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sonamytrash · 11 months ago

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A good fuckin' show

Electrician Toji Fushiguro.

Porn trope Toji series, part 1🖤

Warnings: MDNI, Dom!Toji x fem!reader, shameless smut, smut with minimal plot, smut with porno plot, vaginal fingering, eating pussy, eating ass, fisting, squirting, oral sex (m and f receiving), cum swallowing, dirty talk, probably more, not proof read.

I don't know what to say for myself. I got carried away, but there's no way any Toji in any universe wouldn't be this feral. Wrap up, don't let your electrician fist you unless it's Toji. Enjoy you nasty sluts 🖤

Dividers by @cafekitsune

The rain pattered against the windowpane, casting a rhythmic pattern of shadows across the living room carpet. You pull your hair into a messy bun as you stare at the clock. It was 2:58 PM on a dreary Saturday. The TV hummed with a cooking show, the only company you had while waiting for the electrician you'd called earlier that week.

The sudden knock at the door startled you. You peered through the peephole, and there he was: Toji Fushiguro, the man who'd been recommended by your friend. He was tall, his broad shoulders almost filling the doorframe, and his handsome face was a picture of confidence. You felt your heart skip a beat, not from fear but from the electric charge that seemed to pulse through the air around him.

You undid the lock and opened the door. "Hi," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You're the electrician?"

Toji nodded, flashing a grin that made your knees weak. "Yep, that's me," he said, his eyes shamelessly roaming over your figure. "Toji Fushiguro, at your service." He stepped inside, his work boots squeaking slightly on the polished floor. The air grew thick with tension as he moved closer, invading your personal space in a way that was both intimidating and tantalizing.

You led him to the flickering light in the lounge, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered on your hips.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very core.

You pointed up at the light fixture. "It's been doing this for a few days now," you said, your voice a little shakier than you'd intended. "I don't know much about electrical stuff, so I figured it was better to call a professional."

Toji nodded, his eyes still fixed on you as he pulled out his toolkit. "Might just be a loose wire," he murmured, setting the tools down on the floor. He walked over to the switch, turning the light on to see the issue for himself before turning it off again. He reached up, his strong arms flexing as he unscrewed the cover. "Let's see what we can do about that."

As he worked, his shirt rode up slightly, revealing a trail of dark hair that led down to his waistband. You couldn't help but stare, your thoughts drifting to the powerful body that lay beneath. The room grew warmer, or maybe it was just your imagination. You licked your lips, feeling a familiar ache building between your legs.

Toji must have noticed your gaze because he glanced down, catching you in the act. He smirked and leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "You like what you see?" he said, pulling you from your thoughts.

You blushed, trying to play it cool. "I'm just admiring your... work ethic," you replied with a roll of your eyes, your voice a breathy whisper.

Toji chuckled, his deep laugh sending a shiver down your spine. He stepped back and bent over the toolkit, his pants stretching tight across his muscular ass. You felt your eyes wander, taking in every inch of his body. He pulled out a pair of wire cutters and a screwdriver, his movements deliberate and precise.

"Might need to get up there to take a better look," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "Could you help me out?"

You nodded, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling in your stomach. You stepped closer, reaching to hand him the ladder from the nearby closet. As you did, your breasts brushed against his hand, and you felt a spark of desire ignite. He took the ladder and set it up under the light fixture, his biceps bulging with the effort.

"You can just stay down there," he said, his voice gruff. "I'll let you know if I need anything."

You watched as he climbed the ladder, his thighs flexing with every step. When he reached the top, he leaned over, giving you a perfect view of his ass. You bit your lip, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the anticipation was too much.

"You can go ahead and hand me those wire strippers," he said, holding out his hand without looking down. You reached up, your fingertips grazing his palm as you handed them over. Fuck, his hands were so big.

As you watched him work, you couldn't help but let your thoughts wander. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt, the scent of his cologne, the roughness of his hands. Before you knew it, your own hand was resting on your thigh, squeezing slightly. You could feel your pussy growing wetter with every passing second.

Toji paused in his work, sensing the shift in the air. He glanced down at you, his eyes darkening. "You okay down there?" he asked, his voice a little gruffer than before.

You nodded, trying to regain your composure. "Yeah, I'm fine," you said, your voice strained.

Toji took his time climbing down the ladder, his eyes never leaving yours. When he reached the bottom, he stepped closer, so close that you could feel the heat emanating from his body. "You sure about that?" he asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Your breath hitched as his hand reached out, brushing against your cheek. His thumb traced a line along your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. "I can see you're a little... distracted," he murmured.

You swallowed hard, unable to form a coherent response. His touch was like a brand, searing through your skin and igniting a fire within you. The ache between your legs grew more intense, and you realized you'd been subtly shifting your weight, trying to relieve the pressure.

Toji leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Maybe I can help with that," he whispered, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip. His fingers dug in, holding you in place as he stepped closer, trapping you between his body and the wall.

You gasped as he brought his mouth to yours, his kiss rough and demanding. His tongue slid past your lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that matched your own. Your body responded instinctively, arching into him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His hands roamed over your body, one sliding up to cup your breast, the other slipping down to squeeze your ass.

With a growl, Toji picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the couch. He set you down, his eyes never leaving yours as he stripped off his shirt, revealing a chest that was a sculpted masterpiece. You reached out, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin.

He kissed you again, his hands deftly unbuttoning your blouse. Your breasts spilt out, and he took one in his mouth, sucking and biting gently. You moaned, your body responding to his touch with a fervour that surprised you.

"Fuck," you breathed, as his hand slid up your thigh, pushing your shorts aside. His rough fingers grazed your wet panties, the fabric already soaked through. He leaned in, capturing your mouth again as he ground his hips against you, his erection pressing into your core.

You reached for his belt, eager to feel his bare skin against yours. He let out a low growl as you unbuckled it, his erection straining against his pants. He stepped back for a moment, pulling his pants down to free himself, revealing his thick, hard cock.

You couldn't take your eyes off it, the sight making your mouth water. "Suck it," he ordered, his voice a low growl that sent a bolt of excitement through your body. You didn't hesitate, sliding off the couch to your knees. The scent of his arousal filled the air as you leaned in, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. You took the tip into your mouth, feeling the heat and the velvety skin against your tongue.

Toji's hands tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you took more of him in. "That's it, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Take it all." His curses and praise grew more fervent as you worked him, your mouth sliding up and down his length, taking in as much as you could and using your hand to pump the base. The salty taste of his precum mixed with the musky scent of his skin was driving you wild.

"You like that, don't you?" he groaned, his grip tightening. "You like being a good little slut for me." You nodded, unable to speak around his cock and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The idea of being his, of being used by him, was intoxicating.

"Mmhmm," you managed to murmur, your voice muffled by his shaft.

Toji's grip in your hair tightened as he thrust deeper into your mouth, his hips rocking slightly as you gagged on his cock. "Such a good girl," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and dominance. "So eager to please.

You moaned in response, the vibrations travelling along his length as your throat spasmed around him. He was heightening your arousal with every filthy word that left his lips. You could feel your own juices trickling down your thighs, your pussy begging for his attention.

"Look at you," Toji said, his voice a gruff whisper. "Such a greedy little whore. You want more, don't you?"

You nodded, your eyes watering slightly as you kept up the pace. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling you back and forth as he fucked your mouth. You could feel his cock swelling, growing harder with every stroke. "That's it," he growled. "Take it all, baby."

His praise was driving you to be the best you could be for him. You moaned around his length, the vibrations sending shivers through his body. His curses grew louder, his hips bucking as he reached the edge. "I'm going to cum," he warned, his voice strained. "Be a good girl and swallow every fucking drop."

You nodded, eager to please. His cock pulsed in your mouth, and you felt the first hot spurt of his cum hit the back of your throat. You swallowed, the salty taste flooding your mouth. He pulled out, stroking himself the last few times, spurts of cum landing on your face and chest. You sat back, a proud smile playing on your lips.

Toji pressed you back onto the couch, His hands deftly found the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a harsh jerk. Toji's gaze raked over you, his pupils dilating with desire. He slid his thumbs under the elastic of your panties, pulling them down with a slow, deliberate motion. You felt the cool air hit your skin, making you shiver.

He dropped to his knees, his breath hot against your thighs. "Spread 'em," he ordered, his voice thick with lust. You obeyed, your legs parting as he moved closer. His hands slid along your inner thighs, his rough fingers sending shivers up your spine. You felt his mouth on you, his tongue tracing the line of your pussy before delving in. You moaned, your hips bucking as he began to eat you out.

His tounge found your clit with ease, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure. He teased it mercilessly, flicking and circling as you squirmed beneath him. Then, without warning, one of his thick digits slid inside you, filling you up. You gasped, the sudden intrusion making your eyes roll back in your head. He chuckled against your skin, his teeth grazing your clit as he added a second finger.

Toji's fingers began to move, pumping in and out of you in a rhythm that grew more frantic with every passing second. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your juices coating his hand as he worked you closer to the edge. His tounge remained on your clit, rubbing it in time with the thrusts of his fingers. It was as if he knew exactly what you needed, as if he could read your mind.

With a wicked grin, he pulled away, leaving you panting and desperate. He leaned back, his eyes traveling over your exposed, trembling body. "Ready for more?" he asked, his voice low and dark.

You nodded, unable to form words as he repositioned himself between your legs. He spread your cheeks apart, his breath hot on your sensitive skin. You felt his rough fingers slide into your pussy, coating them in your wetness before moving to your tight asshole. "Look at this perfect little asshole," he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and lust. "So tight and pink. Do you want me to play with it?" He began to massage the entrance before you could reply, loosening you up with gentle pressure. The sensation was foreign and thrilling, making you squirm with anticipation.

With a wicked smirk, Toji leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste you. He licked around the edge of your asshole, the sensation sending shockwaves through your body. You tightened your grip on the couch cushions, biting back a moan. He circled the tight ring of muscle before pushing his tongue inside, making you gasp. The feeling was intense, a mix of pleasure and pressure that was driving you wild.

As he ate your ass, his fingers remained busy, plunging in and out of your pussy. He stretched you wider, filling you with his digits until you were begging for more. You felt a third finger slide in alongside the first two, stretching you even further. The sensation was almost too much to handle.

He pulled away, smacking his lips. "You're so fucking tight," he murmured, his eyes dark with lust. "But I think you can take more." He pushed a fourth finger inside you, the blunt pressure making your eyes water. You gasped, your body tensing, but he held you down, his other hand keeping your pussy filled.

Toji began to pump his four fingers in and out, stretching you open. You felt your body start to relax, to accept the intrusion. You groaned, the sensation overwhelming. It was too much, but at the same time, it wasn't enough. You wanted more.

He looked up at you knowingly, his eyes dark with hunger. "Beg for it," he growled.

You couldn't believe the words that slipped from your mouth. "Please, Toji," you whimpered, "Fist me."

"Nasty fuckin' slut." He teases with a wicked grin, but he complied, adding the addition of his thumb, his hand disappearing into your pussy. You felt a brief moment of panic before the pressure grew, stretching you wider than you ever thought possible. He pushed in, inch by inch, his fist disappearing into your body. The pain was exquisite, a delicious agony that had you crying out in a mix of pleasure and pain.

As his fist filled you completely, his other hand moved back to your asshole, slipping a digit inside. The sensation of being so full was overwhelming, making your eyes water. You couldn't believe how much you enjoyed the feeling of his hand buried inside you, his knuckles pressing against the walls of your pussy. It was as if every nerve ending was on fire, the pleasure searing through you.

Toji leaned back in, his tongue licking your clit as he fisted you. The combination of his hand moving in and out of your tight hole and his tongue swirling around your sensitive nub was more than you could handle. You felt your orgasm building, a crescendo of sensation that was about to crash over you.

"Fuck, you're taking this so well," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "You like that, don't you?"

You could only nod, unable to find the words to respond as he began to move his fist in and out of you with a steady rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through your body, making you arch off the couch. His tongue danced around your clit, licking and sucking as his fist pumped in and out of your pussy. The sensation was like nothing you'd ever experienced before, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that had you begging for more.

Toji's hand was a blur of motion, his fist disappearing and reappearing as he fucked you with a ferocity that left you gasping for air. Your orgasm grew closer, the tension coiling tight in your belly. You could feel your muscles spasming around his hand, the pleasure building to a fever pitch.

With a final, desperate thrust, your body let go. You squirted, your juices spraying all over his hand and the couch beneath you. The force of your climax was so intense that you saw stars, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Toji's eyes widened in surprise, but his smile grew even more wicked as he watched you come apart in his arms.

As your body trembled, he withdrew his fist, your muscles clenching around his retreating hand. He licked his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he took in the sight of your quivering form. "Damn, you're a squirter," he murmured, his voice filled with approval. "I fucking love a good show."

#toji smut #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #toji x you #jjk toji

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literaryvein-reblogs · 8 months ago

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Writing Reference: 5 Symbols

for your next poem/story (pt. 4)

CROW’S FOOT

The crow’s foot is also known as the Witch’s Foot, and was feared as an indicator of death, used in casting spells against enemies.

Crows, like ravens, were associated with the witches and warlocks who were believed to be able to transform themselves into these black birds so that they could travel unnoticed to their sabbats.

The name “crow’s feet” is also given to the lines that radiate around the outer corners of the eyes with the coming of age and the inevitable approach of death.

CRUX DISSIMULATA

In 3rd century Rome, early Christians were persecuted to such a degree that their lives were threatened and the symbols of their faith had to be disguised.

One of the ways they recognized one another was by the sign of the fish or ichthus; another way was to disguise the Cross cleverly as something else.

The meaning of Crux Dissimulata is “disguised” or “dissimilar” cross.

One of the more ingenious forms of this secret symbol, shown here, was the anchor. The top of the anchor is formed like a cross and, in addition, the anchor is plainly a symbol of stability. Because anchors are associated with the sea, too, the fish symbol could easily be incorporated into it.

The Crux Dissimulata was used as a secret symbol and a rallying call for adherents to the new and dangerous faith.

CRYSTAL BALL

Combining the sphere’s perfection and totality with the clarity and brilliance of crystal, the crystal ball is a part of the toolkit of the professional clairvoyant or seer.

The clarity of the crystal matches the “clear sight” of the psychic.

When used for scrying, the crystal ball acts as a focus for meditation, enabling the adept to access a place that is out of time in order to be able to see into the future.

This practice of scrying is carried out in various ways:

Instead of an expensive crystal, cheaper methods are apparently just as effective for the talented psychic.

A bowl of water, a mirror, a drop of blood, or a pool of ink can be used.

However, the glamor of the genuine crystal ball is hard to beat.

DOORWAY

The simple doorway—an everyday object that goes unnoticed most of the time—is symbolic of a transition between one world and the next.

Such a doorway may take different forms, as a dolmen, a torii, a gateway, but the meaning remains the same.

In C. S. Lewis’s Narnia novels, the wardrobe into which the children step to enter the magical world of Narnia is a good example of this symbol.

Both Heaven and Hell lie beyond gates or doorways, and the threshold of such a place is seen as the place where two worlds meet and sometimes collide.

Many rituals involve the initiate stepping through a doorway of some kind.

The vesica piscis represents a doorway where the world of spirit enters the world of matter.

DREAMCATCHER

The forerunner of the Dreamcatcher was a Native American spider’s web of feathers and beads, a simple little charm made from a small hoop of flexible wood, such as willow, with an interlacement of plant fibers designed to look like a cobweb.

Used particularly as a protection for babies and small children.

Hung over their cradles and beds, it was thought to entrap any negative spirits that came in the form of nightmares.

These malevolent entities, entangled in the web, were sizzled in the heat from the rising Sun.

The spider’s-web shape gave homage to Asibikaasi, the mythical Spider Woman, whose magical webs could catch anything.

The elaborate Dreamcatchers of today, an essential part of the kit for any self-respecting New Ager, were invented in the 1960s and ’70s as part of the resurgence in Native American culture and belief.

Source ⚜ More: On Symbols

#writing reference #symbols #symbolism #writeblr #spilled ink #dark academia #literature #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #poetry #poets on tumblr #light academia #creative writing #writing inspo #writing ideas #writing inspiration #writing resources

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autumnbrambleagain · 2 years ago

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It's like, you go up to Baldur's Gate 3 and you're like, hey, you're a fantasy game. Can I play as something weird? Like maybe a centaur? That's a fantasy race, right?

And Baldur's Gate 3 says, uhm, no. You can play as a human. If you really must be different you can play as a dragonborn.

And it's like. oh, neat! That's like, a dragon?

And they're like, well, it looks more like some kind of fish... maybe like, you know those shrink-wrapped dinosaurs from the earlier days of paleontology?

And it's like... oh. Okay. What about modded races? Did someone mod in a centaur?

And BG3 is like, buddy. Buddy. Do you know how hard that would be for fans to animate? We don't even have a modding toolkit for you to use. Of course not. You can't play as a centaur. You play as a human.

And it's like... no, sure, of course, I'm sorry for bothering you.

You go to Caves of Qud and ask if you can play as a centaur.

CoQ says oh, sure, one of the first npcs you run into is a taur! The extra legs let you outspeed enemies and also give you a carry weight bonus! But what's that over there is that your fursona

and i'm like, oh, what, uhh

and CoQ is like, yeah! What is that, two-headed, four-armed foxthing? Why don't you play as that instead?

and i'm like, I'm sorry, what?

and CoQ is like, yeah, having two heads lets you wear two kinds of helmets for different bonuses, and also lets you use mental abilities quicker AND helps you shake off mental effects faster! the extra arms lets you stack up a whole bunch of weapons at once, it's a really powerful base to build your character around!

And I'm like... well... what about the visual representation of it?

and CoQ goes, we use sprites with 2 colors and negative space, so you don't need to relearn 3D modeling and animation to have your guy represented in the game with the same fidelity as everything else that already exists in it! no problem!

and like... of course, the Thing You Can Play As isn't the only factor that makes a game good! but after experiencing this, it's so hard to enjoy games like BG3. Like yeah the story and its writing and your ability to affect it are unmatched in BG3 it especially makes Bethesda look like hot steaming garbage!

but i have to either play as a human or a shrink wrapped fish dinosaur from 60s paleontology to do it? and every game makes me just play as a human. the most fantastical games with the craziest settings all mostly moderate themselves to "medieval europe... with a little bit of weirdness"

meanwhile in CoQ turning a locked door sapient, recruiting it, and giving it a chaingun so i have a literal metal door wielding a chaingun is a perfectly viable answer to getting through a locked door

anyway that's why i think the developers of CoQ should be given the budget of BG3 tyvmia

#caves of qud #autumn says things

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ode-to-melpomene · 8 months ago

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Hello!! I loved your writing for Daring rescue! It was a funny but still showed the vulnerable sides of the batboys!!!

I was wanting to request some fluff with Tim? Up to you! I just feel like he needs more fics!

I agree, Tim definitely needs more love! I hope you like it 💛

Weekend Off

Pairings: Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Weekend plans are often interrupted when you are dating a hero. Word Count: 985 Warnings: Fluff, and somewhat suggestive dialogue/flirting. Maybe subtly angsty at the end.

Tim tried not to bring vigilantism into your home. He knew you didn’t mind–in fact, you had teased him about how good he looked in his suit several times… but often he fought to keep you and that side of his life separated.

Tonight was not that night.

A last-minute call from Stephanie had changed his plans. He had planned to take the weekend off with you since you had just finished midterm exams and were feeling a lull in your college workload; but, if Steph was calling him for backup despite knowing his weekend plans, it was too important to ignore.

So, Tim hurriedly gathered what he needed. He was underprepared–too few supplies in his toolkit, given he didn’t want to bring extras into your apartment. He regretted that now and thoroughly wished he could hide a stockpile in the back of your closet. You would let him if he asked.

“I’ve got a cup steeping,” you called from the kitchen, your voice carrying through the adar door to the small bedroom Tim changed in. “You want some before you head out?”

“Coffee?” he asked with a crooked grin. He could picture the way your nose no doubt wrinkled in disgust.

“Tea,” you responded with an exaggerated sigh and a hidden smile. “Y’know, the one that’s actually good for you.”

“Coffee can be good for you,” he debated with a smile. Tim sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, and worked on pulling his boots on. They slid on easily over his socks–a comfortable pair you had gotten for him for his birthday after complaining about his feet aching after patrols. The comfort the socks brought him made it easy to ignore the pink flamingo pattern. “It helps boost metabolism and antioxidants-”

“And causes anxiety and sleep disruption,” you argued, your voice suddenly much closer than the kitchen. Tim turned to look over his shoulder at your figure standing in the doorway, sipping from the warm mug in your hands. “You and I both know you need more sleep.”

“I sleep best when I’m with you,” he replied. Tim stood with a tired sigh and adjusted his feet in the boots.

“Have I mentioned how much I like the suit?”

Tim laughed, turning to face you and your teasing grin. Your eyes roved over the suit, taking another sip as you ogled. “A few times, yeah.”

You hummed in reply then lowered the mug from your lips. “I prefer you without the cowl. The domino mask shows how handsome you are.”

“Being handsome doesn’t exactly help me stop crime.”

“It does if your good looks distracts them enough,” you quipped. Tim scoffed playfully and turned his back to you. He pulled his belt from the suitcase he had brought with him and fastened it around his waist.

“What, like how you get distracted?”

Tim fiddled with the buckle of his belt, waiting for your clever response. His brows rose when you held off as he adjusted the straps across his chest and centered the emblem. When he finally turned to face you again you were staring at him from beneath your lashes, a coy smile on your lips.

“Sorry, did you say something? I was too busy admiring how you look in that tight spandex-”

“Alright, enough out of you,” he chastised with a shake of his head. You barked out a laugh at his response, admiring the blush that rose on his cheeks. You set your mug of tea atop the dresser beside the bed and made your way over to him.

Your hands slipped beneath the tactical straps that crossed his chest. His hands landed on your waist, bunching the soft fabric of your pajamas beneath his gloved hands. “You look nice,” he uttered quietly.

You scoffed. “It’s the same pajamas I wear every time you come over.”

“And you look nice every time,” he answered, pressing a kiss to your temple. You huffed in response and your hands moved up, one cupping his cheek and the other tangling in his hair. You tipped his head, chasing his lips with your own.

“Wish you could stay,” you muttered against his lips between slow kisses. He hummed in response and cupped your jaw with one gloved hand. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to?”

Tim pulled away and fixed you with a stern look. You sighed and dropped your forehead to his chest with a dull thump.

“I’m going to watch your favorite show without you while you’re gone.”

Tim gasped softly in offense, although the way his hands moved across your back and pulled you flushed against him told a different story. “Criminal. You know I could throw you in Blackgate for something like that?” His hands cupped your cheeks and lifted your head, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Good luck,” you huffed out a laugh. “I’m a highly skilled individual. My boyfriend taught me self-defense–I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he responded, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. You sighed in defeat when he took a step away, his hands moving deftly to his cowl and pulling it over his head. “Gotta go. Spoiler wants backup before she proceeds with her case.”

You smile warmly, hiding the disappointment as best you can. “She’s lucky to have you watching her back.”

Tim hesitated for a moment as he backed towards your bedroom window, staff in hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know. Stay safe,” you answered with a reassuring smile. He returned the expression as he slid the window open and planted one foot on the ledge outside. He nodded curtly in response.

Tim didn’t linger. The faster he could get this done, the faster he could return to the warmth of your apartment and enjoy his weekend off.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake #red robin x reader #red robin

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chu16a-blog · 1 month ago

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Montgomery Scott x Reader - A kiss for a kiss

First fanfic. Resume: A fiery rivalry between Scotty and a new engineer hides feelings neither will admit — until a near-tragedy, a drunken confession, and one kiss change everything.

A kiss for a kiss:

The first time you walked into Engineering aboard the Enterprise, all heads turned.

It wasn’t just your looks, though, frankly, that played a part — it was the energy you carried. Like a star imploding and creating something entirely new. Confident stride. No-nonsense tone. You were assigned straight into the engineering department.dw

You glanced around, noting the wide eyes of most of the men in the room. A few offered nods, one even winked. But you weren’t here to flirt. You were here to work.

On your first day, scotty watched you stalk up to the diagnostics terminal, drop your toolkit with a loud clang, and immediately start poking through the ship’s energy redistribution logs without so much as a “good morning.”

You didn’t even introduce yourself. Just started rewiring like you’d built the ship yourself.

He narrowed his eyes. “She’s gonna be a nightmare.”

And you were.

Every day, it was something new. You bypassed protocol. Refused gloves. Crawled into ducts without a spotter. You fixed things fast, maybe too fast, and left him trailing behind with paperwork and complaints.

After your third incident, where you nearly overloaded a relay by jamming two incompatible coils together (“It worked, didn’t it?”) — Scotty exploded.

“If I wanted a demolition crew, I’d have called one! Ye can’t just jam stuff until it sticks, lass!”

“I didn’t jam anything. I applied pressure physics and ran a manual override. You should try reading the schematics sometime, Chief.”

“Den’t test me, I’ll reassign ye to cleanin' the warp nacelles with a toothbrush!”

“You’ll have to catch me first, Grandpa.”

He stared at you.

When Scotty’s frustration started bubbling over into grumpier-than-usual tirades, Kirk and Bones decided it was time for a drink and invited him to the captain’s quarters.

“She desn’t even label her tools!” he muttered to Kirk over drinks. “Jus' yanks things 'part like she’s in a bloody scrapyard.”

Kirk grinned behind his glass of Saurian brandy. “You don’t like her because she rewired that stabilizer in half the time it would take you.”

“I den’t like her becaus' she’s reckless,” Scotty snapped. “Fixes things with spit and instinct. The lass is goin' to get herself killed.”

Bones, who’d been silently sipping, raised an eyebrow. “Funny, sounds like someone I know…”

You and Scotty spent the next few weeks locked in a steady rhythm of arguments and stubborn standoffs, the friction between you practically a part of the ship’s daily routine.

You were elbow-deep in the side panel of the power transfer grid when Scotty came storming over.

“What 'n the name of sanity are ye doin'? Ye’r rerouting a main power conduit without ae safety brace!”

You barely looked up. “Don’t need it. I’ve done this plenty of times.”

“And if the system kicks in while ye hand’s 'n there, we’ll be scraping ye off the wall!”

You rolled your eyes. “Then shut down the system. Simple fix.”

Scotty’s jaw clenched. “Ye’ll follow protocol on me deck, lass.”

“I’ll follow whatever gets the job done fastest and safest — and newsflash — I am being safe.”

The tension was magnetic. And maddening. You drove each other up the wall. But that didn’t stop you from looking when he passed by. Or him from watching you when he thought you weren’t noticing.

He started complaining more to Bones and Kirk, his grumbling less furious, more… tortured.

“She struts around like she invente' the warp core. Always has thae grease smear on he' cheek. Why is that attractive?!” Scotty groaned.

“She’s got you twisted,” Bones laughed. “Might want to untangle yourself before it gets worse.”

“You know, if you keep complaining about her every day, people might start thinking you're obsessed.”

“Obsessed with no' dying, maybe,” Scotty grumbled. “She hotwires power converters like she’s trying te trigger a core meltdown.”

“She’s efficient,” Bones offered.

“She’s reckless.”

“You also said she solved the capacitor issue in under five minutes,” Kirk pointed out.

“Aye,” Scotty muttered.

Kirk exchanged a knowing glance with Bones.

A few days later, the perfect opportunity for mischief presented itself.

Kirk, being Kirk, decided a little tight space would “build camaraderie.”

“Two of my best engineers,” he said innocently, “I need you both in the auxiliary core junction. Crawling space only. You’ll need to work together.”

Scotty glared at him. “Th' is about yoe' amusement, isn’t it?”

“No,” Kirk said, utterly unconvincing. “Definitely not.”

So, that’s how you ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with Montgomery Scott under a massive tangle of Enterprise machinery, both of you flat on your backs, shoulders pressed together, tools in hand, faces barely inches apart.

The air was thick with the hum of energy conduits and barely-contained irritation.

“I told ye we should’ve rerouted the EPS flow from th' secondary regulator,” he muttered.

“And I told you,” you said, squinting up at the wiring, “that doing it your way would’ve overloaded the entire subsystem.”

“I’ve bee' running thes' systems since befor' ye got your first toolkit,” he grumbled.

You gave a lopsided smile. “Right, because time automatically makes someone right.”

He grunted in response, reaching overhead to adjust a coupling, his elbow brushed your ribs. You flinched. “Watch it.”

“Maybe if ye didn’t take up half the damn crawlspace—”

“Oh please, I’m not the one with the overgrown toolbelt and a tendency to manspread under warp coils.”

He paused. “Tha's no' even a real word.”

“It is.”

You both glared at each other in the dim lighting, chests rising and falling with the heat of the argument, and something else. The tension buzzed louder than the plasma regulators above your heads.

Every time your hand brushed his while reaching for a spanner, every grunt or shift of his leg that nudged yours. It was like static electricity building up with nowhere to discharge. You tried to ignore it. You focused on the panel, the wires, anything but the warmth of his body or the faint scent of engine grease and cologne.

He spoke again, quieter this time. “I just... don’t like the way ye throw yerself into thes' systems. Ye’r reckless.”

You paused. “I get the job done.”

He turned his head to look at you. “Aye, ye do. But at what cost?”

You met his eyes, startled by the sudden shift in tone.

“Is that... concern?” you teased, unsure whether to mock or thank him.

He looked away quickly, cheeks slightly flushed. “Just trying to make sure I den’t have to fish ye out of the power grid one day.”

The silence after that was thick. Heavy.

You stared back at the wires, your heart beating just a little faster. His arm brushed yours again—not an accident this time—and neither of you moved away.

That night, Scotty couldn’t stop thinking about the way your smirk lingered, or the brief hitch in your breath when your knees had touched. He told himself it meant nothing. Just proximity. Just stress.

But something had shifted. Unwillingly. Uncomfortably. Irrevocably.

He started noticing more: the way you argued, sure, but also how you worked late. The way you tied your hair back when you were about to get under a console. How your lips pressed together when you were deep in thought. Caught himself looking at the back of your neck in the lift the next day. Wondering if you always twirled that same wrench when you were thinking.

And how often other men in Engineering looked at you. Talked to you. Laughed.

He hated it. Because he was older, not as polished, and damn it, he shouldn’t feel this way.

He tried to hide it. Try to work the opposite shift from yours. Avoiding was his best strategy right now, "It's just a phase, simple crush. It will go away soon,". It didn't.

You, for your part, were in full denial.

“He’s infuriating,” you told your friend over drinks in the rec lounge. “I mean it. He talks like I’m a hazard.”

“You are a hazard,” she said, sipping her drink. “But he clearly wants to disassemble more than your circuits.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t want to have time.”

“That too.”

“Still... you’re not not into him.”

You didn’t respond.

But your silence said enough.

A week later, you were back on mission, repairing a planetary outpost. Something went wrong. You didn’t see the panel sparking until it was too late. A sharp pulse, then pain. You went down hard.

The explosion rang in his ears long after the dust had settled.

He didn’t remember running. He didn’t remember the weight of the toolkit he tossed aside or the terrain tearing at his knees when he dropped beside you. All he remembered was your face — blood at your temple, eyes half-closed, your body frighteningly still beneath the crumpled debris.

“Y/N—no, no, no—com' on, stey with me,” he’d said, voice shaking as he cupped your cheek with one trembling hand, the other checking your pulse like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

He remembered the heat of you bleeding against him. He remembered shouting into his comm, barking at the Enterprise to beam you both up now, not giving a damn if the signal was unstable or protocol was being ignored.

And when the blue light took hold and you vanished with him back to safety, something else disappeared too, any illusion that he could keep pretending.

He loved you.

He loved you, and the thought of losing you had cracked something deep inside him. Something old and quiet and buried under years of routine and stubbornness and excuses.

He sat beside your biobed in Medbay while Bones patched you up, his jaw clenched and hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap. When the med team cleared out and you were resting, he just... stayed. Watching the rise and fall of your chest like it was the most precious, terrifying thing in the universe.

That was when it hit him.

This wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t annoyance mistaken for attraction. It wasn’t proximity or adrenaline or the thrill of having someone challenge him every damn day.

It was you.

It was the way you fought him on every repair because you wanted the best result, even if it meant bruised egos. The way you laughed when the warp core shuddered like a dying beast and you called it “character.” The way you called him out, stood toe-to-toe with him, refused to let him brood in silence when something was wrong.

You were everything he wasn’t, and everything he wanted to be near.

And for a second, seeing you limp in his arms, he'd thought he'd never get the chance to say it.

Now?

Now, he couldn't keep it inside anymore.

So when he left Medbay that night, he didn’t go to his quarters. He went to a secret stash. Pulled out the bottle of whisky. He needed to think — no, he needed to feel — and for once in his life, he wasn’t going to fix the damn feeling. He was going to follow it.

Just as Scotty raised his hand to knock, bottle clutched tightly at his side, he heard voices coming from inside your office.

Kirk’s voice, light but insistent: “You’ve got to tell him someday, you know. He’s not a mind reader.”

Scotty froze mid-motion, breath caught in his throat.

Tell who? he thought, heart suddenly hammering harder.

Then your voice came: “I don’t have time for this right now, Jim.”

You sounded... distant. Guarded.

Something inside him twisted.

His thoughts spiraled faster than he could stop them. Who was Kirk talking about? Some young officer? One of the blokes always orbiting you in the mess hall? Someone who wouldn’t leave grease on everything or lecture you about plasma conduits.

Not him.

And the way you said it — clipped, tired — like you were brushing the whole thing off. Like it wasn’t even worth your energy.

The bottle in his hand suddenly felt ridiculous. Heavy with hope he shouldn’t have had.

His arm fell to his side.

He stood there for a moment, silent in the hallway, the cool metal wall against his back as the voices inside faded into a low murmur.

Then he turned and walked away. Slowly. Quietly.

Whatever he'd been about to say, it stayed unspoken.

The bottle hit the workbench with a dull thunk, his fingers clumsy on the glass.

Engineering was empty. Dim. Quiet. The kind of quiet that let thoughts grow too loud.

He didn’t bother with a glass — just twisted the cap off and drank straight from the bottle, the burn a poor match for what churned in his chest.

He could still hear it — Kirk’s voice through your office door: “You’ve got to tell him someday…”

And your voice. Your voice. That pause. That distance.

The whisky hit hard, fiery down his throat, and he welcomed it. Welcomed the burn. It distracted him from the sharper pain sitting like a rock in his chest.

You had feelings for someone.

Just… not him.

Not the grease-stained, too-old, too-tired engineer who spent more time talking to warp cores than people. No. It was probably someone else. One of the young officers you laughed with in the mess. Someone with charm and bright eyes and smooth lines.

Someone who didn’t grumble every time you walked into the engine room.

Scotty let out a bitter chuckle, dragging a hand down his face.

“Aye,” he muttered to the empty room, accent curling heavier, rougher. “What the hell were ye thinkin’, Montgomery? That she'd ever look twice at ye?”

He glanced down at himself, stained uniform, scraped knuckles, hands that only ever fixed things, never held anything gently.

“She’s got feelings, alright,” he murmured. “Just not for the man who yelled at her for bypassing the safety relays.”

Another drink. His lips pressed tight to the glass like he could seal the words inside — or drown them.

The alcohol made it easier. And harder. It dulled the ache but made the truth louder.

He wasn’t what you needed.

Wasn’t what you wanted.

Probably never had been.

He set the bottle down, stared at it for a long time.

But the thought of doing nothing — of going back to pretending he didn’t care, didn’t feel anything — that was worse.

He couldn’t sit in the dark with that weight. Not tonight.

So he stood. A little too fast. The room tilted slightly, and he caught himself on the edge of the console.

Then he grabbed the bottle and made his way down the corridor, each step heavier than the last.

Maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he’d wake up regretting it all.

But if he didn’t tell you tonight — if he didn’t at least try — he’d never forgive himself.

And even if your heart belonged to someone else…

You deserved to know who’d given you his.

You opened the door and found Scotty, flushed, wide-eyed, holding a bottle of whiskey.

His accent was thick, words slightly slurred.

“Ye—ye look... radiant,” he said.

You blinked. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m... no’ not drunk.”

You stepped aside. He entered.

The scent hit you first: whisky, engine grease, and nerves.

He paced, agitated. “I had this whole plan, ye know? Thought I’d tell ye calmly. Classy. Maybe with tea. But now I’ve gone and bollocksed it up with whisky and rambling and—”

“Scott—”

“I know you don’t like me,” he blurted. “Ye roll your eyes, and ye argue, and ye’ve got these bloody perfect hands always fixing things faster than me, and everyone stares at ye like ye’re a bloody goddess and I’m just the crusty engineer who talks te warp cores like they’re alive—”

“Scotty—”

“—and I know I’m older and stubborn and no' remotely as good-looking as half the' men who trip over' themselves trying te flirt with ye, but I swear to every star in the quadrant that when I see ye, it’s like—like—gravity, and I’m too bloody tired to fight it anymore—”

And before you could say another word, he kissed you.

Not soft. Not gentle. Harsh.

Just heat, and regret, and everything he hadn’t said.

Then he pulled back, stared at you in horror, and fled the room.

You stood in the doorway, fingers to your lips, heart pounding.

The next day, scotty woke with a pounding headache and the vague, creeping sense that he'd done something very, very stupid.

He groaned, sitting up on his bunk, rubbing his face. There was a taste of whisky still lingering on his tongue and a patchy recollection of going to your quarters. Talking too much. Saying too much. Kissing—

“Oh, no.”

He buried his face in his hands. He didn’t even remember if you slapped him. Or screamed. Or threw him out. All he remembered was your eyes, wide in the low light of your quarters, and the electric jolt of your lips beneath his.

He dressed slowly, carefully, every movement tender. When he finally staggered into Engineering, he spotted you immediately across the room — working at a diagnostic station like nothing had happened.

Maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it was all in his head.

Maybe—

You turned. Your eyes met. You didn’t look furious. But you didn’t look pleased either. Just... unreadable. Neutral.

That was worse.

He nodded stiffly. You nodded back.

No words.

Just silence.

The day dragged like a broken impulse drive. Scotty fumbled his tasks. He dropped a tool, barked at an ensign, rewired a panel backward. Keenser stared at him in concern, but said nothing.

By the time the shift ended, he felt hollowed out and stupid.

He didn’t even go to the messhall. He just wandered the corridor aimlessly, steps slow, thoughts heavy.

He turned a corner — and stopped short.

You were there. Sitting alone on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of you, a cup of something warm in your hands.

You looked up at him.

“I figured you’d be avoiding me.”

He swallowed. “I... thought you might hate me.”

You gave a small, unreadable smile. “A little.”

He nodded, miserable. “Right.”

“I’ve been thinking about slapping you,” you said casually. “But then I figured... maybe I’ll just talk to you instead.”

He exhaled — unsure if it was relief or dread.

You patted the floor beside you. “Sit, Scotty.”

He did. Hesitantly. Close, but not too close.

There was a long silence.

“I didn’t know,” you finally said. “How you felt. I mean, I suspected. But you’re not exactly... emotionally transparent.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “I’ve always been better with engines than feelings.”

You glanced at him. “You were an idiot last night.”

“I am an idiot.”

“But... you were honest.”

Another silence. But this one felt different.

You leaned your head against the wall and sighed.

“I’ve been avoiding it too. What I feel. Figured it was just... tension. Frustration. Too much time in crawlspaces.”

Scotty laughed, low and rough. “And now?”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And then, soft as a whisper: “Now I think I’d like you to kiss me again. This time when you’re not drunk and panicking.”

His breath caught. “Are ye sure?”

You reached over, took his hand — the one that always held tools too tightly — and laced your fingers with his.

“I’m sure.”

He leaned in, slower this time, more careful. And when his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or wild — it was real. Steady. Earned.

When you pulled back, you didn’t let go of his hand.

He rested his head lightly against yours, smiling for the first time all day.

“Well,” he murmured, “I guess Kirk was right.”

You smirked. “About what?”

“Fighting is foreplay.”

You snorted. “Don’t make me slap you now.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to end a shift.”

You laughed, and it echoed down the corridor like something new beginning.

Something is finally just right.

#montgomery scott x reader #scotty x reader #montgomery scott imagine #star trek #montgomery scott #simon pegg #fanfic

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morgan-va · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 32: Breakfast and Existential Questions

Masterlist

The familiar hum of pipes fills your ears as you stir awake, the steady creaking of the mansion’s walls a strangely comforting sound. You blink against the dim light seeping through the curtains, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before stretching out your limbs. Another day of work.

It’s been a couple of weeks since you started here, and you think you’ve gotten the hang of things. The Elliotts, James and Louisa, are strict, but nothing you can’t handle. Their daughter, Tessa, on the other hand, has been an absolute delight—kind to the drones, kind to you, and all too happy to have an extra pair of hands around. The two of you got along quickly once she realized you shared her views on worker drones.

Sitting up, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and slip on your shoes, the cold floor sending a brief shiver up your spine. Your small room is cluttered with the usual odds and ends—spare parts, loose wires, tools scattered across your workbench. You gather what you need, making sure your toolkit is stocked before heading out. A quick bite to eat, and then it’s time to start the day.

Stepping out of your room, you climb the short staircase leading to the main floor. The air is still, the usual clatter of morning routines absent. A glance toward the grand entry hall confirms your suspicion—their coats are gone. James and Louisa must have already left for the day. Good. That means Tessa has a rare chance to breathe, to just be a kid for once.

She doesn’t get many days like this. You remember her mentioning she’d just turned sixteen not long before you arrived at the mansion, yet she carries herself like someone much older, weighed down by expectations. Sheltered as she is, the worker drones are her only real companions. It’s no wonder she treats them like people, why she clings to them the way she does.

You do what you can to make her life easier. Little things—distracting her parents when she’s goofing off, dropping tools at just the right moment to pull their attention away, even if it means getting an earful later. It’s worth it.

With a sigh, you turn away from the empty hall and head toward the kitchen. Time to figure out what’s for breakfast.

A few doors down, you step into the kitchen—only to be greeted by the sight of N, the ever-enthusiastic worker drone, sprinting in circles around the center island. His bright white optics are locked onto a tiny blur of movement, a mouse frantically scurrying just out of his reach.

"C'mere, little friend!" he calls out, nearly tripping over his own feet as he lunges forward. "You can have all the cheese in the fridge if you let me hold you!"

You lean against the doorframe, watching in amusement as the chase continues. The mouse, apparently uninterested in his generous offer, weaves effortlessly around the floor while N struggles to keep up, his arms outstretched as if he could just scoop it up at any moment.

Finally, after another lap around the island, N glances up and notices you standing there. He immediately waves, beaming. “Oh! Hey, Technician!”

Unfortunately, this moment of distraction is all it takes for his feet to tangle beneath him. With a surprised yelp, he topples forward, hitting the floor with a clatter as the mouse takes its chance, darting between your feet and disappearing out the door.

You sigh, stepping forward to help him up. “You okay?”

N takes your hand, hopping back onto his feet as if nothing happened. “Yup! Thanks!” He brushes off his suit, then grins. “That little guy was fast! Maybe I should try again with peanut butter next time…”

You laugh, giving him a friendly pat on the back. “I’m sure you’ll catch it next time.”

N nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Maybe I’ll even name it. Ooh, what do you think of Cheddar? Or Sir Squeaks-a-lot?”

You shake your head with a chuckle. “Breakfast first, pet mice later.”

His optics brighten. “Oh! Speaking of breakfast—would you like something? I was practicing omelets with Tessa! If you wanna try one, I’d love your opinion!”

You smile and nod, taking a seat at the counter. “Sounds good to me.”

Excited, N immediately gets to work, humming cheerfully as he gathers the eggs and begins prepping the pan. You watch him move through the process with focused determination, clearly putting a lot of effort into getting everything just right. Meanwhile, you pour yourself a glass of orange juice, sipping as he chatters away.

“So, how’d you sleep?” he asks, cracking an egg against the side of the bowl with surprising precision. “Pipes weren’t too noisy, were they?”

“Nah, I’m used to it by now,” you reply, resting your elbow on the counter. “Honestly, kind of a nice way to wake up.”

N tilts his head. “Huh! I guess that makes sense. It’s like… living inside a big coffee machine!”

You snort. “Not the comparison I was expecting, but sure.”

He grins, whisking the eggs. “Oh! Have you read any good books lately? I saw Tessa leave a big stack in the library the other day, but I don’t think she’s had time to read them yet.”

You think for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I picked up one the other night before bed. It was about—”

And just like that, the two of you fall into easy conversation, exchanging lighthearted chatter as he continues cooking. It’s simple, but there’s something undeniably nice about it.

Before too long, N carefully plates the omelet and places it in front of you with an excited grin, his optics practically sparkling. “Ta-da! One omelet, made with maximum love and only a little egg shell contamination!”

You pause, fork in hand. He immediately waves his hands frantically. “Kidding! Kidding! It’s perfectly safe, I promise!”

Shaking your head with a chuckle, you take a bite—and it’s delicious. Tessa really did a great job teaching him. The eggs are fluffy, the seasoning is just right, and the cheese is perfectly melted. You flash him a thumbs-up before swallowing.

“Wow, N, this is really good,” you say. “You might just be the best chef in the mansion.”

He lets out a high-pitched squeal, doing a little excited twirl on his heel. “Oh my gosh, really?! I’m so glad you like it!! I love cooking—next time, I’ll make you something even better! Maybe pancakes! Or soufflé! Or—”

You laugh as he starts rattling off dish ideas. “One step at a time, buddy.”

“Oh! Right!” He nods rapidly. “Oh, and don’t worry about the dishes—I’ll clean them later! But for now, I should probably go find J and see what she wants me to do today. Hope she’s not in too much of a bad mood!” He chuckles nervously before giving you a dramatic salute. “Wish me luck, Technician!”

With that, he spins on his heel and scurries out of the kitchen.

You shake your head fondly and return to your meal, happily finishing every bite. And as much as you appreciate N’s offer to handle the dishes, you’d rather not add to his workload. Even drones deserve a break now and then. So you quickly wash up, drying and putting everything away before heading out, ready to start the day.

First up: the garden sprinklers. Stepping outside, you’re greeted by the crisp morning air and the sprawling estate grounds, perfectly maintained—except for the occasional hiccup in the sprinkler system. You kneel down and pry open one of the control panels, scanning for any errors. Sure enough, a couple of the lines have clogged again. Pulling out a wrench and a small cutting tool, you get to work, disassembling the problem sections and clearing out debris. Once reassembled, you test the system, watching as the sprinklers burst to life, sending arcs of water across the trimmed hedges and flower beds. Much better.

Next is the heater—again. With how often it acts up, you’re starting to wonder if the thing is possessed. The pipes leading into the basement groan every time it kicks on, and it never quite distributes heat evenly. Heading down to the maintenance room, you open the main panel and squint at the error display. Low pressure. Figures. You sigh, cracking your knuckles before adjusting the intake valve and tapping at the side of the boiler to shake loose any sediment buildup. It hisses in protest before finally stabilizing, and the sound of hot water rushing through the pipes tells you it’s back in working order—for now. You wipe your hands off on a rag and shut the panel, making a mental note to check it again in a few days.

Last on the list is a couple of burnt-out light bulbs in one of the main hallways. Fetching a small ladder and a few replacements, you make your way inside, setting up under the dim fixtures. Climbing up, you unscrew the dead bulbs and slot in the new ones, the soft yellow glow flickering to life and brightening the space.

With that, your morning’s tasks are done. Not the hardest day of work, but a bit lonely—especially without Tessa around to pester you with her usual enthusiasm or N finding an excuse to check in every few minutes. Everyone else must be busy today.

Stretching out your arms, you decide it’s time for a well-earned break. And what better way to unwind than with a good book? With that thought, you make your way to the library, eager to get lost in a story for a little while.

You step inside the library, immediately stopping at the sight before you.

Tessa sits in the middle of a massive pile of books scattered across the floor, completely absorbed in the large tome in her hands. She doesn’t even notice you approaching, too lost in whatever she’s reading. You glance at the title: Exploring Human Consciousness and Life After Death, By Cod E. Wolfe. A quick scan of the surrounding books reveals a pattern—death, consciousness, research into prolonging life… certainly a morbid selection.

Curious, you clear your throat.

Tessa jolts in surprise, yelping as the heavy book slips from her grasp and smacks her square in the face.

You wince. Whoops.

"Sorry! You okay?" You kneel down, reaching to move the book off of her.

She sits up with an annoyed huff, blowing a strand of brown hair out of her face before glaring at you. "You suck for that."

You hold up your hands apologetically. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

She squints at you, then crosses her arms. "Hmm… nope. I don’t forgive you. Unless you help me grab a book. The ladder’s too short."

You sigh, but you’re not about to argue. "Alright, alright. Which one?"

She grins in triumph and points up toward one of the highest shelves. You follow her gaze to a particularly thick, dust-covered book wedged between others. Suppressing another sigh, you make your way to the ladder, stepping up carefully. Even with the extra height, you have to stretch to get your fingers around the spine. With a firm pull, you dislodge the book and bring it down safely.

Turning, you hand it to Tessa, who takes it with a satisfied smirk. "See? Was that so hard?"

You shake your head, watching as she dusts off the cover and immediately flips it open, already absorbed once more. Whatever she’s looking into, it must be important to her.

You raise an eyebrow at the pile of books surrounding her and gesture vaguely at the one she’s holding. "Doing some light reading?"

Tessa snorts, flipping a page. "Yeah, I guess you could call it that."

She doesn’t even look up as she continues reading, but after a moment, she speaks again. "Hey… have you ever thought about escaping this life?"

You blink, confused. "What do you mean?"

She pauses, finally setting the book down in her lap. "I mean… sometimes I just wish I could be someone else. I’ve always wondered if there’s a way to live a different life. A completely new one. Free from expectations or worry."

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach sink. You frown, watching her expression carefully. This kid shouldn't be talking like this.

Slowly, you lower yourself to the floor, sitting across from her. "Can’t say I’ve ever wanted that," you admit. "But… I get it."

Tessa sighs, leaning back against the book pile. "We live in a world where humanity has created artificial consciousness," she says, voice quiet but firm. "Worker Drones think and feel just like we do. If we can create and manipulate their minds… doesn’t that mean human consciousness can be changed the same way?"

You frown, thinking it over, but eventually shrug. "That’s a little above my pay grade. I went to school for robotics maintenance, not neural networks." You gesture toward the pile of books. "But I gotta say, you’re way too smart for your age."

At that, her expression shifts. Her usual curiosity dims, replaced by something more solemn. "It’s not like I had much of a choice," she mutters.

You don’t like that look on her face. Time for a distraction. You clap your hands together. "Alright, how about this? We go find N and force him to play dress-up. And I’ll even steal some of your parents' secret ‘special occasion’ ice cream."

Her eyes light up instantly. "Deal!" She scrambles to her feet, already halfway to the door before turning back to shout, "I’ll grab N and meet you in the dining room!" Then she’s gone, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

You stay seated for a moment longer, your gaze drifting across the stacks of books she left behind. Consciousness, death, the human mind… Heavy reading, indeed.

With a quiet sigh, you push yourself up. If anyone deserves a good life, it’s her. Maybe, when she’s older, you can help her get into the university you went to. She’s certainly smart enough. Perhaps too smart for that school, now that you consider it.

But for now, there’s ice cream to steal and an unsuspecting N to rope into playing dress-up.

#murder drones x reader #murder drones fanfic #murder drones #murder drones headcanon #murder drones v x reader #murder drones v #serial designation v

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 3 days ago

Text

“Dark Water”

Chapter Fifty Three: Burn Out

The Bad Batch x Reader

Southern Jungle Region, Kashyyyk

“You’re gonna fry her brain if we don’t stabilize it soon,” Echo said, voice taut as a cable under pressure.

Tech adjusted the scanner’s frequency again, eyes flicking over data as the jungle humidity clung to his skin and glasses. The device he’d cobbled together from the Marauder’s leftovers was barely holding together—just like you.

You sat slumped against a moss-covered root, sweating, twitching slightly, jaw clenched like you were trying to hold back the flood. You weren’t winning.

“This isn’t sustainable,” Tech muttered. “She’s running on looped neural stimulus—like a terminal with a thousand inputs and no command line. The chip was never meant for long-term integration. It’s malfunctioning under pressure.”

“Can you remove it?” Hunter asked.

“No. Not without a medbay and neurosync support. But I can reboot it—flush the data backlog, stabilize input levels.”

“What do you need?”

Tech looked up.

“A specific Separatist uplink—relay module Class-6X. Their old network architecture could interface with our kit if we hardline it. There’s a comms tower nearby. Crashed. Sector K-17. Dense jungle, but navigable.”

Wrecker cracked his knuckles.

“Sounds like a fun hike.”

“She won’t survive the hike,” Echo said, cutting in. “You’ll need to carry her.”

Hunter glanced toward you. You were half-conscious, lips moving silently, reciting flight protocols, bounty records, and birth dates from some ancient Mandalorian census in broken pieces.

And then—

“Boss: KIA. Fixer: KIA. Mission timestamp… negative confirmation. RC-1207: presumed KIA. Body unrecovered.”

Sev flinched.

You stopped speaking, blinking as if coming out of a trance.

“Sev,” you rasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he growled.

He stood a few paces away, helmet tucked under one arm, posture like a loaded spring. Wild, angry. Broken.

No one spoke.

Then Sev stepped forward, looking between Tech and Hunter.

“I know the path to K-17. Took it years ago. Back when we were bleeding out droids on every tree. I’ll lead.”

Hunter nodded slowly.

“We don’t have time to argue. Let’s move.”

You rode on Wrecker’s back most of the way. He carried you like a half-dead ration pack, grumbling under his breath but never once putting you down. The heat was oppressive. Insects hissed in unseen places. And all around you, the forest breathed like a living thing.

Sev walked point.

His movements were surgical, but frantic. Always scanning. Always a breath away from drawing a blade.

At one point, he stopped beside an old, half-crushed Separatist tank overrun by vines. He pressed a hand to it for a long moment before saying anything.

“Fixer tore this thing in half with a det charge. I patched him up with a medshot and told him he was whining like a civvie.”

He didn’t laugh.

“I miss his voice.”

No one responded.

You were quiet too, head pressed to Wrecker’s shoulder, trying not to scream every time the chip in your skull jolted another injection of data into your brain.

⸻

Sector K-17: The Tower

The relay tower lay like a rusted corpse in the heart of a massive crater, swallowed by vines and moss, its dish cracked but intact. A small chamber still pulsed with backup power.

“This’ll work,” Tech confirmed, opening the toolkit and starting to wire the Marauder’s data slate into the relay. “Echo, help me connect the neural tap.”

Echo pulled out the coil, moving with the ease of someone who’d done field surgery with chewing gum and starship glue.

“You sure about this?” he asked softly.

You nodded—barely.

Sev leaned against the edge of the broken tower entrance, watching everything. When your gaze found his, he didn’t look away.

“When this is over,” he muttered, “you’re going to remember them.”

“I already do,” you replied.

“Not files. Not reports. Them.”

You wanted that too.

You sat with your back against the rusted wall of the old comms tower, soaked with sweat and barely coherent. Every breath stuttered. Every flicker of light brought another surge of memory—not memories you lived, but memories someone else did. They didn’t belong to you, but they lived inside your skull like parasites.

Tech’s hands moved fast across the console. The relay tower pulsed with low, groaning energy as he bypassed the backup power and hardwired his makeshift neural interface into its core processor.

“Echo, hold her steady.”

“I’ve got her,” Echo said, kneeling beside you, a hand braced on your shoulder.

You heard Tech murmuring to himself, monitoring the data output, preparing to funnel the corrupted backlog of stimulus from the chip into the relay. A stabilization field. That’s what they promised. A little relief. A moment of peace.

Wrecker hovered nearby, shifting from foot to foot like a restless child. Hunter stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but stormy.

Sev said nothing. He lingered near the exit, silent and sharp-eyed like a wolf watching the sky for rain.

“Beginning interface,” Tech announced. “Neural tap inserted. Voltage stable. Commencing reset… now.”

Everything went white.

You weren’t you anymore.

The world shrank to data, compressed and violent. Images—raw, flickering—burned across your vision. A throne room. A spire. Delta Squad. Children in a training hall. Flash. Flash. Flash. Voice overlays—your voice. Hers. Orders. Doctrine. Language. Blood. You screamed, but it came out as binary.

Suddenly, the chip pulsed. A secondary function activated—something Tech hadn’t accounted for.

“Fail-safe triggered,” a mechanical voice whispered in your mind.

“Host instability detected. Data integrity compromised. Contingency engaged.”

“She’s seizing,” Echo snapped.

“The readings are spiking—why are they spiking?” Tech barked, panic breaking his usual cool. “Something’s overriding my command input—there’s a hardlock!”

“Shut it down!” Hunter shouted.

“I can’t! The interface—she’s not responding—”

Your body convulsed.

“Failsafe engaged,” Tech whispered, eyes wide as he realized what he was seeing. “The chip is terminating itself.”

“Which means—” Echo’s voice dropped.

“It’ll take her with it.”

You saw her face—your face—on a slab in the Kaminoan chamber. You saw the others—[Y/N]-2, 3, 4, 5—all gone. All erased.

Now it was your turn.

“No,” you gasped, one final surge of clarity splitting through the chaos. “No. No. I’m not just a copy—”

“Subject irreparably corrupted,” the voice hissed. “Termination complete.”

Your body seized again—and then, with a final spark, the implant detonated in a microscopic flash.

You collapsed.

Silent.

Still.

“No,” Wrecker whispered, dropping to his knees beside your body.

Echo was already moving, checking your pulse, your eyes. But it was done.

“She’s gone,” he muttered.

Omega stood frozen. Her face wet with silent tears.

Hunter turned away, jaw clenched, eyes shining with rage he refused to show.

Tech stood perfectly still, staring at the console that had become your executioner. He didn’t speak.

Sev crossed the room slowly. When he reached you, he didn’t kneel. He just looked.

“She was just starting to become someone,” he said softly. “They built a lie and stuck it in her skull. And it killed her.”

“I didn’t know,” Tech whispered, his voice cracking. “There wasn’t… any record. Of a failsafe.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Hunter said bitterly. “Not in an Empire built on lies.”

The silence lingered too long.

Even the jungle outside the tower held its breath. The usual hum of insects and the rustle of distant fauna fell still beneath the weight of your death.

Tech hadn’t moved.

Echo had stood and walked off, just far enough that no one could see his face—just the rigid set of his shoulders.

Wrecker remained on his knees, cradling one of your gloves in his hands like it was sacred. Omega sat beside him, her head pressed to his arm, silent tears dripping down her cheeks.

Hunter stared at the floor. No orders. No plans. Nothing left to say.

Then:

“How many times is this now?” Sev asked from behind them, voice hoarse but dry. “Three?”

Heads turned.

“Four funerals for the same woman,” he continued, stepping forward and glancing down at your body. “That’s some kind of record, yeah?”

No one laughed.

But he wasn’t joking for a reaction.

“Kamino,” he said, ticking it off on his fingers. “We grieved her once. Ashes, maybe. Or whatever the rain didn’t steal.”

“The Spire….” another finger.

“The base,” another finger. “Watched another her die saving you lot.”

“And now this one. Short-lived, but… she died free. Not a puppet.”

Sev didn’t smile. His tone was too bitter for that.

“Suppose I should start bringing flowers in bulk. Or just stop mourning ghosts.”

Wrecker’s voice cracked.

“She wasn’t a ghost.”

“No,” Sev said, gentler now. “She was something else. Something they didn’t want her to be. That’s why she had to die.”

Tech finally moved, slowly stepping toward Sev.

“The Empire lied to her every moment of her life. She never stood a chance.”

“None of us did,” Sev muttered.

The weight of those words sat heavy. None of them did. Not the clones engineered for war, not the child modified to be obedient, not even a clone of someone who once meant something—to Mandalore, to the Batch, to Bo-Katan, to the galaxy.

Echo finally returned, walking past them all without a word. He crouched beside your body, fingers brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, eyes soft with the kind of ache that didn’t come with tears. Just grief. Tired, ancient grief.

“We bury her again,” he said. “But this time… we don’t let them take another piece of her. Not ever again.”

“We burn the body?” Wrecker asked, voice shaking.

“We honor her like a Mandalorian,” Hunter said. “Fire. Stone. And silence.”

“And this time,” Omega added, small but firm, “we remember who she was—not what they made her.”

⸻

The jungle was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came from fear or death—but the reverent silence of nature acknowledging something sacred.

The Wookiees had helped. Without asking why. They dug the earth, chopped the wood, and stacked the pyre with a solemn understanding. Perhaps they didn’t know who you were. But they recognized grief. They understood legacy.

Your body was laid on the wooden platform with care. Wrapped in a simple cloth. No banners. No armor. No crown.

Just peace.

Hunter stood at the base, helmet off, gaze low.

“She wasn’t [Y/N],” he said, voice quiet. “Not the one we knew. Not the one who raised us. But she was made in her image. And somehow… in the end… she chose to be like her.”

Echo stood beside him, one hand resting on Wrecker’s shoulder. Wrecker’s face was already streaked with tears.

“She could’ve run,” Echo murmured. “Could’ve disappeared. But she stayed. She fought. She… chose us.”

Tech didn’t speak. He was holding something in his hands—your old training records. The same footage he’d shown you once, when he tried to help you remember who you were. He stepped forward and gently placed the data pad on the pyre.

“It’s strange,” he said. “We spend so much time trying to understand who someone was, instead of who they became.”

Sev stood apart from the others. Not distant out of disrespect—just separate. A specter of what had once been a brotherhood.

“They made five of her,” he muttered. “And not a single one survived their story.”

“But she finished it,” Omega said, stepping forward. “She chose her ending.”

They all looked at her. Young. Steady. Older than she should’ve been.

“They stole her memories,” she continued. “Tried to turn her into something else. But she died a Mandalorian. On her terms.”

Hunter looked to Tech. Tech nodded.

“It’s time.”

They stepped back. Hunter held the torch. He looked once more at your covered form, and then to the sky above the jungle canopy.

“Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” he whispered.

And lit the pyre.

The flames caught quickly, rising with a hiss and a roar that sent sparks into the air like stars being released from the soil. Wrecker knelt as the fire grew, shoulders shaking. Echo knelt beside him.

Omega stood tall, arms crossed, eyes firm. Watching. Remembering.

Sev said nothing. But his hand drifted to his belt, unhooked something, and tossed it into the fire—a battered commlink, painted with the faded colors of Delta Squad. It hissed as it burned.

Tech adjusted his goggles, then removed them entirely. He blinked against the heat of the flames, and for a moment, he just watched.

“We’ll never let them do this again,” he said, low. “To her. To us.”

The fire roared.

Above them, the jungle seemed to bow. The trees swayed in rhythm with the heat. Wookiees stood around the edges of the clearing in silence, paying respects.

Hunter took one last breath.

“No more clones. No more ghosts. No more lies.”

And he dropped his helmet to the ground beside your ashes.

The Batch remained around the dying embers. No words. No plans.

Just stillness.

Sev leaned back against a tree, arms crossed.

“You know this means war, right?” he asked.

Hunter didn’t even look up.

“It already was.”

Far above the jungle of Kashyyyk, the stars blinked into view—silent witnesses to the burning of a legacy and the birth of something new. Not vengeance. Not justice.

But clarity.

This was never about being a clone.

It was about becoming free.

⸻

Epilogue: The Blood That Lingers

The waves rolled gentle and bright, brushing against the smooth sand like a whisper. Pabu had been rebuilt again — stronger, more resilient. A little like the people who now called it home.

Hunter stood at the edge of the balcony, arms crossed over his chest. Below, the sun caught on the water, and children laughed as they chased each other through the shallows. But his eyes followed one figure.

Omega.

Older now. Changed by war, captivity, freedom, and the fire of choice. She stood confidently beside a small ship, hugging Shep and Lyana goodbye. Her pack was slung over her shoulder, and her old helmet, painted with blue streaks and a single bright yellow stripe, hung from her hand.

She was going.

To the Rebellion.

Hunter hadn’t said much all morning. He didn’t need to. Omega knew.

Behind him, Echo emerged from the shadows of the villa, his gaze softening.

“She’s ready,” Echo said.

“I know,” Hunter replied, his voice low.

Wrecker sat nearby, hands resting heavily on his knees. He didn’t cry, but he looked like he might. He’d already packed extra rations in Omega’s bag. “Just in case,” he said.

“She’s gonna fight like hell,” Wrecker murmured.

“Just like—”

He trailed off. None of them needed to finish the sentence.

You.

Not the clone. Not the corrupted one that claimed your name. You, the real one — their buir. The trainer. The woman who helped raise them. Who made them strong. Who chose them.

You’d been gone for a long time. But in Omega’s eyes — fierce and unwavering — you still flickered.

A small memory.

A faint echo.

A spark.

“What?” Omega grinned at them from the path. “You think I’m not coming back?”

Hunter finally smiled, something weary but proud settling on his face.

“You better.”

Omega gave a final wave, then turned. The ship hissed open. The door closed. And like that — she was gone.

Silence settled over the trio of remaining brothers.

“She’s not her,” Echo finally said, arms folding as the ship disappeared into the sky.

“But… sometimes when she moves, when she fights, when she stares down danger—”

“It’s like seeing a ghost,” Wrecker finished.

Hunter nodded, barely perceptible.

“She’s not her,” he agreed.

“But I think… she carries her. Just enough.”

They turned away. Back into the light of Pabu. Back into peace.

For now, war was somewhere else. Death and cloning and the screams of Kamino were behind them.

But the legacy of you — the woman who trained the fiercest warriors the Republic ever produced — was still alive.

Not in blood.

Not in genes.

But in memory.

In honor.

In choice.

And that… was enough.

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winged-thinged · 1 month ago

Text

Still thinking about deconstruction and certainty. It took me a long time to stop feeling like I was falling through midair, like the floor had dropped out from under me, like I would never ever find solid ground again. But I did. And it's not the same perfect certainty that I once had. It's not faith. It's better. It's real.

It's like the difference between being carried by your mother and having the strength and bravery to stand up on your own two feet. Having the vision and the flexibility to walk, to tumble, to run anywhere you want to go. Yeah, you might scrape a knee or two, but it's a thousand times better than being stuck eternally in one place, afraid to fall.

And it's REAL. It can never be taken away from you, because it's not something that you're clinging to. It's a toolkit. It's a beam of light. It's like opening your eyes. It's flexible and open to new evidence, it's strong enough to withstand change and not break, because it's not the beliefs that you're tied to, it's the critical thinking skills and the commitment to observing the world around you and to listening to yourself.

Tips for developing this sense of stability:

Go to a science museum and look at the fossils and read all the little placards

Find someone who's really passionate about their niche hobby or profession and let them explain it to you

Find something that makes you feel useful, like raking your neighbor's leaves or watering a houseplant, and do it consistently

Tell your mindbody that whatever it feels and whatever it wants is all okay with you, and try to listen to what it says

Take delight in being wrong and find the joy in getting to learn something new

Fall in love with the world around you

Practice making your own decisions based around what you want and what you value, and then evaluate afterwards how you feel it went and what you liked and what you would do differently in the future

Learn about science and history and evolution and human ingenuity and the Earth and the stars, even if you already know about it, learn it again and try to reframe it all without God this time

Let yourself be sad and silly and selfish and stupid and weird and passionate and contradictory and brave and whole

#apostate #ex christian #ex-catholic #religious trauma #deconstruction

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radiantrosaa · 8 months ago

Note

Hello, Rosa! I really really like all your work, seriously! If you let me, I'll give you a little idea: Stanley x Reader or Ford x Reader, to me, it doesn't matter, I would like them both, or just one, you can choose. The idea is, the reader is a Italian 20s girl, and she's their new neighbor, maybe, I just thought that would be great to see her teasing them speaking Italian. I don't know, sounds good to me. Thank you for your fics! I luv them, bye! 💖

I adore you, thank you! There’s no NSFW in this one but if you want a part 2 with smut, just say. I know how some people feel uncomfortable about the twins being intimate with a partner, didn’t want to risk making anyone feel iffy. Also, I didn’t proofread this.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Stanley&Stanford x Italian!Reader

Context: Reader moves to Gravity Falls and ends up being neighbors with the Mystery Twins. Read more to see what happens.

Reader goes by She/Her pronouns.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Moving day. Boxes piled high in the corners, your hands dusty from hauling your life into this new place. The old home creaks and settles like it’s welcoming you, or maybe just warning you of the mysteries your future holds. Either way, there’s no turning back now—you’re here, and this place is finally yours.

You step onto the wrap-around porch, brushing off your hands, and glance across the street. That’s when you spot them: two men in their sixties, standing on the lawn of the quirky home across the way. They couldn’t look more different if they tried. One has a sharp, scholarly air, dressed neatly and carrying an air of curiosity, while the other, a bit rougher around the edges, eyes you with something between amusement and intrigue. They’re twins, but the years seem to have carved their faces in opposite directions.

You can’t help but smile a little, curiosity sparking as you realize they’ve noticed you. One of them, the one with the grizzled stubble and mischievous grin lifts his hand in a friendly wave.

“Welcome to Gravity Falls!” he calls, voice rough but friendly.

You nod, letting a smile spread over your lips. “Thanks! Looks like I’ve got interesting neighbours, at least.”

The scholarly one chuckles, his gaze sharp behind his glasses. “You’ve got no idea.”

It’s then that you realize this small town might just have more in store for you than you’d ever expected.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

It’s been a few weeks since you moved in, and the quiet little town of Gravity Falls is starting to feel more like home. You’ve gotten into the rhythm here: walking down to the diner for coffee in the mornings, exchanging nods with familiar faces, and even giving a polite wave to the occasional cryptic figure who disappears into the woods now and then.

Today, though, the weather’s finally on your side, so you decide to tackle a few projects around the house. You’re in the middle of trying to repair a stubborn shutter on your front porch when you hear a low, familiar chuckle behind you.

“Need a hand with that, kid?” It’s Stan, leaning against your fence with his usual self-assured grin, his hands deep in his pockets.

You glance back, brushing a stray hair from your face, a little embarrassed he’s caught you mid-struggle. “Just trying to make sure this place doesn’t fall apart before I can settle in.”

Ford, who had apparently wandered over alongside Stan, gives you a nod, looking up at the shutter with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’d suggest securing that with something stronger than those flimsy nails. I could bring over a toolkit if you’d like.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Or we could just nail the thing in, quick and easy.” He gives you a wink. “But hey, up to you. You want perfection or good enough?”

You laugh, realizing that between the two of them, they’ve got a rhythm going: Stan’s laid-back practicality, Ford’s precise attention to detail. They’re an odd pair, but somehow it works.

“Alright alright,” you say, holding up your hands in surrender. “I’ll take both of you up on it, you’re the experts around here.”

Stan climbs up to the porch, giving your tools a critical look. “Let’s just say we’ve fixed a lot worse. Your place’ll be good as new by the time we’re done.”

Ford joins him, setting down a toolkit and slipping into his typical focus. “If you’re going to be in Gravity Falls long, you’ll want to be prepared. Strange things have a way of finding us here.”

“Oh, trust me,” you say with a smirk, “I’m starting to get that impression.”

Stan chuckles, glancing at you with a twinkle in his eye. “Yeah, well, stick with us, and we’ll make sure you survive it.”

You watch as Stan and Ford both focus on fixing the shutter, each working in their own style. Stan’s approach is fast and easygoing, while Ford takes a more careful, almost scientific method. You can’t resist a little smile as you watch the contrast between the two—such different people, yet here they are, side by side, arguing about screws versus nails.

“You know, you two make quite the team,” you tease, leaning against the porch railing with your arms crossed. “Like an old married couple.”

Stan snorts, straightening up and tossing you a wink. “Hey, don’t lump me in with Mr. Perfect here. I’m all for quick solutions, Ford just likes to make things complicated.”

Ford adjusts his glasses, giving Stan a look before turning to you with a half-smile. “Complicated, sure, but effective. If you’d prefer to keep this place standing, my methods might be worth a try.”

You laugh and switch to Italian, letting your voice dip into a playful tone. “Siete così testardi, entrambi. È adorabile.” (You’re both so stubborn. It’s adorable.)

Stan pauses, his brow lifting. “Whoa, hey, what’d you just say? That sounded way too nice for us.”

Ford’s eyes light up in interest, clearly intrigued. “You speak Italian? Fascinating. Care to translate?”

You give them a cheeky smile, pretending to be coy. “Oh, you know… just saying you’re both very determined men.”

Stan raises a skeptical brow, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that’s all you said. Feels like you’re keeping secrets from us, kid.”

With a smirk, you lean closer to him and murmur, “Maybe I am. Better stick around to find out.”

Stan lets out a chuckle, crossing his arms as if sizing you up. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Ford, meanwhile, seems charmed, though he tries to keep it subtle. “It’s a rare talent around here—multilingualism. Maybe we’ll have to study up so we can keep up with you.”

You glance between the two of them, feeling that electric mix of challenge and curiosity. “Guess I’ll have to keep throwing a little Italian your way, then. Keeps you both on your toes.”

Ford nods, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think we can handle that. But watch out—it only makes us more curious.”

Stan grins, tapping his chin as he eyes you. “Yeah, and you’re not the only one who knows how to keep a few secrets around here.”

The three of you share a knowing look, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world fades away—just you and these two impossible, fascinating men. There’s an energy in the air that’s almost… electric.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Days turned into weeks, and before you knew it, you’d started to find yourself looking forward to the times you’d see Stan or Ford wandering over with some excuse to “check in.” You noticed their visits followed a sort of rhythm, like two sides of the same coin.

In the mornings, you’d often catch Ford on his way to the Mystery Shack, holding a well-loved book tucked under his arm, his glasses perched just so. He’d always greet you politely, offering a small smile that held a flicker of something he wasn’t quite sure how to express. Sometimes he’d surprise you with phrases he’d learned from an old Italian grammar book, trying his best to say “Good morning” or “How are you?” with a shy confidence that made you smile.

“Buongiorno, come sta?” he’d ask, his accent a little stiff, but endearing.

You’d chuckle, responding in perfect Italian, a few phrases more complex than what he could keep up with. His eyes would widen, and he’d offer a bashful laugh. “I think I’ll need a bit more practice. You’re… quite the teacher,” he’d say, glancing away with a bit of color on his cheeks.

Stan, on the other hand, would usually stop by in the evenings, his sleeves rolled up and his swagger just as bold as ever. He’d knock on your door with a mischievous grin and a glint in his eye, bringing you little offerings like fresh coffee or a toolbox he insisted you’d need.

“Thought I’d bring the essentials,” he’d say, setting the items down with a proud nod. “Gravity Falls can be a real fixer-upper kind of place, and I’m just your guy for that.”

Sometimes, you’d tease him in Italian—little phrases just to get a reaction. “Sei troppo sicuro di te, Stanley,” you’d say with a smirk, watching his brow knit as he tried to guess what you meant.

He’d raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, yeah, I bet you’re saying I’m handsome and charming. No need to play coy, kid. I get the message loud and clear.”

Every now and then, they’d both show up together, neither one having realized the other was already on their way over. One Saturday afternoon, you were pruning some stubborn ivy around your porch when both Ford and Stan turned up at nearly the same time, each holding something to “help out”—Stan had brought a pair of work gloves, while Ford held an old gardening book he thought might interest you.

“Oh, hey, didn’t know you’d already be here, Ford,” Stan said with a playful smirk, crossing his arms.

Ford raised a brow. “I thought I’d lend a hand since someone hadn’t yet. Besides, I’m sure she’ll find this useful.”

You had to bite back a laugh, watching the two of them with that same look they always gave each other—friendly competition masked by an underlying respect.

“Oh, ragazzi,” you say with a grin, drawing their attention. “La mia squadra personale di soccorso.”

Stan’s brow shot up. “Now that… I know you’re calling us something good. I’ll take it.”

Ford chuckled, glancing your way with a more genuine smile. “Our rescue team, is it? Well, I suppose we are.”

You let them help you that day, bantering back and forth as the three of you worked together to clear the ivy and tidy up the porch. Every so often, they’d glance your way with that look you were coming to recognize—a flicker of something curious, like they couldn’t quite figure you out. And honestly, you kind of liked it that way. You could feel the pull of something building between you, something almost electric.

As the sun started to dip and the evening set in, you found yourself lingering, unwilling to end the day just yet. When they finally said their goodbyes, each offering a warm smile, you felt an ache in your chest—a reminder that, somehow, this strange little town had already started to feel like home.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

A few months in, Gravity Falls had become more than just a fresh start—it had become home. And Stan and Ford? Well, they’d become something else entirely. Every time you saw them, you felt a little spark, something that had slowly grown into an undeniable warmth in your chest. And from the way they both went out of their way to see you, you could tell you weren’t the only one feeling it. So, one chilly afternoon, you decided to have a little fun.

Stan had shown up with some firewood, tossing the logs down on your porch with a confident grin. “Figured you’d need a little help keepin’ warm. Winter’s no joke around here, kid,” he said, dusting his hands off with an air of importance.

Not five minutes later, Ford appeared, holding an old, leather-bound book and a steaming thermos. “I thought you might like some company, actually,” he said, a bit more reserved but with a warmth in his voice that made you smile. “And some hot cocoa—my own recipe.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle as you watched them, both clearly pleased with themselves. So, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you leaned against the doorframe and gave them both a look.

“Che uomini premurosi, both of you,” you teased, letting the Italian words roll off your tongue, your gaze lingering on them just long enough to make an impact.

Stan raised an eyebrow, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah? That Italian for ‘ridiculously handsome’ or what?”

“More like ‘thoughtful gentlemen,’” you said with a smirk, taking a step closer. “Although, if I wanted to call you both affascinanti, I could do that too.”

Ford’s brows furrowed with interest. “And that means…?”

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a murmur. “Charming.”

Ford looked almost flustered for a moment, and Stan let out a low chuckle, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Careful, kid, keep talking like that and we might start gettin’ ideas.”

“Oh, you’re allowed to have ideas,” you teased, standing between them now, feeling a rush of warmth in your cheeks. “I don’t mind keeping you guessing.”

Stan gave you a look, his grin widening. “Oh, you like keeping us on our toes, huh?”

“Only because you make it so easy,” you shot back, meeting his gaze with a playful smile. Then, turning to Ford, you placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You know, Professor, I’d love to hear more about what’s in that book of yours. Maybe… over a nice, warm fire?”

Ford cleared his throat, nodding with a shy but pleased smile. “I’d be more than happy to. I’d… love that, actually.”

You glanced back at Stan, who seemed just as intrigued, and gave him a wink. “And as for you, Stan… that firewood better live up to the hype.”

He laughed, crossing his arms. “Trust me, sweetheart, it’s gonna be the coziest fire you’ve ever had.”

And as the three of you settled in, you couldn’t help but feel a thrill at how close they both were. Sitting between them, sharing warm drinks, laughter, and those lingering glances, it was all too clear—whatever this was, it was starting to feel like so much more. And honestly? You liked it.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room as the three of you settled in together on your couch. Ford was beside you, engrossed in his book, pointing out little passages and explaining things to you in that charming, intellectual way of his. Stan lounged on your other side, sipping his cocoa with a relaxed grin, occasionally chiming in with his own commentary, though his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You felt that warmth again—coming from them, yes, but also from within yourself. The way you were sitting between them, close enough to brush shoulders, each of them stealing these little glances your way, it all felt…perfect. Natural. Almost like you’d always belonged here.

“Alright, Professor, enough of the lecture,” you teased, nudging Ford’s arm gently. “I think I’m starting to get the point. You’re a man of many talents, but I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

Ford blinked, clearly caught off guard, before a soft blush crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. “I… didn’t realize you’d find my book recommendations so…charming.”

You smiled sweetly, leaning in just slightly, your voice playful yet soft. “Oh, it’s not just the books. It’s the way you speak, the way you get so passionate about..everything.” Your eyes met his, holding it for just a beat longer than normal, watching his breath catch in that way that made your heart race just a little.

Stan, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, leaned forward, his grin widening. “Hey, don’t make Ford all shy now. He gets this way when you compliment him.” He turned his gaze toward you, that playful look never leaving his face. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed, either. You’ve got a way of making everything sound way more interesting than I thought it could be.”

You raised an eyebrow, looking over at Stan. “Oh? You think I’m making things interesting?”

“Definitely,” he replied, his voice lowering a bit as he shifted closer, just enough to make the moment feel a little more intimate. “You’ve got this way of making everything feel a little more alive. It’s kinda hard not to notice.”

You leaned back slightly, just enough to let the tension build without fully breaking the spell. The air between you three felt heavier now, charged with something more than just the warmth of the fire.

Ford, sensing the playful tug of your words, cleared his throat again, looking away for a moment before meeting your gaze with a softness that made your heart flutter. “Well, I..enjoy our time together. All of it.” His voice was lower now, warmer, like he was finally letting himself say more than just the academic words he usually favoured. “I think it’s easy to forget how nice it can be to just be present with people who understand you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words settling in your chest as you held his gaze. “I understand,” you whispered, your voice softer than you’d meant it to be.

Stan glanced between the two of you, then leaned forward, his face just a little closer now. His voice was a touch huskier than usual, teasing but with an edge of something more. “So, uh, I’m not supposed to be the only one getting special treatment here, right?”

You smirked at him, tilting your head. “What makes you think I’m giving Ford all the attention?”

Stan’s lips curled into a grin, his eyes darkening just slightly. “Let’s just say, I know when I’m being noticed.”

There was something in the air now, something undeniable, like everything that had been building over the last few months was finally coming to a head. The quiet glances, the subtle touches, the way they both lingered just a little longer than necessary when they were around you. It was all leading to this moment.

“I think you both deserve attention,” you said quietly, your voice steady as you locked eyes with both of them, feeling the electricity in the room build.

Ford’s fingers brushed against your hand, a gentle, tentative touch that felt like it was asking for permission. Stan, never one to hold back, leaned in just slightly, his breath warm on your ear as he whispered, “Then make it worth our while, sweetheart. We’re right here.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

#gravity falls #gravity falls fandom #gf stanford #grunkle ford #ford pines #gravity falls ford #stanford pines #gravity falls stanford #gravity falls stan pines #grunkle stan x reader #gf stanley #gravity falls stanley #stan pines #grunkle stan #writing #writers on tumblr #gravity falls fanfiction

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beatricebat · 4 months ago

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i would like to order a cup of tea from all three ackermans please

Hello customer! I’m afraid this came out as more of a coffee than a tea. The Ackermen are too chaotic for gossip, I fear. I hope this hot beverage is still to your taste. Thank you, come again!

For some reason, the bell didn’t catch on the door as you slipped into the bakery, so none of the three people already there noticed you at first.

There was a short man and a tall woman behind the counter, and a customer in a cowboy hat in front of it. The short man had his fists balled on the counter as he leaned towards the cowboy, who seemed amused.

“- no such thing as an ‘Irish tea,’ Kenny, and if there was, it would involve whisky. Vodka is Russian,” said the server through gritted teeth.

“We could use a shot of gin? Gin goes well with tea,” suggested the woman in a soft, helpful voice, and the cowboy spread his arms in gratitude.

“Little Mickey’s got the right idea, Levi!” he crowed, and the woman’s gentle attitude hardened. “Don’t call me-!”

The bell rang, ridiculously delayed. They all stopped and whipped their heads around to stare.

For a second, the three looked like a matching set: same frowns, same narrowed eyes, same pointy chins. They seemed to relax when they realised you were just a customer, and you wondered who else they might expect to come in.

“Bell’s bust again. I’ll fix it,” said Kenny the cowboy. His voice had dropped down into a low growl now too. “Where’s your tools, kids?”

“Out back,” said Levi, stabbing the air over his shoulder with his thumb, and he followed Kenny past the beaded curtain to the kitchen, and then through another door to an office. The woman took a deep breath, and assumed her friendly demeanour again as she handed you the tea menu to look over. Her name tag read “Mikasa.”

Neither of the two men in the back office seemed to understand the physics of sound. The pair of them clattered about setting up a ladder, and they spoke to each other in a yell as if they weren’t five feet apart. Mikasa occasionally volunteered some interesting facts about the origins of the teas and which pastries they paired well with, as if that would mask them.

It was tough to concentrate, frankly. They were too loud and too entertaining.

“You don’t need oil. It’s digital,” yelled Levi.

“Oh. Well, where’s the screwdrivers then? I’ll tighten up them ones and zeros,” hollered Kenny.

“That’s now how it works, you desiccated pig turd,” snarled Levi.

“It was a joke! I know my way around wires. I built you your first PC, didn’t I?”

Mikasa politely spoke up. “English breakfast is a classic, but if you wanted to get a Danish pastry, we do have a Danish blend…” Her whisper was like a thin, clear varnish over the other conversation.

“You stole it from a refurbishment place and put it in a new case. Not the same thing.”

“As if you zoomers know a goddamn thing about circuitry anyway.”

“I’m a millennial. Mikasa’s a zoomer. Her boyfriend’s the one who owns that little toolkit you’re using, and you? You’re just full of shit.”

“These tools are full of shit, you mean. Mickey! Your boyfriend got any better tools?!”

Mikasa wheeled round from the counter to stomp through the beaded curtain and join in. “He’s not my boyfriend, and stop calling me Mickey! … I mean…I don’t even know which one you’re talking about.”

Kenny and Levi both hooted. “Hah! ‘Which one’! Not ‘who are you talking about,’ but ‘which goddamn one?’!” cackled Kenny, with a sound that must have been him slapping his thighs. “Mikasa, don’t give us that crap. You know ‘which one’ is into electronics,” said Levi scornfully.

Mikasa reemerged from the bead curtain without responding, and tried to plaster a smile back on her scarlet face. The conversation carried on behind her. They clearly thought they were being quiet now. They were not.

“Which one is it? The tall one?” asked Kenny curiously. His stage whisper should have been taught at RADA.

“They’re both tall,” replied Levi with an audible eye roll.

“Yeah, to you, runt,” snorted Kenny. There was an enormous metallic clatter from the office, and Levi reemerged too. He nodded to you, and threw a steaming tray down onto the counter. “Madeleines just came out. Get two with a milk tea,” he instructed, and stalked back into the depths of the kitchen.

You and Mikasa swapped startled looks and then shrugs, as she rang the order up. Both of you kept sneaking looks towards the open office door through the curtain. It was too quiet in there now. …Had Levi murdered Kenny?

As Mikasa got your change, a much, much quieter cry called out at last. “Mickey? Honey? A little help? … he kicked away the ladder.”

Mikasa handed you the goods. “Thank you for visiting Bea’s Bakery, I hope you enjoy this,” she said, with a genuine smile.

#🐝beasbakery #aot fanfiction #mikasa ackerman #levi ackerman #Kenny Ackerman #is it Jean or Eren who likes electronics? I’m sure I don’t know #could also be Connie for the Conkasa fans #or pretty much any dude bar Armin for the Mikasa rare pair girlies

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tobiasdrake · 1 year ago

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Growing up, I didn't appreciate Princess Peach much. In my teen years, I was trying to get away from things that were pink and girly for reasons of toxic masculinity, and Peach seemed like such an empty character.

I liked Zelda. Zelda's cool. Zelda's badass. Zelda gets to be a ninja and she fights Ganon and she's a battle mage and and and and

To my male sensibilities, Zelda had the better aesthetic.

But the problem is? Aesthetic is all Zelda is allowed to be. And I say it that way because I don't want people to think that's all Zelda is. There is so much potential in this character. But it's potential that never sees the light of day, because the will to use her isn't there.

The problem isn't the character. Zelda and Peach are not in competition with each other.

The difference between them is that the Mario franchise loves Peach. She's been playable so many times over the years, since her playable debut in the American Super Mario Bros. 2. She didn't start out that way; Even that game was kind of a fluke.

But as the series grew, it fell in love with its leading lady. She didn't just get to be a cool supporting character; she saw playability not just in the ensemble games like Party or Kart but in core Mario games.

The Wii era brought with it a renaissance of Peach. While Mario still gets games all to himself here and there, it's rare now to see a game where Luigi is playable and Peach isn't. She often gets focus time in the RPGs like Mario RPG or Paper Mario. She's even gearing up for her second solo adventure in Princess Peach Showtime.

The Mario franchise loves Peach.

While Zelda is left behind, floating around the margins of her own series. Her games are based around exploring Hyrule, fighting monsters, dungeon-diving, and collecting utility tools that both increase your combat options and expand your access to the map.

Aesthetically, you could easily make a game in the same format and have Zelda collect spells rather than Link collecting tools, that serve identical functions. If you really wanted to put the work in, you could even do both and let players choose their protagonist at the start of the game.

Functionally, there is little difference between blasting open a wall with a bomb and blasting it open with a fireball. Or latching a hookshot onto a grapple point versus casting some kind of warp spell or magic rope. Link's gameplay can suit Zelda just fine.

Even in the modern open-world games like BOTW or TOTK, Link's toolkit is more magical than technical anyway - sometimes to the point of explicitly using Zelda's gear to do all of his cool stuff. It would be trivially easy to map Link's gameplay onto Zelda. But the will isn't there. LOZ doesn't care about Zelda, the way SMB cares about Peach.

Zelda and Peach both take frequent turns at the damsel role. But outside of that, Peach's series treats her as a capable co-protagonist armed and ready to carry adventures on her own. Zelda's treats her as a power-up for Link to consume.

I'm older now and I'm over all that "Ew pink and girly shit" bullshit that dominated my embarrassing younger years. I have a lot more respect now for Peach than I ever did then. And I still like Zelda too. These characters, as I said before, are not in competition.

But I wish Zelda's series loved her even half as much as Peach's.

#the legend of zelda #super mario bros #princess zelda #princess peach

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thejokig23 · 1 year ago

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Favourite and least favourite part of each FromSoftware game I've played

Demon's Souls:

I really like the freedom of choice on where you want to go. Stonefang, Latria, the Shrine of Storms, and the Valley of Defilement are all accessible after beating Phalanx, designed to be completed or visited in whatever order you choose. A lot of mechanics in Demon's Souls also fit this style pretty well, like the grass system.

When playing Demon's Souls, I find it lacking in amazing fights like the other games. The only one that's really a stand out is the False King. The lack of a proper dragon fight is particularly devastating to me. The fights aren't bad for the most part, just usually more puzzle based than I'd like.

Dark Souls:

The interconnected aspect of the first half of the game. It reminds me of Metroid in a way, being able to navigate through a twisting world to get stronger or pick up items you need, finding shortcuts. It would have been great if this carried into the second half as well.

I find out if all the games, Dark Souls has the most enemies that aren't really designed to be fought. A few coming to mind being the blue drakes, the cats in the forest, giant sentinels, Sen's fortress' giants, the Titanite demons, the giant maggots in Izalith, and the boars in the archive's entrance. They're just awkward to fight, usually with janky movement and collision.

Dark Souls II:

The variety of viable playstyles is at its best in DS2. Bows, crossbows, and magic are all just as good as melee. You can infuse pretty much any weapon, even special weapons and catalysts, really anything goes. There are certainly bad options, but they aren't bad in the same way as bad options in the other games.

Unfortunately, the game is just really fucking janky. Moving feels like your controller is covered in molasses, animations are both slow and weightless, and both enemies and the majority of areas look outright unfinished. I can't stand playing it for more than a few minutes.

Dark Souls III:

This is the most consistently great game FromSoftware has made (that I have played). Every area has looping paths, with shortcuts reusing bonfires and secrets to find. A vast majority of enemies are just fun to fight, even grouped together, and there are very few bad bosses, with many times more amazing ones.

Although, playing the game multiple times gets old incredibly fast. The combat is incredibly light attack centric, and most weapons function pretty similar to each other. Viable builds that noticeably devuate from this are few and far between: bows suck, sorcery sucks, miracles suck, and pyromancy is only okay.

Bloodborne:

The trick weapons are exactly what I like to see in a weapon's moveset: toolkits for beating shit up. Fewer weapons with more individual personality is an amazing idea, and while there are a few somewhat disappointing (note: I didn't say ineffective), like the saw spear and Ludwig's holy blade taking their untransformed moveset from the saw cleaver and Kirkhammer respectively, the majority are really cool and fun to use.

While the game looks gorgeous, the visuals do tend to get in the way of gameplay. There are framerate issues quite often, colours blend to mush a lot, and particle effects will just cover whatever you're fighting, which is made worse by how fast and twitchy enemies tend to be. A particularly bad example was fighting Ludwig's first phase. The second phase was fantastic, but god is getting to it miserable, with dust and blood everywhere as he flails around incomprehensibly.

Sekiro:

I did not get far in this one. People lumping it in with the other games is a mistake, it's really not that similar to the other games in most ways. Not to say it's bad, obviously, in fact I think deflecting is an amazing mechanic. I never quite got good at it, but it's engaging and fun to do.

Sekiro just wasn't really for me. I kinda just got lost and gave up, with no clue how to get better or stronger in any way. I wasn't having fun dying to the chained ogre over and over, gettibg no closer to beating it no matter what I did, and not really fibding anywhere else to go.

Elden Ring:

The setting of Elden Ring is fantastic. Lots of vibrant colours, but all within a certain natural pallet. The world is bursting with life in a way the other games weren't, and I find a living world bursting with energy more compelling than one falling into entropy. Character and monster designs are amazing and play into this as well, especially when comparing them to previous games. It's not perfect - I dislike how boring sorcery is as just being, for the most part, Blue Stuff, while incantations get many, MANY more interesting spell types to work with (and its Yellow Stuff being limited to one or two spell groups). But otherwise, it's my favourite FromSoftware setting.

Combat in Elden Ring can be kinda hit or miss. The main culprit, I think, is that fighting most enemies and some bosses feels unnatural, like they're all truing to just trip you up and hit you with bullshit. I like Dancer oft the Boreal Valley, I like Pontiff, I like the Nameless King - but not for every fucking fight in the game. It just feels tedious.

#demon's souls #dark souls #bloodborne #sekiro #elden ring

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