#sum of all

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sigh and back up through the file explorer. Come on. Your frustration bubbles up until you feel sweat on your scalp. You squint at the screen, searching for what you need. You blow out through your lips and reach for your mug. The white one with the small agency’s logo on it. 

“Mr. Brenner,” you pivot your chair as you put your cup down, “I can’t find the Dubeau files. I was almost finished--” 

“Dubeau? Never heard of ‘em,” he doesn’t look away from his screen. You tense and nod. 

“Of course, sir, I must be misremembering.” 

You don’t argue. Not out loud. Just like always, you roll over and take it all. You hold it all in. When you lost something, you resign yourself to it. When you miss the train, you sit down and wait for the next, and when you’re told something is a certain way, it must be. And if not, you’ rather wait for the truth to leak through then speak up and make yourself the fool. 

You click around the files. That means you can move on. There’s a backlog of accounts to get through as it is. Ever since Wallace quit, you’ve been doing his work too. It was so unexpected. Strange how abrupt that was. He left his jacket behind but he still hasn’t come to get it. Well, once you find a better firm, you’re out the door just as fast. 

“Carson. It needs to be done,” Brenner says as he clicks his mouse lazily. 

You glance over. You can see the reflection of his screen in the glass of his framed accountant certification on the wall. It doesn’t look like a spread sheet. The colours move and you try not to think about what they resemble. 

“Got it, sir.” 

“What about Williams?” Geraldine suggests. 

Brenner clucks, “delete that. Thought I already did.” 

The tapping of keys continues. Geraldine is old and slow. Her work is reliable but not timely, and Brenner, the senior accountant, tends to do better at sweet talking clients than the paperwork. 

You focus on the Carson file. Like many of the clients, it’s a mess. Assets all over. Photos of wrinkled documents and few of loose cash on indeterminate surfaces. You don’t ask questions. You just figure it out. The place isn’t your first choice but with zero experience, it’s the only way you’ll have any. It’s a pathway to a better destination. 

The office is stagnant but for the clacking of keyboards and clicking of mice. Only Brenner’s heavy huffs and Geraldine’s incessant sniffling interrupt. You lean on your elbow as you compare your two monitors and input values. 

The front door opens and Geraldine stands. She deals with the walk-ins. She enjoys chatting with them. Sometimes too much. You suspect she doesn’t get much conversation with her two cats. 

“Oh, hello, aren’t you a strapping young man. My, oh, I know you,” she chimes, “Mr. Rogers. Yes, I recall.” 

The man sighs in response. You glance over as Mr. Brenner stands so quickly that his chair rolls back into the wall. He clears his throat and hurries around his desk. You haven’t seen him react like that for anyone. 

You stare at the man across from Geraldine. He’s tall and well-dressed. He wears a pinstripe suit with a pressed white collared-shirt, a sleek grey tie down his chest. Despite his tailored attire, his hair is overgrown, his beard too. There’s a permanent stitch in his forehead. 

Rogers... it sounds familiar. 

“Sir,” Brenner extends his hand as he approaches the other man, “how are ya? What can I do for ya today?” 

The other man looks at him dully and ignores his handshake. He sniffs and peers around at the beige walls. The place is enough to drive anyone mad. 

“I need an accountant.” 

“I didn’t know you were looking? Brian--” 

“Shut up about Brian,” the man snarls. “I’m not hear to chat.” 

“Well, I can take care of it--” 

“You won’t,” Rogers insists. “The things you click on, I don’t need that risk. It’s off the books. No digital trail.” 

“Right,” Brenner agrees, “Wallace is... gone--” 

“Didn’t ask,” Rogers turns away from him and looks past the empty desk to you, “her. Come on.” 

He snaps then curls his fingers. Brenner bounces on his heels anxiously, “um, right, but Geraldine is more experienced--” 

“She’s wearing orthotics. I need someone who can run around,” the man snaps.  

“Yes, sir, of course, sir. I don’t mean to overstep,” Pete shows his palms. “Get your bag, sweetie. You’re gonna help Mr. Rogers for the day.” 

“More than a day,” he says as he checks his watch. 

“As long as you need,” Brenner agrees. 

You save the spreadsheet and slowly close down the Excel sheet. You wheel back in your chair, unsure, and reach beneath for the leather briefcase you splurged on when you got the job. When you still thought it was a professional office. 

“I heard about the engagement,” Brenner lowers his voice but the place is too small not to hear, “Sorry, buddy, that’s tough--” 

“I didn’t ask what you think,” Rogers bristles. 

You peer over again and find him staring. Impatiently. 

“Right, right, was just saying--” 

“And I’m not your buddy,” he growls. 

“Of course, sir,” Brenner preens. “I’m digging the new look. Growing out the hair. Very in vogue--” 

“Enough,” he waves past Brenner to you. “Let’s go. Boss is waiting.” 

You get up and snap the clasp on the plum briefcase as you shuffle in your kitten heels. You approach the man as you grip the handle and offer your other hand formally. “Hi, sir,” you introduce yourself. “What can I help with?” 

“We’ll get to it. For now, stay close,” he looks at his watch again. 

“Glad to be of service, sir,” Pete says. “I’ll waive the invoice--” 

He’s once more ignored as Rogers spins and marches for the door. Tension curdles in his wake and you look around. Brenner gives you a toothy cringe and shoos you, “don’t keep him waiting and for god sakes, smile.” 

You raise your brows as Geraldine returns to her desk. She sits stiffly as she rubs her hip and offers a sheepish look, “good luck, dearie.” 

Their nervous demeanour fills you with dread. Who exactly is this Mr. Rogers and why are they all so afraid of him? You can only be sure that you should be too. 

[bitterly-almond]

more Kuina lived AU with some slight changes

it feels like every time i draw her she gets bigger. i still want zoro to have wado as a symbol of their promise so i gave kuina the nidai to go with zoro's sandai :))

[doodleholic]

Too Far and Snakey

[mintjeru]

香港人 miku!! 🇭🇰🇭🇰🇭🇰

open for better quality | no reposts

[astrowarr]

i just watched scott's session 7 and noticed a pattern: every single person forgot about grian.

grian hasn't been caught yet, cleo and scott establish. barely a minute later, scott is leading cleo and bigb by the hands to his secret spot and saying "i think we're the last three." like the name has slipped right out of his hands.

as etho tells the other zombies that no, actually, he doesn't want to kill cleo, it occurs to him suddenly. "actually, i kind of want grian to succeed on this, don't i? he's my teammate," he says, not like he doesn't care for grian, but like he's shocked he even forgot in the first place. (seconds later, he lifts his gaze to the sky, and he sees where grian is hiding. he's the only one who sees. he carries this secret with him as he watches grian run, an apology of sorts; sorry I forgot. I hope this makes it better.)

but it got me thinking: this is what grian does, isn't it? even since 3rd life, where he hid in the shadow of scar, whose face was always, always in the light, as he burrowed under doorways, covered in redstone and days-old blood. no one thinks of him as scar sells them the coffins grian will put them in.

grian has mastered the art of becoming nothing. he's so nothing, in fact, that his presence glances off the skin of even his friends. his name slips away from them. he disappears time and time again, falling through their fingers like sand. there are brief moments: "where's grian?" someone asks, but their blood is boiling and their fingers are itching. the image is a mirage and the sand crumbles at their fingertips. it's gone as soon as it comes; back to cleo, green cleo, uninfected cleo.

a reminder, perhaps from the universe itself. he is nothing but a ghost of a memory, a whisper of a promise. this is by design. the universe is telling him this, as it strings grian up limb by limb: you were only ever meant to watch.

[onnie-giri]

the top 5 aces of the monster gen in one team was the best thing to ever happen

this twt i posted way back in 2020 was the sole inspiration for this zine piece!!

[care666bear]

[tarysande]

The best part about coming back to the source material after a looooong time is you sorta get a fresh look at canon in comparison to whatever the dominant strains of fanon have become. Or, in fact, whatever your own dominant strains of headcanon have become.

I mean, yes, Garrus “I’m not a good turian” Vakarian gets infinitely cooler (and more competent!) by pretty much every metric as the storyline progresses. He does. But fresh out of ME1 and into ME2 through his recruitment, I find myself genuinely amused by how thin the veneer of badass is over a pretty dominant core of straight-up nerd sprinkled with idealism mixed with self-doubt.

When you have Garrus in the squad all the time (and thus get all his ambient dialogue and remarks), you really pick up on the number of times he calls out bad behavior, unethical actions, cruelty, and rule-breaking, especially in ME1.

He’s not actually a hothead who can’t abide rules of any kind. In fact, most of the time he’s pretty pro-law-and-order, and he gets amusingly hall-monitorish when people are breaking rules he considers important and worth following.

Fundamentally, Garrus chafes when his sense of what is just is at odds with what the authorities do about that injustice (or what they stop him from doing). And I would hazard a guess that the reason his actions seem so intense or harsh or "of course we should have shot down that ship in the middle of the Citadel" is indicative not of his impatience but of the degree to which he thinks the authorities have failed to uphold that justice. We know he can be patient. He's a sniper. His whole modus operandi on Omega is precision kills without civilian casualty. But when that long fuse finally burns down, he goes from zero to shooting down ships in the middle of the Citadel in what looks (from the outside) like a heartbeat.

And yes, injured pride hastens the burning of that fuse; he doesn’t like losing. Or admitting defeat. Or failing.

Having just replayed his recruitment mission, a few things really stood out to me this time.

The merc bands really hate him--and they also reluctantly admire him (he's described as smart, resourceful, dangerous, idealistic, brave, slippery; they all agree they only way they managed to get this far is by isolating him and employing dirty tactics). I mean, there's literally a station-wide announcement that Omega can return to "business as usual" once Archangel is out of the picture because he was disrupting things so completely.

The way Garrus blames himself for the deaths of his squad is so freaking turian. Failure reflects on the leader who places his people in danger they can't handle, not the individual who fails. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Yes, Sidonis betrayed him, but the person Garrus blames the most? Is himself. For trusting Sidonis in the first place. For raising Sidonis to a position where he had the means and opportunity to harm others--and the weakness of character to turn coat, to save his own hide, instead of dying to protect the others.

Garrus mentions more than once that he was trying to emulate Shepard. And his tone always implies that he knows he failed because Shepard would never have let a Sidonis into the fold. Again, he's blaming himself. Like a good turian. Yes, he wanted to avoid the red tape and bureaucracy of C-Sec, but his code--Archangel's code--certainly aligns with Paragon Shepard's morality (with a Garrus Vakarian twist).

And since it wouldn't be meta without adding a Tara's Headcanon Twist ... I've always wondered why "Archangel" when it's such a ... human concept. But this time, when I noticed how he spoke about Shepard's influence, and how quickly he brushes aside the name when she asks him about it, I wondered if it wasn't actually his way of honoring the mythology of the dead woman whose example he was trying to follow. Not that Shepard is a God he's worshiping, but ... there is something about the way he talks about her. Garrus doesn't make himself over in the image of a God, though; he's the soldier, the right hand, the avenging angel responsible for carrying out divine punishments suited and proportional to the crimes committed, the rules broken, the selfishness or cruelty of the perpetrator.

[connorsui]

Unfortunately, Gojo was right? Everybody did forget about him...there's no mention of him anywhere to the lead up of 271 and even when there was a single mention about him it wasn't about anything grand he has done or how funny of a man he was ...it was all simply as to what he could have done better in the fight against sukuna

So him asking yuuji to please remember him for he also has dreams and love as well is so ..

Depressing

I would never stop saying this, but he deserved better

[starry-bi-sky]

my martha knight au in a nutshell:

Danny/Martha: see up here?

Danny/Martha: *taps skull*

Danny/Martha: intense psychological damage

-----------

Danny/Martha: *upon finding out she's pregnant*

Danny/Martha: oh my god i cant be a mom, I'm fifteen and homeless--

Danny/Martha: im going to be a terrible mother--

Danny/Martha: i live in a cAR--

Danny/Martha: what if the baby inherits my powers? Oh no--

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

Danny/Martha post giving birth: i've only had Bruce for a minute and a half but if anything were to happen to him i won't even need to fuse with Vlad, I'm razing this goddamn planet to the ground myself

Danny, to Baby Bruce: you are the last remaining thread of my sanity. I'm going to give you the world :)

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

Danny/Martha prior to getting pregnant: Fuck it, if everything in my life has led to this moment, i'm allowed to make one stupid decision. I'm getting drunk and getting laid

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

Danny/Martha while Bruce was a toddler: i swear to fucking god i am going to kill the next person who talks to me--

Bruce: hi mommy!! i brought you something!!!

Danny/Martha, immediately flipping on a dime: hi baby!! what do you have?

Bruce, a weird child like his mother: a spider :)

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

Danny/Martha, talking to Falcone after he made an unsavory comment at her and Bruce: If you ever come near me or my son again, I will dig up your shithead father's corpse and make you eat his skin.

Danny/Martha: do you understand me

Falcone:... crystal, ma'am

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

Danny/Martha new in Gotham: *getting mugged*

Danny/Martha: *grabs man's arm*

Danny/Martha: I AM GOING TO BREAK YOU IN HALF LIKE A TWIG, FUCK BOY, DO YOU HEAR THE WORDS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH--

(she then proceeds to terrorize Gotham's night life for the next extended period of time, mostly unintentionally)

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

Danny/Martha: Danny Fenton?? No. you must be mistaken, my name is Martha Knight.

Danny/Martha: this here is my littlest knight, Bruce.

Danny/Martha: I made him all by myself :]

[desirableendings]

Goodbye to the one and only “comically inept Prince Hamlet for our pathetic times”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sit in silence next to the large, brooding man. You’ve heard of Steve Rogers before. Who hasn’t around these parts. You’re not a local, you moved here for the work. The job description didn’t exactly mention the state of the neighbourhood. 

You see the men in their tailored-suits, puffing on cigars, laughing, even cat-calling you as you pass. That’s just the city, you assumed. That was until you really started to notice the men. When you saw the tinted windows tailing the erratically driven beater cars or the shadows creeping around in the early hours outside your building. 

You keep to yourself. You’re just a visitor to this world. You have no plans to stay in it. 

He doesn’t say a word as he drives. You stare out the window. It’s like that awkward first date you went on as a teen with your stepfather’s co-op volunteer. Except worse. You have no idea what exactly this is. You try not to think about it or you might hyperventilate. 

He slows at a sign and you keep your gaze out the window. The city streets are clear and sunny despite the gloom in the car. You think back on the brief conversation between him and Brenner. He seemed irked by more than your upstart boss. ‘Engagement’... something happened there but you learn from the mistakes of others. Don’t ask. 

As Rogers taps the gas, a man in a hoodie dodges out in front of the car. The brakes lock and the man in the driver seat mutters. The jaywalker looks over and laughs, stopping to make a show as he taunts the driver. He sucks in and horks a wad of phlegm onto the windshield. 

Oh shit. 

You stare in shock. What the heck? You’ve met your fair share of wildcards in this city but you simply keep your head down and keep going. Not Rogers. 

He shifts into park. He’s still silent. He calmly undoes his seat belt and checks the traffic behind him. He gets out as the walk-by spitter continues across the street. The man doesn’t make it as he’s caught from behind and thrown onto the tarmac. 

Without hesitation, Rogers kicks the man’s side, then his stomach as the force of the first rolls him over. He continues his assault with a stony look on his face. His eyes are determined and his chin is set, but no furrow and scowl breaks his veneer. 

You watch as a swirling sensation stirs in your stomach and quickly invades your head. You don’t like violence and this is such an overreaction, you can hardly believe it’s real. It very much is. 

You can’t help the squeak that escapes you as Rogers bends over the man and grabs his skull between his hands. He smashes his face down into the street and you close your eyes. Oh god. This can’t be real. 

Your open your eyes to the ripple of reality. Others watch in a similar awe from the pavement. Drivers idle nearby. A police officer walks by and simply ignore the scene as Rogers stomps the man one last time. 

Fear courses through you. What did Brenner get you into? Why did you just go along with this? Your passivity was always bound to get you in trouble. 

You feel your body slacken as he stands straight and smooths his jacket. You slump in the seat and your eyes roll back as a wave of black specks invades your vision. Your chest feels ready to burst, your head too as you sink into oblivion. 

When you come to, the car is moving again. You lurch forward as the motion flips your stomach. You grunt and try to shake of the disorientation. You put your hand on the dash and gulp in air. 

“You fainted,” Rogers says dully. 

You blink and turn to look at him. You slowly sit back, “yeah, I did. Sorry.” 

He doesn’t offer any other comment. You don’t know what to say or do. You’re embarrassed at how you just passed out but you didn’t really have a choice. You’ve never seen anything like that. And now this man, who can light up like a match, 

“What kinda person...” you begin and flinch at your own voice, “just spits on someone’s car like that?” 

You swallow dryly at your redirection. Sometimes, your thoughts bubble through too quickly but you caught yourself. You think. 

He glances over at you then back to the road. 

“Yeah, like,” you ramble, your nerves bouncing off each other, “if I had a nice car, or a car at all, I’d be mad too. That’s not... cool.” 

You cross your arms as if you’re holding yourself together. You lean back and stare at the road. You’re too afraid to look at Rogers. He can probably hear your fear in your voice. 

“Right, that guy deserved it.” He says. “Got no idea what I’m dealing with. Don’t need that.” 

You nod and meter out a breath, “totally.” 

He grunts. You think he bought it. At least, he knows you’re too scared to tell him your real thoughts if he doesn’t. 

He drives on wordlessly. He’s tense, you’re tense. Everything is tense. 

You glance over at his knuckles as he grips the wheel tight. They’re bruised and there’s a bit of blood on the middle one. Your mind is racing. You see his fists flashing. This man is a maniac. 

“That must hurt,” you say. 

“Huh?” He utters. 

“Your hands.” You don’t know why you’re talking but if you sit there in silence any longer, you’re going to lose your mind.  

He shrugs, “don’t feel it right away.” 

“Right, right, of course, makes sense,” you accept, “I wouldn’t know. I never... whatever. Sorry, I’m going to be quiet.” 

You look out the window and focus on the buildings instead. Just don’t look at him. If you don’t, he can’t hurt you. Like the boogeyman. 

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

You nod and keep your eyes aimed out at the sidewalk. You’re not really worried about him. You’re worried about you. Well, you’ll just be sure to stay on his good side. 

[yayee-pspsps]

Trimax au where the twins live with wolfwood and livio at the orphanage.

[kandyzee]

Fiona was a top athlete, breaking records in track but had to drop out of high school.

Lip was a genius, always told he was gonna be the one to make it but dropped out of college.

Ian was in ROTC for years and trying to get into West Point but had any chance of enlisting ruined.

The 3 eldest gallagher siblings are gifted kids/ dedicated to a goal, but never live up to it, and it kills me every time.

[thatsalotoftoons]

this bitch is literally allergic to being alive or sum

[sturnioloho]

am i seeing things or am i going crazy