up something within its mouth and she instinctively moved to evade the onslaught of blood splatter that was spewed her way.

The splatter of red fluid on the ground oozed with a strange pungency. It was potentially corrosive or poisonous, and she elected that it would serve her best interest to avoid it at the moment.

Her hand gripped at the pocket at her side and fingers found the touch of cool metal clinkering softly within its pouch.

Grasping at the wrapped handle, she pulled out an interlocking series of metal links and a pair of throwing knives.

While the other two curses stood a ways back from the turquoise one that had charged at her initially, this situation was dynamic and a confrontation between all four individuals was bound to happen.

A sudden strike of red pierced the ground at her feet just where she had been standing moments harkened the intervention of the second curse.

“Kechizu, are you alright?” the disfigured flesh-colored one had gotten to the turquoise curse and was in the process of helping him become unstuck.

“Uuuu-, Eso-nii, I’m stuckkkk-. Oh wait, I’m not anymore-”

The three seemed to share a familial bond considering their constant reference to one another as brothers from what she had observed so far. While the question of curse relationships may prove insightful for identification and research, she was more preoccupied with the present state of the battle in front of her.

Kechizu-- the turquoise one-- as he was called, was stuck in place due to her derivative. He would remain as such until she released the technique, and she wasn’t intending on doing that anytime soon. The curse seemed to be the weakest of the trio with the range of abilities involving spewing what seemed to be corrosive blood from his mouth.

Eso -- the disfigured flesh colored one-- seemed to be significantly stronger in terms of his ability and mobility. The launching strikes that he seemed to fling from wing-like lattices on his back were incredibly more precise and potent than that of his younger brother.

Both he and Kechizu were out of her range now that she had stepped back to evade that initial attack; slight remorse at not applying a derivative on him to hinder his movement simmered in the back of her mind.

Though that was not her main concern.

Her main concern was the eldest brother of the group, Choso. The most human looking one of the bunch and the most calm. He had been standing back in observation and she could tell at this distance that he had the most cursed energy of the three. His intervention would be detrimental to her chances at victory in this fight.

The curses began to speak.

“It looks like what he had said was right. Her abilities are primarily stopping things in place,” she heard the eldest brother muse from afar.

‘Stopping things in place?’

Her ability was more nuanced than that; however, that comment in addition to the earlier one on her rank as a second-grade rather than a semi-first grade showed that the three had an outdated source of information.

This was advantageous for her.

Though the lack of information regarding her ability did set her ahead slightly, she was still at the overall disadvantage of having three special-grade curses in front of her in addition to not knowing what the extent of their techniques and abilities are.

Her limits needed consideration.

Differential’s effective range was five meters with the technique of stopping the rate of movement being instinctual and without thought. Her maximum application of Differential is five concurrent techniques, though the time limit on her holding the skill was contingent upon the complexity of the change she wanted accomplished.

The cool touch of the weapons in her hands helped to lay out the framework of her next attack. They were two sets of rather simple cursed tools that worked in tandem to accommodate her lack of effective technique range. The first was a nine-section whip chain that enabled the extension of her effective Differential range at its furthest swing point when she applies cursed energy through it; the second was a set of two throwing knives which have the ability to store and apply a user’s cursed techniques regardless of the range.

She set herself up.

Leaping backwards to set a fair distance between herself and the curses, she quickly flung the two throwing knives before applying Derivative to temporarily freeze them in its trajectory. Quickly prepping, she moved forward with her chain swinging at a constantly increasing rate and subtly applied Differential to it as she approached the curses.

The sudden change in hostility and engagement from her end caused all three curses to shift in their demeanor.

The turquoise one, Kechizu, was readying himself to launch at her. Perfect.

The second one, Eso, had a wing-like lattice of bloodwork spewing from his back-- no doubt ready to launch and pierce at her at a given time.

The last one was concerning. While he had stood quietly on the sidelines in observation prior, he now stood with his arms extended and his hands clapped together. From this distance, she saw small spheres of what also seemed to be blood.

A tense silence fell between them as each one of them observed one another like a hawk.

She quickly sidestepped and dashed back.

As anticipated, Kechizu launched himself at her and she waited for him to fall within anticipated trajectory before adjusting the derivative on one of her throwing knives from zero to a hundred kilometers per second. The knife pierced the side of the curse and he let out a bellowing cry as he was frozen in midair.

“KECHIZU!” the curse’s name was simultaneously cried out by the other two.

Eso, the ones sprouting the wings, launched a barrage of his blood at her while she dodged and evaded its path.

The swing of her chain allowed for her to subtly slow the rate of the pursing wings, but the collision of the chain against the blood lattice caused the liquid to burst from its form and splatter everywhere. Droplets got onto her skin as she felt it burn at her flesh. Quickly wiping it away with the sleeve of her shirt before ripping the garment and tossing it aside, she dodged three more wing lattices that had been sent her way.

The eldest brother was in her peripheral vision; he stood in the same stance, though he had been positioning himself to face her as she moved.

Eso had closed the distance between the two of them sufficiently and she began to sidestep back to where she had hoped to lure him to in order to send the second knife at him.

As soon as he stepped in the appropriate spot, she started to adjust the rate of the throwing knife when a sudden voice made her stop dead in her tracks.

“Piercing blood.”

Too fast.

She barely registered the bullet of blood that had been shot her way and a sharp pain blossomed in her right shoulder.

The attack and injury led to stumbling as she clumsily dodged a few more of Eso’s attacks before successfully managing to put some distance between herself and the other two curses.

The injury throbbed and an immense pain was struck in her nerves as it burned in radiating waves across her right side.

“I’m sure that you realize that our blood is poisonous by now.” Choso, having remained impassive up until now, had stepped up to his younger brother and glanced to the side to see if his youngest one was doing alright.

The turquoise curse had stopped screaming and had long since healed the dagger wound, but was frozen in place with the knife stuck and embedded in his side.

“Nii-san, I’m stuck…” the curse whined sadly as he flailed his limbs around in the air.

“I know. Are you healed? Does it hurt?”

“No… doesn’t hurt…”

The two older brothers seemed relieved by the state of their younger one.

“That knife might be a problem, Nii-san.” Eso spoke up as he glanced at his older brother. “While it might not do much in terms of immediate damage, if it hits, we’re going to be left susceptible.”

Choso nodded. His response was too quiet and low for her to hear, but it was difficult to concentrate on their words with the amount of pain erupting from the wound on her shoulder.

She had four applications of Differential left at her disposal. Undoing the one on the youngest curse would not be in her best interest, and she felt bitter at having gotten so severely injured without making further progress on the two stronger curses.

The rate at which the poison, pain, and injury spreads will need to stop here. Grabbing the throwing knife from the air, she undid the Differential applied to it and applied it to the rate of her injury’s progression before it got any worse. The pain was still present, but it was tolerable for now.

Three Differentials left.

She stood back up much to the two brothers’ surprise and began to swing the chain around.

Considering what was shown thus far, the brothers have the ability to launch and manipulate poisonous blood with the precision, accuracy, and speed of the two differing with the age gap between them.

She took her stance.

The battle will have to move to closer combat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mahito had said that the girl wouldn’t be too much of an issue to bring back since all three brothers were going on this simple mission.

From what was known about her and how it was explained, the essence of her ability seemed to be stopping things in place much like Satoru Gojo’s Infinity. It made sense for an ability that was a derivative of the main Gojo technique.

Choso narrowed his eyes at the sorcerer in front of him— sight wandering from the quickly rotating chain in her left hand, to the throwing knives in her right, and finally to her stance — guarded and ready to attack at a given moment.

“Nii-san, the poison doesn’t seem to be affecting her too much. I didn’t hear anything about poison resistance from those curses,” Eso commented to him in a low voice.

“It seems that our information was outdated. Her abilities are that of a first-grade sorcerer at the very least.”

The knives were bothering him.

When she had thrown them earlier, it wasn’t going nearly as fast as it did when it hit Kechizu. It was faster.

The realization of her ability clicked for him.

“Eso…” he muttered lowly to his brother. “She can change the speed of things.”

“Changing the speed-?”

“She’s able to stop the speed of things moving like she did with those knives and Kechizu, but she’s also able to make things move faster and slower too.”

Considering how fast Eso had launched his wing king attack, she wouldn’t have been able to evade that easily unless she was also capable of slowing the blood down as it approached her.

“She’s approaching her limit though. Considering that Kechizu is still stuck in place, she’s using a good amount of effort in maintaining that,” Choso began to say aloud. “She’s also probably slowing the speed at which the poison in our blood is spreading. That’s why she’s not kneeling over completely yet.”

He looked over at Kechizu who had given up on flailing around and simply hung in mid-air with a strange contentment to him. Choso sighed. His hands clasped together to activate Convergence as the drop of blood condensed to its limit and was prepared to instantaneously fly at his command.

He took a few steps forward.

“We’re here to bring you back with us. If you want to continue this little fight, then by all means.” Choso didn’t care too much for engaging in a fight with the sorcerer, but given how the four of them started off their initial interactions, it most likely can’t be avoided at this point. Kechizu was fine at the moment, but he wasn’t keen on putting either one of his brothers at risk of injury if he could help it. He felt Eso take a similar stance beside him.

“I don’t think you gave me a choice in this to begin with.” The response was soft spoken, but held a tenacious tone.

The air between them was tense as both sides awaited the other’s move.

It broke with the chain throw.

The spinning metal chain came launching at Eso and Choso with great speed and it took a significant amount of effort and luck to avoid the barreling weapon.

Choso evaded and looked back at the sorcerer.

She was gone.

His eyes widened as the intense presence of cursed energy swelled and manifested behind him.

“Sh-“

A hard blow hit him against the arms as a strong, swift kick came at his way. He had barely the chance to throw up his arms to block, but it came in the nick of time.

Choso was sent flying a ways back.

His body throbbed with a strange resonating pain. He had no time to glare at the sorcerer as she immediately came to hurl a barrage of blows at him with a speed he wasn’t able to process fully.

Blood rushed in his ears as he instinctively moved to manipulate the blood contained in his body.

Flowing Red Scale: Stack.

The enhancement of his senses and physical strength enabled him to parry her to the best of his ability, though she landed several hits on him.

Choso winced.

They were reinforced with cursed energy and the original kick sent his way had injured his arm to a certain extent. She was wearing some sort of metal shin guard — the armor had given an extra layer of damage.

Eso had been using his Wing King attacks— careful as to not hit Choso, but she was moving much too quickly for either one of them to land a hit in.

‘She’s using her ability to increase her speed,’ Choso noted. He was pushing Flowing Red Scale to its limit as well with him barely keeping up with her to avoid any lethal blows. ‘I doubt that she can keep this up much longer with keeping Kechizu in place and preventing the poison from her wounds from seeping too much.’

Eso was on the offensive with his long-ranged Wing King attacks while Choso kept her occupied in physical combat with his Flowing Red Scale.

It was a war of attrition. This would be won by both Choso and Eso in the end. They would outlast her. In terms of cursed energy, they were incomparable as special grade curses, and in terms of overall advantage, they outnumbered her.

She would lose this war of stamina and endurance.

Choso blocked another punch and jumped back to avoid the sweep kick she sent.

Eso touched down on the ground and a barrage of the blood lattice was sent their way.

A defining moment.

Choso locked eyes with her as he raised his arms defensively to block and parry her incoming blows. Eso’s blood was hurdling her way and he needed to keep her occupied with him just a moment more so that Eso would land the hit or cause a distraction that would allow Choso to gain the upper hand.

His eyes bore intently into her own as he watched the world around him still to a halt.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

Everything was frozen.

“CHOSO-NII!!!”

Kechizu’s scream sounded out in his frozen world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had thought that the curses had solely long to mid-range attacks. Considering the blood lattice and the blood bullet that was sent her way early on in the fight, she figured that a close range combat would take her opponents off guard and turn the tides of the battle in her favor.

Flinging the chain was the first distraction. The rate of its spin and hurtle were increased as she discarded the weapon to favor a more personal close-quarter combat with her knife and fists. The long weapon would only risk more blood spilling to poison and corrode at her.

Differential activated on her body as she rushed forward. Pushing herself to accelerate at the fastest rate her body can feasibly handle, she managed to get behind the most troublesome curse and sent a strong kick his way.

Channeling her cursed energy into the blow, she let out an irritated sigh as he had managed to get his arms up in time to block it.

She dodged the blood lattice springing her way and leapt forward and accelerated once more.

The metal braces that she wore on her forearms and shins were heavy, though they came to pay off in instances such as this.

Momentum.

While the initial startup of running, throwing a punch, or kicking was slow due to the weight of the metal, it allowed for acceleration and her adjustment of it to make things unbelievably fast.

She wondered if she had picked the right curse to go after a few exchanges of blows.

The strange black stripe on the curses’s nose had transformed into a line with arrows at the end and a vertical deviation that ran up to the curse’s eyes. He was adept at close-combat.

Another blood lattice blow was evaded as she continued to bombard the humanoid curse in front of her with punches and kicks.

He dodged again and the realization that this would be a race of endurance became abundantly clear to her. If it became as such, this would be a battle that she would definitely lose.

The flesh-colored curse behind her was on a constant barrage of blood.

She decided that he was the more pressing threat.

But she doubted that the one in front of her would allow for her to switch targets so easily. The versatility of his combat range had surprised her, but it was a given that she would instantly lose the battle if he were to send one of those blood bullets at her again. She doubt that she can catch the orb in time to apply Differential and she wouldn’t be able to maintain a constant radius of the ability with her usage of it on so many things at the moment.

She needed to take his attention away.

The first time she realized the extent of her ability application was when she had overheard a conversation at the engineering department on a mission to eliminate a curse at a college in the city.

“You know why engineering, math, and physics is so hard? It’s because we’re trying to find a way to describe the natural world using equations! Everything can be described by some equation. Some of them are easy, others are hard. And it’s precisely for that reason that we’re needed in the world.” It was an engineering professor at the university talking to his colleague.

She liked the Professor.

Coming up to him later once the mission was done and reported, he had welcomed her into the lecture hall under the impression that she was a high schooler exploring the various majors and fields for college later on down the road. It was a fair assumption as she had just begun as a first year student at Tokyo Tech.

“We can’t truly ever find a completely perfect equation for everything in the world, Gojo-Chan.” She had tailed after him once his Differential Equations class had ended. “But we use these equations to model what actually happens in order to understand and control the things that would seemingly be out of our hands.”

She could see equations and numbers everywhere after that.

And with that, her ability blossomed as an entire realm of possibility was opened to her.

While the perception of vision is a complex system of the light’s reflection in the eye, transmission through the optic nerve, and processing in the brain, she could model the eye’s rate of perception as constant.

The rate at which you see is constant.

She took the derivative of that.

The humanoid curse froze in anticipation for a blow that would never come. His world would appear frozen. And that was exactly what she needed.

Taking away his eyesight, reducing the rate of perception in his eyes to zero, she quickly spun around and bolted towards the flesh-colored curse with the blood lattice wings.

His eyes widened in surprise at her sudden change in course, but was quick to gather himself back into an defensive stance rather than his previous offensive one.

Though it wouldn’t matter much.

The throwing knife was in her hand and she would hurl it at him as a distraction.

He would know what the risk of getting hit by the knife entailed with how his younger brother had gotten frozen in place.

It flung forward with a trajectory aiming at his right side.

He moved left to dodge just as she anticipated.

The opening gave her a means to act upon her true intent.

Hovering equations and constants floated in front of her eyes as she honed in on the specific rate she wanted to adjust. It was crucial to select the appropriate one.

A linear equation by the stomach of the curse caught her eye.

Considering the variables in the split second it took for her to reach out with a hand and touch him, she knew it was the correct one.

It was the equation that governed his progression as a manifested curse.

The derivative of the equation was shown to her as she changed the rate of manifestation into a negative value— driving the curse back in time to his unmanifested form.

A fetal form was revealed to her, and she came to the dreadful realization that the object was one of the special grade objects— a Cursed Womb: Death Painting. The school had these in their possessions as objects which could not be destroyed due to their properties as special grade objects. Chills ran down her spine as she carefully clutched it in her hands. These must have been stolen. She gulped. The context of the situation was more severe than she had originally thought.

A piercing scream rang out— interrupting her stupor.

It was the curse that was frozen in place.

The hairs on her arms rose as her senses rang amok to signal impending danger. In a panic, she dashed forward and ducked as the humanoid curse rapidly gathered particles of blood and began firing them in haphazard directions.

Many were far off.

But relief at their miss was short-lived as the moment they drew close, they exploded into a million smaller pieces.

She couldn’t count how many had hit her as excruciatingly painful stings of the blood resonated throughout her body.

Her concentration dropped.

Differential disappeared.

Consequences emerged from the aftermath.

The humanoid curse blinked several times as he regained his sight.

The turquoise one fell to the ground with a soft thud.

Her wounds began to flow and the effects of the poison began to seep into her from the outside in.

Fortunately, the curse she had unmanifested remained as such for reasons unknown to her.

Her eyes were blurry and a high pitched ringing was deafening her ears. Somehow, she was on the ground. The world spun about her disorientingly.

A large blur of white and black was approaching her, but she was unsure as to where it was.

It was most likely that humanoid curse.

All of her Differential was off now, and her cursed energy was almost negligible.

She can try for one more.

As the curse approached, she squinted and breathed deeply.

Seven meters.

Six meters.

Five meters.

He was in range.

Equations and constants bombarded her senses again as she hastily tried to find a similar linear equation stuck near the center of the curse’s body.

Eyes widening slightly as she caught the blurred image of one, she quickly applied Differential and took its derivative.

The rate of the equation was changed to a large negative value, but she could not manage to hold onto her technique for much longer than she had.

Differential dissipated and she heard a small thump by her legs.

She couldn’t check to see if it worked.

The ringing in her ears were so loud. The world spinning around so quick was making her nauseous. The pain in her body was hot, scorching, and throbbing with an overwhelming intensity.

Weights bore down on her body as she drowned in a surrealistic trance of what was happening around her.

If this was it for her, then she hoped that acknowledgement of this biased situation would be considered before her corpse would be burned and forgotten as though she never mattered in the first place.

A low aching in her chest and a bitterness in her mouth were the last things she felt before it all went cold and dark.