#they were angled towards me. foot posture and all

[number-1-crush]

oh my god oh my god oh my god

[junosmindpalace]

Hello! Do u still do dr stone request? If yes. Can u write senku on how would he confess to his crush. I think it would be pretty cute and sweet? LOL. Anyways please take ur time with my request, take care and have a nice day! :))

hi there anon! thank you for your request! i hope you're taking care of yourself and doing well! this oneshot is a little…all over the place since i had so many ideas, but i hope you enjoy anyway!

synopsis: senku finds a uniquely romantic way to confess his feelings for you.

warnings: none

wc: 2.1k

note: oneshot takes place before the petrification!

Knock knock.

Byakuya Ishigami perked up from the awkward angle he was hunched over his laptop in, turning his attention away from the endless amount of emails from students and colleagues alike and toward the sound coming from the end of the hall. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he turned away from the hall and toward the clock on the kitchen wall in front of him. It wasn’t too late…

“Was I expecting someone?” 

Rapid muffled foot stomps thudded down the hall and toward the front door where the knocking was coming from. “It’s for me!” 

The owner of the second voice made a sharp u-turn as he propelled himself toward the front door. He straightened his posture and adjusted the sleek white lab coat he wore before opening the door. On the other side stood a cheery kid around his age holding the handle of a yellow toolbox with both hands, and who’s small smile widened upon meeting face to face with their friend.

“Hiya, Senku! I hope I’m not too late!” 

The latter, Senku, chuckled and stepped to the side to allow you to enter the apartment.

“You’re right on time.” 

“Hi, Y/N!”

“Hello, Mr. Ishigami, sir!” 

“Senku! You didn’t tell me you were inviting someone over! I could’ve made food!” 

“You would’ve burned the house down.” 

You laughed beside Senku, the two of you now standing side by side in front of the boy’s father for you to properly greet him. 

“We’ve got work to do, Y/N! C’mon!” 

Senku hurried toward his room and you went to follow, turning around with an apologetic look on your face. “Sorry for the unexpected drop-in. Nice to see you again, Mr. Ishigami!” 

“Wait! You two didn’t let me know if you want food or not!” 

The teacher received no reply from either his eccentric son or his cheerful friend, and he sat down after rising halfway up his chair with a small smile on his face, mumbling “kids…” before resuming the work on his laptop. 

“I got all the stuff you asked for!” You held your toolbox up with one hand, its contents cluttering loudly. Senku’s room was filled with all sorts of gadgets for the project you two had been working on. On his desk, a variety of different tech parts were scattered, and his laptop revealed multiple tabs of code and other analytics. 

“Wheels?”

“Yes!”

“Voicebox?”

“Yes!”

“Paint?”

“And brushes! I got some sprays, too.”

Senku smirked and chuckled yet again as he took the box from you and rummaged through the supplies. “Good job! Now we can finally finish the robot!” He laid out a thin, dull purple blanket on his floor and moved his computer parts from the desk to the floor. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get started!” 

Ever since the two of you were kids, you and Senku bonded over your mutual love of science. Senku was an extravagant kid who never failed to leave a lasting impression with his projects and experiments. Not only that, but his resolve and excitement only made him more attractive to you. For Senku, such a bright and intelligent person was exactly someone he’d get along well with. Your creativity and drive for passion was what drew him in, especially since you both promised each other excitement and indulgence. 

You visiting Senku was not uncommon, but despite how much you frequent his house to work on his experiments, the giddiness he feels when he hears the doorbell signaling your arrival has never gone away. 

The end goal today was simple- finish building a robot from scratch. Senku’s blueprints showed a detailed diagram of a tiny robot a little bigger than the size of a hand, its body a short, white rectangular prism (with stylish blue stripes- your addition) and a cube attached on the top side to make a head. Two eyes would be placed on either side of its head and two wheels on either side of the body. 

When Senku first presented you the blueprint, you were in awe and immediately eager to get started, asking questions about where to begin and what parts were needed.

And so that very same day, you walked with Senku to his apartment and had a similar encounter with Byakuya a week ago as you did today. Senku walked you through all the steps; programming the robot, building it, and operating it. There were many errors along the way- in the programming and the building, but the two of you took turns working on each aspect over the span of a week. 

And this evening a week later was finally the day you two would finish. 

“We made all the adjustments…”

“Do you think it’ll finally work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

You and Senku nervously hunched around the tiny robot on Senku’s bedroom floor. It sat unmoving and waiting to be operated. It looked exactly like Senku’s blueprints- four wheels, two on each side for the robot to move around, and two eyes that were currently closed. You and Senku exchanged a glance before Senku took a deep breath and leaned in slightly. 

“Rei?” 

The robotic eyes blinked to reveal small black circles behind its artifical eyelids. The bot slowly turned around to face Senku. “Hello, Ishigami Senku!” It then titled its head toward you. “Hello, L/N Y/N!” 

The two of you turned toward each other and let out gasps of excitement. The robot was finally a success! You leaned toward your friend, laughing joyfully while he stared at you with a toothy grin. 

“I can’t believe we did it…!” You cried as you straightened up, stretching your arms above your head. “We actually finished faster than I anticipated!”

“Science requires patience and diligence. With both, you can ten billion percent reach your end goal in no time.”

You smiled and titled your head. “Your passion and dedication is amazing, Senku. I’m always in awe of you.” You laughed, and Senku stared at you with a small smile. 

You say that about him, but you’re more the person Senku will ever be. You're so very kind and motivating, things he knows you’d argue he is as well. Throughout every step you’ve stuck by Senku’s side, working alongside him to finish this project. Never once did you suggest abandoning it and you never once shied away from the challenge. After every setback, you would tell him that the two of you just needed to keep at it, provoking brainstorms by asking questions. Your endless enthusiasm and unwavering resolve was exactly why Senku liked you so much. 

And Senku wanted you to know it, so he decided to leave you a message.  

For a while, Senku had been fighting down romantic feelings for you, and try as he might, everyone, especially Senku, knew that he is no fighter. And so after losing the battle of denial, Senku came to terms with his feelings. Getting rid of them wasn’t an option, and so he’s been anticipating the best way to execute his next solution- confessing.

His thought process? If he confessed, he could move on quicker. The faster any subconscious thought of reciprocation was shut down, the quicker he could get these feelings to pass entirely. And so he didn’t put much thought into his confession. He figured he could just pull you aside one day and confess in the most unromantic way that would be sure to have him rejected, and the two of you could move on with your friendship. But over time, the thought of giving you, his sweet best friend who constantly goes the extra mile for him, such an unthoughtful confession made guilt swirl in his stomach and his feelings for you grow more and more. 

And after some time, Senku realized that he didn’t want to get turned down. He wanted to make you smile. He wanted to stay by your side as something more. He wanted to impress you the best way he knew how- with science. And so a half-assed confession wasn’t going to cut it. Suddenly, he went from rolling his eyes at the thought of just pulling you to the side to thinking of the most memorable and meaningful way to confess.

And Rei was his answer.

Rei represented the best parts of yourselves, both as individuals and as partners. She represented something greater- all of the experiments and projects the two of you worked on together, where you both showcased your creativity, innovativeness and brilliance through a combination of your strengths. Rei was a representation of all the fun the two of you have together, not only while working on projects, but while indulging in mutual interests, while talking about even the most mundane events. Rei represented easy conversation and collaboration between you two- something so important in relationships.

What could be a more fitting way to confess?

So during the process, he programmed a way to send you a message. But of course, it couldn’t be something so direct. Rei represented the mutual love you two have for everything science related, so why not make this fun? 

After an exhausting couple of hours entirely dedicated to finishing Rei by fixing a couple of bugs, the two of you were ecstatic but worn out. Hungry, you suggested going to a ramen joint not too far from Senku’s home for a celebratory meal. 

“My treat! Your dad seemed pretty concerned with making sure we were fed.” You joked, and Senku let out an airy laugh. 

“Sure. I’ll be right there.”

He watched you walk out of his room and down the hall to the exit. He stared back at Rei on the floor, contemplating his next steps. He approached the robot and crouched down in front of it. 

“Rei?”

Rei whirred to life.

“Hello, Ishigami Senku! You have one undelivered message. Would you like me to discard?”

“No. Send the message.”

“Who is your recipient?”

“L/N Y/N.”

Rei beeped a couple of times as she continued staring at Senku. With a final swoosh and a short tune-  “Message sent to L/N Y/N!” 

As you were slipping on your shoes at the front door, oblivious to what Senku was up to, you noticed him approaching you with Rei in his hand.

“Oh, taking Rei with you?”

You grew more confused when he suddenly placed the robot in your hand. “Keep her safe, will ya?”

You looked between Senku and Rei, stunned for a moment before giving the scientist a wide, toothy smile. “You’re letting me have her? Thank you so much!” 

That night, you thought you’d familiarize yourself a bit with Rei’s features. After getting ready for the night, you placed Rei under the bright gaze of your desk lamp and sat crossed legged in your desk chair. Upon turning her on however, you were surprised that the first thing Rei had said to you was…

“Hello, Y/N! You have one unopened message from Ishigami Senku.” 

Huh. Why did Senku add this to the robot? Was it just part of the fun? You were amazed thinking of all the features Senku must’ve added for his own personal touch, or just out of curiosity and experimentation. 

“What’s the message?” 

Rei blinked once before she whirred and started playing an audio recording. There were a couple of clicks, and then pauses. Clicks and pauses. At first you were confused, thinking there was some sort of malfunction, and then…

“Morse code?” 

You had interrupted Senku in the midst of learning morse code in the science club room one day and invited yourself to join him, finding it fascinating. From then on, the two of you would occasionally challenge each other to translate what the other was saying by sending each other messages in class. Sometimes it got competitive, and other times you would hit Senku when he’d playfully tease or insult you. 

Smiling, you pulled out a notebook and a pen to keep track of the letters. You listened carefully, trying to catch every click and pause.

Two clicks. That’s an I.

A click. A long pause. Two more clicks. L.

Another two clicks. I again.

A pause, a click, a pause. That was a K, right?

A singular click. E. 

You listened a little while longer, asking Rei if she was capable of rewinding the audio (she was!), and confirming some of your original answers. 

As you got closer to deciphering the message, your heart started to race. You reread the message you had written down over and over till the words stopped processing in your head. Did you mishear? You must’ve gotten something wrong. But after going back and replaying the message multiple times, rewriting it once and twice and thrice more, you were certain this was the message given. Even so, there was just no way Senku of all people would be sending you a message that read...

 I-L-I-K-E-Y-O-U. 

You had a lot to say to Senku the next day.

[vro0m]

Height fact checking - 2023 edition

Dear all, do you remember this?

Back in 2022, when the only good grill the grid video came out, I decided to factcheck the height the drivers claimed to be with this grid photo of them through complicated and absurd calculations.

The whole thing was kinda shit because they were walking and had fluffy hair in the wind and it was highly inaccurate.

Well.

It's time for round 2!

It took me hours to correct the perspective the best I could. Then I applied the same logic than last time which was fiding a px/cm ratio based on one of the drivers to infer the others' height. It got complicated. I had to do 2 series of measures because the ones on the platform are further away than the ones at the front. You also want to pick someone towards the middle of the photo as a benchmark because they're least subject to lense deformation but for the lower rank it meant not seeing their feet and in the upper rank, I saw on another photo angle that Guanyu was standing back compared to the others. In the end, I used Valtteri and Max as benchmarks. I used lines based on the platform and relative position of the drivers to get an idea of where their feet were and get a base to measure from.

Here's what I found :

You can tell I did not correct the perspective well enough because there are consistent error trends as you move further from the middle, although the green lines tell you that the platform measures pretty much the same thing from one side to the other. The results are way more accurate than last time but it's still just a silly little fun thing so don't take it too seriously!

Detailed comments under the cut :

Max was used as a benchmark so I have no comments about that. Sergio measures 173cm as he said. Last time I found him to be slightly taller than that. Once again, I argue that Seb is wrong, whatever he thinks, Charles is indeed 180cm.

On the platform, you can tell Guanyu was indeed standing back as I said, because he appears smaller than he is and what I found last time. In 2022, Lando seemed to be much shorter than he actually is but he had a weird position. It seems correct this time. Of course Piastri wasn't there last year. I found online he's listed as measuring 178cm. I found 177 which is not far off. Valtteri was the benchmark so no comments about that. In 2022 he was positioned on one of the side which means more probability of him being in a weird perspective which probably explains the off measurement.

Now that's were it starts to get tricky. On the ground rank, George and Lewis seem to have accurate heights. In 2022, Lewis was the benchmark which explains the neat 174cm. In 2023 he is ~174cm EVEN THOUGH he's standing on his tippy toes. Yep. He is. If you look carefully at his right foot, you can see his heel is not on the ground. Silly short king.

But on the upper rank, we start to see an error trend. Lance is the right height, he seemed way taller in 2022 but it might just be down to fluffy hair. Alonso is a weird case because he's 1cm taller than he claims AND that was also the case in 2022. He might just be wrong about how tall he is lol. And then we see both Alpha Tauri boys are pretty much 1cm taller than they claim. That's probably down to perspective issues. It's kinda weird that they only affect the top rank and not the bottom rank but then again, Nyck and Yuki are further left than George and Lewis so it might be because of that.

And here we have issues.

Bottom rank : Carlos +1.5 ; Pierre + 2.75, Este + 1.25. In the video, one of the tall drivers said the tall drivers have terrible posture. My bet is if Este was standing straight his measurement would be even more off and we could see a clear trend of people gaining cm the more to the right of the picture they are. That's down to me not correcting well enough despite my efforts rather than them lying. How do I know?

Because the same thing happened on the top rank : Hulkenberg +1 ; Magnussen +2 ; Alex +2 ; Sargeant +1.5. We find ourselves with a similar case of people gradually gaining centimetres the further right they are. Sargeant is a weird anomaly. Either

he's shorter than he claims to be and the difference is closer to 2 or 2.5,

he's standing closer to the camera than the others are, but it's difficult to say because we can't see Alex's feet although when I look at the Haas boys feet compared to his it doesn't really seem to be the case

something is really really weird with the perspective being warped like ⬇️ this even though the lines around them are straight? 🤔 Seems weird to me.

Anyway here's a summary of the errors trends :

Conclusion : the height claims are boringly mostly accurate.

The end ✨

[haleswallows]

Between A Rock & A Dragon's Egg teaser

A wee teaser for my new fic. I'll be posting chapter 1 next week. Are you ready for some high fantasy, dragons, arranged marriage and misunderstandings?

○○○○○○○○○○○○○

“It is no surprise,” Sir Valerie Gray replied easily when Tim begged forgiveness for domineering her time yet again. “It is not an overly large estate. I would find it odd if we did not see each other often.”

Which made Tim pause. Phantom was avoiding him. Afterall, he seemed to only speak with the High Chief at shared meals, scantily seeing signs of him while Tim wandered the halls. The realization sent a spike of fear through his limbs.

Why would Phantom be avoiding him?

Did he displease the High Chief? He knew he was woefully ignorant to the ways of the Infinite Lands in the ways all outsiders were. The people and the culture of the Infinite Lands were mysteries to all outsiders. Even before the war, relations and trade with the Infinite Lands had deteriorated long before any of their lifetimes.

What did this mean for the treaty? If he failed in his betrothal duties, what retaliations would Phantom enact?

Valerie accepted his silent musings. She never pushed Tim to speak, demanding conversation or response. She held open the heavy wooden door leading to the upper gallery of the courtyard. They walked sedately, Tim trailing his fingers over the sturdy railing. Movement below caught his attention.

Phantom stalked across the courtyard, Fright at his elbow. Though Fright remained largely unresponsive, it was obvious their conversation was contentious from Phantom’s expression and posture.

“Wait,” Valerie murmured, gesturing for Tim to slow. “Watch.” She pointed to the lower level of the gallery, shadowed by the late day sun.

A flash of white, barely noticeable through the shadow. Danijel stole behind a column, only visible to them from their angle. Tim glanced at Valerie, surprised by her lopsided smirk. She caught him looking, and nodded back to the courtyard. “We are in for a treat.”

Phantom and Fright passed the column. Expertly, Danijel slid to keep out of their sight. His gaze flicked up, stilling as he noticed Tim and Valerie. He made a gesture, Valerie held her hand up, palm out. Their gestures and field signals were still entirely foreign to Tim, but it resembled the same wait sign Bruce used.

Slowly, Valerie counted down on her fingers. Shadow’s focus was hawkish on her hand. The moment her index finger began to curl downward, he peeled himself from the column. Fleet footed and silent, he rushed at Phantom and Fright on the edge of the sunken courtyard.

Fright, half turned toward Phantom, reacted first with his head jerking. Phantom, catching Fright’s shift in focus, was already moving when Danijel, now within arm’s reach, made to grab him.

Phantom slipped under his brother’s arm. Undeterred, Danijel rushed forward again. It was amusing, in a silly sort of way as Phantom continued to dance away from Danijel, walking him halfway across the courtyard.

(Come subscribe to me on AO3 for when I post the first chapter next week!

[sissybabycucksophia]

🥵🥵The Holiday Part 4🥵🥵

(This story is complete fiction and although i may desperately wish it isn’t, there is no fact or real world experience behind this story)

Finally after what can only be described as the most demeaning, masculinity destroying, infantilising and horny 18 and a half hours of my existence…. Morning finally came. Awaken at 10:50am I quickly began taking stock of my situation, i was soaked from head too toe in a thick layer of sweat, my diaper was so full of shit, piss and cum it had leaked into my second diaper and i was locked in a crib in a room while dressed in the most humiliating and uncomfortable outfit possible.

Afraid to move i moaned and whimpered quietly and even stooped to a more pathetic level of begging through my paci for a diaper change hoping daddy would hear me and come change me. How had i come to this? I’m a man!? Why was i laying on my back in a cage restrained waiting for another man too change my diaper!!. Finally at bang on 11 am the door opened, turning my head as best i could to look panic suddenly shot through my body as i caught a glimpse of a male figure and a female in a pink dress approaching me.

Crying in embarrassment i watched the female figure approach the crib and stood over it looking at me. However then the male figure approached and in total horror I realised that was the man dominating daddy when I arrived. Looking at the woman through my watery eyes I realised it was daddy ben…. Transformed into a sissy!!! At that the man spoke up, “get him out of the crib and sit him on his knees at the foot of the bed Doll” to which daddy said nothing and merely nodded with a smile. What was going on!!? Was he going to make me suck his cock? No god no please not that!! At that he walked away and daddy ben opened up the crib, smiling at me silence daddy ben pressed his hand down on my crotch region through the quilt and even laughed as I squirmed in discomfort. I moaned and begged through the paci gag for him to stop as all i could feel was cold gloopy shit, piss and cum being smooshed around my caged cock.

After a few minutes daddy ben would lower the quilt and began pulling my legs out of the crib. Then lifting me up out of the crib he easily carried me to the end of the bed where he positioned me on my knees. Once on my knees he pushed me back too sit on my feet which were nicely folded beneath my diaper tooshy. I tried to wrestle my arms free from the restraining belt but to absolutely no success. Looking up at the man who’d now stripped naked, i moaned and begged for freedom through my paci gag but but to no avail. I was so warm and sweaty i could hardly think straight although fear washed over me as the naked mans huge penis hung before my face, “Doll! Present your wrists immediately!” The man barked at daddy ben in such a blunt manner I whimpered.

Looking up at daddy ben i was shocked to watch him present his arms to the man with absolutely no resistance and a dumb and thoughtless smile on his face. At that the man would handcuff daddy ben and then command him to kneel in-front of me but pointing 90 degrees toward the wall. Then the man spoke directly to me as Daddy Ben knelt in the same posture as me but completely still, looking forward, smiling a dumb thoughtless smile and Dressed in that most pathetic of floor length dresses that he was locked in. Grabbing the top of my Sleepsack hood encased head, the man angled my head to look up at him as he spoke. “You are the most pathetically helpless and weak little faggot I’ve ever laid eyes on! Look at you! So weak your not only forcefully restrained dressed as the opposite gender but also dressed and restrained as a BABY of the wrong gender!! Hilarious how weak you are! Well like a baby your going to sit and do nothing but watch! Watch as I face fuck and dominate the Weak submissive that you are so pathetic that you submitted too!!!! Once im done with MY Doll, She will get you cleaned up and dressed for today’s activities! Today we’re going out so i can show of MY property to the world and demoralise you both!!!”

As spoke, tears welled up in my eyes and began streaming down my cheeks. Letting go of me, the man stood before Daddy Ben and said “now then Doll! Service me now!”. To my absolute amazement, daddy ben simply nodded and with his cuffed together wrists he guided the mans huge length into his mouth and began to suck the mans penis to orgasm. Embarrassed didn’t cover how mortified i felt, unable to remove my wrists from my waste, my sleepsack entrapped legs folded and squishing my horribly gooey diaper against my skin and forced to watch the man strong enough to do this too me willingly lowering himself to the status of cock sucking faggot….. i was mortified and absolutely humiliated. For the next 6 minutes daddy ben gagged and drooled as he thrust his head back and forth into the mans crotch, finally though the man would appear to push daddy’s head backwards off of his cock before proceeding to shoot his huge load at Daddy ben’s upper chest. Watching in shock i watched the huge load of cum spurge and splatter as it hit the padlock keeping ben prisoner in the dress and began dripping down over his padded chest with daddy ben then looking at the man in the face and although bright red in embarrassment, he would smile radiantly.

“Well done doll! Now stand up! I want to use your pussy, face the bed and keep your arms above your waste!” He commanded, I couldn’t believe what i was watching! This now weak little cum covered faggot was only the same person who less than 24 hours ago choked me for not listening to him! How far have i fallen! To be more submissive than this! Watching Daddy he nodded, stood up and turned around and held his cuffed arms above the waste where i then watched the Man reach down grabbing the bottom of Daddy Bens feminine prison dress down at his ankles and suddenly began pulling it up, the man would effectively turn the dress back up at the waist and using the skirt like a body bag. Raising the now inside out skirt of the dress right up too daddies neck the man took his belt and strapped it round Daddies neck, the bottom of the dress and his wig. Now daddy stood there, Sparkling pink knee high Ugg boots on show, tattoo of a small cartoon pink princess where his pubic hair had been shaved and a small pink plastic chastity were now revealed to the world while his upper body was now not only locked in the dress and hands cuffed but now constricted by the skirt of the dress.

Watching on in complete shock I watched the man then push daddy face first onto the bed then correct his hips, then once daddy’s hips and ass were at the correct angle the man would plunge his massive cock down into daddies ass. Looking at daddies face he winced trying to stay completely silent as the man began pounding his hips in and out back and forth. However to my absolute shock the man would grab the back of daddies head and then turn it to smoosh and smother daddies face into the mattress. “You dont breath till i shoot!” He grunted as i watch daddy start to wiggle more and tried to fight to move his head for air. In a panic I tried to yell “leave him alone! Let him breath!” But through the gag all that came were loud moans. Thinking i was helping daddy I decided to fling myself forward at his legs, however as I unfolded my legs too launch forward I forgot my arms were restrained so bumping into the mans legs I landed with a thud on my face and tears began welling up in my eye. Suddenly i felt myself rolled over onto my back and sat up, seconds later a warm, gooey, sticky and smelly substance splattered off what little of my face was not covered, closing my eyes as they welled up with tears of shame i struggled to reopen then for fear od cum going in my eyes as the man spoke.

“Aw for fuck sake you dumb baby!! That was meant for her!! I was planning to shoot that inside her then plug her so it swirled around in there all day!!! You’ve ruined it!! What a waste!!! Doll, take this cum faced diaper faggot out of my sight. Get her showered and freshly diapered! I’ll pick out her outfit for our trip to the park!!” The dominant man grunted pulling daddy upright and undoing the belt which was holding the skirt up around his neck. As it flopped down and returned back too its ankled length position covering his legs daddy simply turned to the man, curtsying to the man he would leave the room. Shame rippled through me as i felt Daddy wipe the cum away from around my eyes, looking at daddy he still appeared to be locked in the dress and retained a dumb, uninteractive doll like smile and facial expression. Finally Daddy would begin freeing me from my layer apon layers of sweaty torture as he unzipped the sleepsack, as he did the smell of just what i’d done in my diapers would waft overpowering out from the sleepsack as well as the smell of my cummies and a nights worth of sweat. Manoeuvring me out of the sleepsack daddy appeared to hang it over the crib which worryingly told me this was to be a nightly ritual, from there daddy completely stripped me down till only my diapers, mittens and wig remained on.

Now free to speak i began asking as many questions as my terrified little mind could think of, “who is he daddy!? Why are you not resisting being abused?! Is he going to use me like his is you?! Can you please get this disgusting cum of my face and diapers off my crotch?!! Please daddy talk to me?!” However daddy simply lead me to the bathroom where he would lock the door once we were in.

Removing my mittens he guided me into the shower where he then pointed and gestured for me to remove my diapers. As i dropped 1 saturated and messed diaper at a time daddy appeared to pull on a clear waterproof plastic dress over the pink prissy prison he was already locked in. Eventually 4 dirty diapers lay in the tub as daddy picked up the shower head and began to hose me down like an infant who couldn’t do it themselves. My penis was in agony as it strained against the cage and as daddies hands washed and wiped ever inch of my body, as he was very thoroughly cleaning my crotch I whimpered “Daddy answer my questions please!” With tears in my eyes.

Turning around daddy would pick up what appeared to be a notebook, turning back to me held up a prewritten page. It read “Baby Jade, Like you I am weak and submissive and as such have be so pathetic as to allow another man to take control of me. The man whos taken control of me has ruled that I am his Sissy Maid Doll, and as Dolls do not have feelings, speak or think i must never speak, disobey him or act without instructions while he is with me” having read that sheer and absolute dread washed over me. “But daddy….” I tried to protest to which i was interrupted by daddy flipping to another page which read: “As such do not call me Daddy while we are under his control, daddy is a far too dominant and superior title for a weak submissive faggot like me. While I’m his doll… you will be HIS sissy baby diaper cuck too control! You will call him daddy and be treated as he sees fit! You will refer to me as Doll Mommy if you absolutely must speak”

In utter shock i could find no words as daddy (now Doll Mommy) finished by cleaning the cum from my face. Turning off the shower Doll Mommy refitted my bulky mittens and rather embarrassingly scooped me up naked in his arms before heading back to the bedroom where…. God only knew what awaited 🥵🥵🥵

[fractured-shield]

wip excerpt tag

coming here from the open tag by @coffeewritesfiction and bringing back a bit of my short piece "Crimson Stone and Aureate Scales" which is technically a wip because it still needs to be adapted into my actual book in a few more chapters. and i'll be leaving this as an open tag as well, since I don't really have much of a writing social circle yet

They’ll look to us for protection. What reassurance do they find in a hired vanguard, whose only purpose is to die first, and have them follow?

The wooden back of the bench was worn smooth from use, worm-eaten and dry rotted in places. Still, it was mostly protected from the elements despite the window panes broken from their arched frames, opening the serene hall to the chill wind and the years of fallen leaves blown in and slowly turning to dust. The once-polished stone interior, muted fawn and ivory, painted the lone occupant in stark relief: a somber and straight-backed figure, pallid and dark-clad, wearing a few pieces of plate armor over black cloth and leather. He folded his hands in his lap, eyes unfocused somewhere in the middle distance.

Another gust of wind set the leaves in motion again, swirling into eddies and shallow drifts. The joints of his armor clicked together softly as he leaned forward, elbows braced against the pale and time-worn wood—birch, like the dancing leaves, and just as much a ghost of former life. The rigid set of his shoulders, achingly tight, seemed odd for a man sitting alone in the sun-dappled serenity of an abandoned sanctuary.

A few strands of hair—worn long and untied, brown shot through with faint silver—caught in the wind as well and slipped across armored shoulders to flutter against his face. He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at the sensation, or hardly to notice it at all. He bowed his head further towards his arms, brow furrowed, still deep in wounding contemplation.

If there was anything to be done, we would have done it two hundred years ago or more. What strength are we supposed to find now, to prevent another city turned to ruin—

His eyes fell on an ornament of stone at the front of the room: a muted, rust-tinted red. It was a stand designed to hold a book, but its angled surface was empty and its heavy chain hung loose and broken, the tome it last held long since stolen.

—or great strongholds abandoned…if there were any left to forsake.

He adjusted his posture slightly. The armor had never been comfortable, and his knee had begun to twinge again, an old injury acting up after hours in the saddle.

No, that isn’t fair. It isn’t so hopeless as that. I promised her I’d have more faith than that.

“It hardly feels fair to call it faith, does it?” He spoke the last part aloud before he’d realized it.

“What was that?”

He started at the unexpected voice, clear and childlike, cutting through the near-silence like the timid footsteps that accompanied it.

“Nothing,” he answered, trying to temper his expression into something less gloomy as the girl approached. She slid along the bench to sit next to him, putting one foot up and then immediately changing her mind after a quick glance around. It was a holy place, forgotten though it was, and maybe that mattered to her. She sat on her hands awkwardly.

“I never thought you prayed to the gods much, papa. …Or did that change, while I was away? I mean, I guess five years is longer for me than for you but—I don’t mean anything by it, I just thought I’d ask if, I don’t know—”

He leaned lightly against her shoulder, interrupting her nervous rambling. “No, I…it didn’t change. I don’t.”

[digitalagepulao]

gotta be thankful for my weird yt recommendations, cus watching YEC getting trashed is great fodder for learning about hominin evolution, especially what adaptations an animal need to be necessarily a biped like humans.

which means i get to go scientific on Wukong and how he could move if his body is indeed full quadruped ape! :D

(shout out to Gutsick Gibbon for her awesome videos, both educational and YEC debunks!!)

some of the adaptations that distinguish a primate's locomotion is a skull that sits on top of the spinal column, a pelvis in a bowl-shape to support the body weight, thigh bones at an angle, and sturdy knees to carry the body beneath it, plus three curved metatarsal bones (foot arch) with a big toe that is in line with the other digits.

also in locomotion comparisons, chimps move their ribcages at pace with their hips, while humans alternate between the two to conserve energy and help keep our upright posture. that's what causes chimps to have that waddle-walk. having a large bowl-shaped pelvis helps us have the sturdier waist muscles for that counter-movement, as you'll notice quadruped apes have veeeeery slender waists.

so, Wukong! if he were to be given those anatomical changes, he'd very much look like an anthropomorphic ape, but if we wanted to keep him more monkey than human, how would that affect his posture?

for one, most of his walking movement would have to be at his waist, his shoulders moving very little or not at all. he'd probably hang his tail low, to lower his center of gravity and make it easier to stay upright. his knees would probably stay at a steady angle as he walks since they can't bear his weight, and all the more reason to lower his center of gravity and spare his poor joints. his pelvis and column aren't built for a full upright posture, so he'd need to walk with his back at an angle on his lower back, but not at a curve. he'd probably walk landing on the balls of his feet rather than heels, and with splayed fingers a la chickens, to compensate for his long dextrous feet and avoid wobbling or flipper walking. a semi-digitigrade walk, if you will.

it would very much make him look even shorter than he is, sort of hunched and stiff if compared to a healthy and abled adult human. probably would add to an unrefined and brutish first impression too, considering he's often deemed ugly and gaunt by other characters and he has a rather casual attitude towards everyone that can be quite offensive in other's eyes.

the book mentions that he wears shoes but even if they were made to accommodate his long feet and low-set big toe, it would be an awkward fit and overall not that helpful. Maybe bandages or wraps to help cushion his foot pads and spare him of the rough terrain, but even then, Sun Wukong is impervious to most attacks physical or magical so, why would he need to protect against blisters? he's better off with no footwear, me thinks.

ALL THAT SAID, it's worth mentioning that fully cultivated animal yao can achieve a full human form, and in some stories that's the whole point of the endeavor too. So I raise, all-out-monkee Wukong gaining all bipedal features as he reaches Buddhahood. He Looks like a monkey, with the long fur, facial features and tail, but it's more of an anthropomorphic monkey situation.

[mt-musings]

Bluebell

Chapter 14

After being abruptly transferred to the BAU at what she suspects was Gideon's request, Cassie Boann struggles to find her footing. Shy and solitary by nature, the transition is made all the more difficult when Dr. Spencer Reid seems to take an almost immediate dislike to her. Unfortunately for them both, their respective areas of expertise leave them paired off more often than not. But when Cassie's past literally starts hunting her, Spencer is forced to consider that he might, in fact, not hate her at all.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Spencer Reid x OC

Warnings: Canon typical violence, kidnapping, stalking, drug use, blood, injury, death, PTSD, eventual smut, more tags to be added

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

14. Fade into You

Spencer hesitated, his thumb hovering over the enter button that would dial Cassie’s number. Hotch gave them the next two days off to rest and recover, something they all were grateful for. He’d spent the first day doing little more than catching up on all the sleep he’d lost over the weekend, sometimes waking long enough to watch an episode of Star Trek: Next Generation and wolf down some takeout. 

He’d planned on visiting his favorite book shops again, fresh out of new reading material and found himself wondering if it might be a good idea to invite Cassie along. They both were avid readers after all, and she had said that she didn’t know many of the smaller shops in DC. Of course she might rather stay home and do—whatever it was that she did in what little spare time they got. 

Maybe she was busy perfecting the dissertation she had so clearly wanted Dr. Garvey to have never mentioned. He doubted she was asleep—he sometimes doubted she slept much at all. 

Of course he wouldn’t know until he called.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pressing enter before he could talk himself out of it. It rang half a dozen times before she picked up.

“Do we have another case already?”

“No, not that I know of. I was just going to check out some bookstores and wasn’t sure if you’d want to come. You said you hadn’t been to Lost City before.”

“Um—“

“Yo don’t have to, I just thought—“

“No, I’d love to—It sounds like a really cool shop. I’m just currently drowning in my own sweat. Can you give me like an hour to get home and shower?”

“It’s 28 degrees out.”

“I’m on mile nine and I wore too many layers.”

“You’re what?”

“I need an hour. Where should I meet you?” 

“Hey!”

Spencer looked up to see Cassie jogging towards him, one hand raised in a tentative wave. Her hair was still damp and streaming down her back, though she’d pulled on a grey beanie to keep her ears warm.

“Hey—aren’y you going to freeze like that? I could’ve waited for you to dry your hair.”

“I’m fine, it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, well, if you say so,” Spencer said, pulling open the door to Lost City. Cassie’s face immediately lit up and he couldn’t help but smile, glad he’d found the guts to call her. 

They spent the next three hours scouring the shelves, each lugging around a slowly increasing pile of books, though his was nearly three times the size of hers. She took a lot longer to decide whether or not it was worth bringing home—he tended to pick up anything he found more than mildly interesting. 

He found himself watching her nearly as much as he spent searching for new finds, eyes flicking back to her of their own volition. She’d dug her glasses out of a pocket of her puffer vest, glasses he’d only ever seen her wear outside of work, away from the team. She furrowed her brow when she was really engrossed in a book, head cocked to the side as she scanned the pages. She still angled herself so she had an eye on the door, but her gaze flicker towards it less, her shoulders relaxing from their usual stiff posture. 

A cell phone broke the quiet serenity of the bookstore, playing a tinny version of the X Files theme song. Cassie sighed, closing the book she’d been perusing and pulled it free from her pocket. 

“I’m sorry, I have to take this. Can I leave these with you?” She asked, motioning to her pile of books. 

“Yeah, of course.” She dropped them on top of his own stack with a smile, her gaze holding his for a moment, long enough for him to notice the flecks of gold in her eyes. 

“Thanks,” she replied, answering the call and ducking out of the shop, leaving the light tinkling of bells in her wake. 

She stayed by the door, shoulders hunched against the cold, the wind whipping her hair. A large part of him wanted to revisit the shelves by the entrance and see if he could eavesdrop but he resisted, instead turning his attention to the books she’d placed in his hands. 

There were only four—Voroshilovgrad, The Optimist’s Daughter, The Museum of Abandoned Secrets, and Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex—none of which he was familiar with. He couldn’t help the slight flush that the last book brought to his cheeks, a flush that was unwarranted considering, at least according to the back, it focused more on a dichotomy of power imbalances rather that the act itself. 

Even if it had it shouldn’t have left him flustered—they were both adults, after all, adults who could do whatever they wanted with whoever they wanted. 

Spencer was just glad no one else had to listen to the mortifying monologue in his head. 

The bells over the door rang out again and he whipped around, too fast. Cassie reentered, face scrunched up in the way that he knew meant she was frustrated with something out of her control. She sighed and crossed back to him, taking her books from his quickly-becoming-precarious pile. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “There was a fuckup at the lab and they ruined a DNA sample.”

“Which case? We got a confession out of Buford so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s not a BAU case. It’s just a cold case I’ve been working.”

“Something left over from CASMIRC?”

“More or less,” she replied, though she focused on her stack of books rather than meeting his eyes. There was an emotion broiling just under there surface, something he couldn’t quite define. 

If he didn’t know better, he might have thought she was about to cry.

“What’d you find? Anything special?” She asked, nodding at his books. He took a second before he answered, wondering if he should say something to comfort her. He thought better of it and began a rundown of the books he’d found. She smiled at him as he did, eyes flitting over each title as he told her why he’d picked it. 

She was the only one on the team that never told him to be quiet, that he was rambling. She just listened, butting in with her own two sense, sometimes pulling a book from the stack to leaf through. 

They reemerged on the street just as the sun was beginning to set, the wind whipping through the narrow street. She shivered as the cold hit her, zipping up her vest to her chin. 

“Thanks again for showing me this place.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“It’s a bookstore, Spence, there wasn’t much of a risk,” she laughed. She had such a nice laugh.

“Did you have any other plans for the night? Because I still have that documentary I was telling you about saved on my DVR and I could order takeout—if you wanted. I totally get if your busy and it’s last minute,“ Spencer blurted out, stumbling over the words. 

“Sure,” she replied, wrapping her arms around herself, “That’d be fun.”

“Yeah,” he said, face splitting into a grin.

Previous Next

[glystenangel]

Better in Love

Bodyguard!Toji x Brat&Afab!Reader (Historical AU)

Series Summary: you're the daughter of a feudal lord, and Toji becomes your bodyguard. then, you fall in love

Chapters: 1/5

Chapter Summary: toji is hired as your bodyguard

Status: Completed

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of violence, nudity, teasing, pet names, good old fashioned tension, takes place in historical/feudal japan eraish (pls don't hold me to this, i'm sorry i just like the aesthetic)

also! inspired by this fanart bc i saw it and just...yeah

~1.9k

thanks for reading and enjoy<3

Ch. 1 - Your New Bodyguard

You were incredibly bored.

Being one of the many daughters of a high ranking lord, you could teach a class on how to zone in and out of bureaucratic meetings, but today’s affair was testing your time-honed skills. Your father had insisted you sit in on the arduous selection process for your new bodyguard. The stringy clouds did little to beat back the sun’s rays, and three yawns had already been crammed into your palm in the past thirty minutes.

“We’re here for you, my dear. Please sit up.” He chastised, sternly clicking his tongue at your slouched posture.

You straightened your back, but sent him a pointed glare with the aim of boring a hole into his head.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not the one who was nearly kidnapped last week.”

You reluctantly bowed your head, tracing the grooves of your palm with a fingernail. Of course, he was right. Due to his status, there had been a failed attempt to snatch you from one of the handmaidens when you accompanied her to shop for vegetables in the market. Fortunately, you had been next to a knife stall and clawed at its surface in time to find hope around one of the sharp pieces of merchandise. In a flash, you sank metal far enough into the attacker’s back to force him to howl in pain and collapse. However, after the man was taken into custody by the local citizen police, they had contacted your father and you had not stepped foot outside of his land until you were summoned to sit in the sun and sift through potential bodyguards. You had insisted you were fine despite being shaken up, but your father had furrowed his brow the way he always did when he was cross and that was the end of that. You knew your father cared, but watching him question lines of burly men as they made pledges of loyalty in the courtyard wasn’t exactly your favorite way to spend the afternoon.

Every time a new man stepped forward and listed his qualifications, your father would look to you before dismissing the candidate at any frown or tenseness that overtook your face from their pitch.

“My name is…” You drowned out the introduction as you watched a yellow butterfly flit across the stone walkways.

“What do you think, my dear?” 

Your eyes snapped back to the man, and you could see his gaze indiscreetly drift to your kimono skirts. He licked his chapped lips, and a bitter taste prickled the back of your tongue.

“No.”

Your father nodded, “You may go.”

“That’s too bad. If you need a husband though, let me know.”

Cold washed over you as you tugged your robes closer and angled your legs towards your father. You were the only unmarried sibling, and the whole village never seemed to stop talking about it. It was through no lack of suitors, though you just couldn’t bring yourself to like any of them. Your family blamed it on how your father spoiled you, but he continued to indulge you all the same. You were the youngest and most headstrong, like him, so he was protective of you. 

“You may go.” He ordered more forcefully, tapping his foot.

You sighed, trying to catch sight of the gold-toned butterfly again as the last interviewee took their much appreciated leave.

You sensed your father was growing weary as well, echoing your sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose in your peripheral vision.

“Next.”

“Hey, I’m here for the bodyguard job.”

A murmur rippled through the remaining men, and you heard a few distinct grumbles and sneers.

“It’s him.”

“He does know this is a bodyguard position, right?”

“What’s he doing here?”

“What’s with his arm?”

“Forget about the arm, look at his rib.”

You turned your head back curiously, and your gaze was instantly met by a tall, muscular man with slicked dark hair and a scar slashed into the side of his mouth.

His forest green eyes bore into yours, and you swallowed upon realizing he indeed had an arm missing. His kamishimo and kimono were black and draped around his shoulders, with one side tucked over his chest and into his pants. The heavily scarred skin on his side was exposed, but he had bandages wrapped around the portion of his arm and shoulder that remained. Two swords were slung along the right side of his waist, and he didn’t seem bothered by the whispers surrounding his mangled flesh. You wondered what he had to endure to survive such a gruesome injury.

“What is your name?” 

“Fushiguro Toji.” Another wave of murmurs.

“Fushiguro Toji, the mercenary?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why would you like to be a bodyguard for my daughter?” Your father leaned forward in his seat, a twinkle in his eye.

“I could use the money.” Toji shrugged, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders back. Even through those miniscule movements, his dense muscles rippled with power. He emanated a confident aura, and you felt your heart pound from his handsomely carved features.

“How honest.” Your father seemed entertained.

“Send him home already. There’s no way he can do the job.” Someone in line yelled.

More shouts of dissent were made, and the head guard came to your father’s side.

“My lord, perhaps they’re right.” 

In a flash, Toji had his sword wielded and it clashed with the head guard’s swift defense. 

“Perhaps they’re full of shit.” 

You jumped at the sudden conflict, and the two men began fighting in earnest. They moved quickly, yet every step and dodge held a smooth grace. You observed in utter amazement as metal sliced against metal, and grunts of effort left the two swordsmen. They exchanged skillful blows, until Toji was able to disarm the head guard and point the tip of his sword at his opponent’s throat. Only mere seconds had passed.

Toji sent a firm stare back to your father, “Satisfied?”

Your father warily glanced at you, and you gave him a wide smile.

“Yes. You’re hired.”

_________________

Although Toji had initially impressed you, you quickly realized how infuriating of a person he was. He was rather crass, and he had bouts of strictness that bothered you when you wanted to deviate from your father’s schedule and leave the house. Even when you reminded him you were technically his boss, he would give you a cold look and tell you that there was 'no way in hell you were going anywhere'. He was under the impression that he had to follow your father’s instructions to the letter, and that if your rebelliousness made him lose a single cent, there would be hell to pay. He also had a tendency for sarcasm, which he used on you constantly.

“Hey princess, what’s the schedule for today? That's right, sitting your ass at home.”

“You’re gonna break something trying to get past me, doll. Relax.”

“Are you done? No, but we can talk a walk around the estate if you’d like. Oh, so you can shut up.”

“You’re right, princess. The world is ending and it’s all my fault for doing my job.”

To be fair, you were sure he resented your stubborn and constant need to go explore and discuss your unhappy thoughts at length with him. It had only been a few weeks since he had started his bodyguard duties, but you were already growing sick of each other.

“You know you don’t have to stand out there, I’ll be a while.” You called out, sighing as you sank into your hot bath.

You could vaguely make out Toji’s side profile in the brown paper of the door that separated you both.

“Not a chance. People are most vulnerable in the bath.”

“That’s perverted.” You cupped water to stream over your face.

“Just a fact, doll.”

“Would you stop calling me that?”

“Why? It’s fitting.” The grin in his voice was apparent.

“You’re only here because of my father’s insane need to keep an eye on me, don’t be clever.” You rolled your eyes, smoothing your hands over your arms and watching the steam rise off of the surface of the water.

“I’m here because you’re a fragile, hard headed idiot who never stops to think about the consequences of her position.”

“Fragile?” You smacked your hands down into the water.

“Yeah, could break you in half if I wanted to. You’re weak.”

Water aggressively splashed the stones lining your tub as you stood up and slammed the door open to Toji’s surprised expression. Steam leaked from the doorway and around your bare figure, and droplets of water cascaded down your face and body as he took in the unbridled fury in your eyes.

“I’m not weak, and you don’t scare me. No man ever will. Ask the man I stabbed.”

He only stared down at you, and you pointedly maintained your stare up into his eyes. You hardly breathed, even as the chill of the hallway made its way up your naked form. Shallow puddles dripped at your feet, and the sounds of each drop echoed around you.

Toji looked away first, storming off down the hall and leaving you in silence.

You triumphantly shut the door, returning to your bath with a content sigh.

Once you got dressed and made your way back to your room, you noticed Toji had stationed himself in front of your bedroom door.

You primly walked past him, searching for the door’s handle with your fingertips. He didn’t even spare you a glance, keeping his eyes on the opposite wall.

“Good to see you dressed.” 

“Good to see you can talk again.” You returned.

A pause fell over you both, and you pushed aside the door to step inside. Just as you set your foot past the threshold, Toji made another comment.

“Your birthmark is really cute.”

Heat immediately rushed up the back of your neck, and you scrambled into your room to hurriedly shut the door. You could see the silhouette of your bodyguard trembling with laughter.

“Goodnight, princess.” He chuckled, the deep rumble of his voice permeating the door.

“Goodnight!” You indignantly yelled back, covering your head with your blanket before tossing it off and lifting your robes to see which birthmark he was referring to.

You searched your body in the dark, laying back with a sigh when you found it too dim to see anything.

Maybe he was right, you never really thought about the consequences.

_________________

The next morning, you could see the outline of Toji still outside your door.

You tentatively slid it open, resting your hand along the door.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He greeted, expression calm.

You hovered in the doorway momentarily, “Let’s never speak of what you witnessed last night.”

“What’s in it for me? Besides not being killed, which I believe you can do now.” Toji teased, an amused edge to his voice.

“Toji.” Your eyes flashed with warning.

He reeled back at your serious look, “Sure, but no guarantees I won’t think about it.”

You embarrassedly hit his chest, and he threw his head back with a loud laugh.

“Don’t call me ‘doll’ anymore either. It’s insulting to be called weak all the time. At least ‘princess’ is tolerable.”

“I never said that’s why I call you ‘doll’, did I?” He cocked his head, the remnants of his laughter playing across his lips in a sly smile.

“What are you talking about?” 

“It’s ‘cause you’re pretty. Like a doll.” He raised his hand to grip the door frame directly above you, his voice lowering as he regarded you with a smirk.

“Can’t be mad at that, right?”

Your cheeks inflamed immediately at the compliment, and you pushed past him.

“Stop joking around.”

He was right though, you couldn’t be mad about that.

_________________

End Notes:

:) *evil laughter as i clickity clack my keyboard*

Next Chapter →

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Survival of the Fittest. 

Pairing: Yandere!Bakugo/Reader/Yandere!Kirishima (BNHA).

Word Count: 3.6k.

TW: Apocalypse/No Quirks AU, Unhealthy Codependency, Non-Consensual Touching, Mentions of Death/injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Imprisonment.

You were lucky Kirishima had been the one to find you.

‘Find’ might’ve been the wrong word. It implied that he was looking, that he wanted to discover you, bleeding and battered and bruised, cowering in a grimy corner of what used to be a grocery store. It must’ve looked pathetic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your torn clothes, your matted hair, the way you’d whimpered as he first approached, all wide eyes and open arms. Survivors were few and far between, and it’d been weeks since you saw another living, breathing person. Kirishima hadn’t seemed like a god-send, not in the moment, but he was a miracle. You’d been too shocked to thank him properly, as he pulled you to your feet and practically carried you out of the city, but you should. You wanted to. You owed him that, if nothing else.

You were lucky it’d been him, rather than Bakugo. You were grateful it hadn’t been Bakugo.

You’d probably still be rotting in that corner, if it had been.

He didn’t seem to like you very much, even if he had begrudgingly moved aside when Kirishima asked if he could bring you inside. It was a bunker, judging by the sparse furniture littered around the common area, plain cement walls only adorned with the occasional hunting knife or bat left to lean against them. The bench Kirishima had left you on was wooden, too stiff to ever be comfortable, but it was a practical choice. Fabric was a luxury to be stowed away and treasured, saved for things more important than a stranger’s comfort. You’d do the same thing, if you’d been in his shoes.

That didn’t stop Bakugo from glaring, though, perching himself on the edge of a nearby crate and refusing to take his eyes off of you, as if you’d already earned and lost his trust. “There’s no fucking advantage,” He started, but he wasn’t talking to you. You weren't worth his time, just yet, not while you were still just a stray Kirishima was too much of a saint to turn away. “We’re not a damn food bank. It’s not out responsibility to babysit every dumbass on the verge of death.”

“Don’t listen to him.” At least Kirishima was kind enough to address you as he slipped back into the common room, taking his place at your side and handing you something – a mug, cremated and unchipped and filled to the brim with something watery, steam still rising off the top. Your first sip was hesitant, but you couldn’t stop yourself from draining the cup once you recognized the taste. Coffee. Cheap, bitter, heavenly coffee, the kind you didn’t have enough clean water to risk trying to make. You could’ve kissed him. You might’ve, if the calm levity in his voice hadn’t snapped you out of it. “Katsuki’s just a little defensive, when it comes to guests. We’ve got plenty of supplies to go ‘round, and…” He trailed off, glancing over you. To the bruises circling your wrist, the stained bandages peaking out from underneath your shirt. To the spot where your ankle twisted just a little too far to the left for the angle to be natural, the evidence of a fall you tried and failed to break with something besides your own body. “I don’t think we can kick someone out in good faith with those kinda injuries. Not with all the crawler activity, lately.”

You flinched at the name alone. Crawler, creatures, the things that used to be people and weren’t, not now, not anymore. You used to think of them as zombies, but that wasn’t right. Calling them zombies would be an injustice, even if they did tend to rot if left to their own devices. Zombies weren’t that fast. Zombies weren’t that distorted. You’d encountered three or four, but you tried to avoid attracting them, when you could. It was easier, when you were on your own.

Bakugo groaned, bringing you out of your thoughts. You tried to stop your hands from shaking, as he spoke. “You’ve got a group to run back to, right? Nobody survives that long without one.”

You tried not to sound as small as you felt. Judging from the way Kirishima glanced away, it was a futile effort. “Nobody survives that long with one, either.”

Kirishima’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and Bakugo crossed his arms, a sign that must’ve meant submission, judging by Kirishima’s optimistic response. “Just until your ankle’s healed up,” He promised, a compromise you hadn’t asked him to make. “You’ll stay until then, right? ‘d be a shame if we had to lose another person because of Katsuki’s bad attitude.”

There was a sharp ‘hey’, a barely stifled laugh, and slowly, you forced yourself to nod, immediately receiving a bright grin from Kirishima by way of reward. It was a practical choice, honestly – they had food, they had shelter, they didn’t seem to be grasping at threads just to get by. Even if Kirishima was a little too friendly and Bakugo wasn’t nearly friendly enough, you could life with that, you could get by. Once you’d worn out your welcome, you’d leave. As soon as you were fixed up.

You didn’t want to wait for things to go bad, this time.

~

Despite his reluctance, Bakugo didn’t take long to warm up to you.

Kirishima was still the approachable one, obviously. He was who you went to when you needed to find something, when you had a question about their ration system or weaponry or the parts of the bunker you weren’t allowed to go in, rooms with steel doors and deadbolts on the handle and a raw, metallic smell emanating from the other side, but Bakugo always seemed to be lingering just behind him, ready to scoff and roll his eyes before he took you by the wrist and explained that, if you expected to reap the benefits of their hospitality, you had to at least try to pull your weight. He was helpful, like that, his help less patronizing than Kirishima’s, albeit twice as easily frustrated. Still, he didn’t hate you. If anything, he seemed to—

“If you slow down one more time, I’ll feed ya to the damn bears myself.”

You sped up, reflexively. He didn’t hate you, but it wasn’t too late for him to start.

It’d been Kirishima’s idea for you to go hunting. You were still in a splint, the majority of your calf an abstract blend of medical tape and cloth padding, but you bit back the pain as you followed Katsuki down the rough, unpaved trail, gritting your teeth past the ache forming under your skin. It wasn’t a raid. If anything, you were only getting further from the city, working your way up the mountain their bunker was carved into the base of. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been concerned about the crossbow in Katsuki’s hands, the weapon already loaded and poised, but the hunting knife strapped to your thigh eased your nerves, as did his disinterest in doing anything but trudging forward. If he didn’t take the time to call back to you every few minutes, you might’ve thought he’d forgotten you were there entirely.

But, silence never suited you never well. Not with a near-stranger, at least. “You’re not afraid of crawlers?”

“This far out? Fuck no.” It was an immediate answer, quick and shameless. Like an amputation, if an amputation left you nursing a bruised ego rather than bleeding out. “There’s enough fresh meat in the city to keep ‘em occupied. Only the runts ever bother coming out here to look for scraps.”

“I would’ve been that meat,” You mumbled, absent-mindedly. It was an idle thought, more of an admission than an accusation, but judging by the way his posture slackened, how quickly his attention shifted to the foliage, he wouldn’t have cared either way. “If Kirishima hadn’t found me, I mean. God knows I look like an easy target.”

“You are an easy target. Just be glad he’s got a weak spot for charity cases.”

You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, you lost your footing before you got the chance, slipping on the damp leaf litter as a spike of something agonizing ran from your heel to your knee. Bakugo didn’t flinch, letting you catch yourself on his shoulder as he raised his crossbow, barely taking a moment to aim before firing. You could feel the kick-back, a jolting reverberation that only seemed to make the wet thunk that followed a little worse, the sound of an arrow piercing skin and flesh.

You expected that. You were ready for it. But, you hadn’t been prepared for the deafening scream that came afterwards, heart-piercing and human. You moved to rush toward its source, but Bakugo only caught your arm, shaking his head. Like he’d missed, like he’d only killed a deer. Like there wasn’t a person thrashing in the underbrush, still crying out as he spoke over them. “Looters,” He explained, like that was an excuse. “We’ve been dealin’ with them for a while, now. ’s just a scout, but he would’ve been back with reinforcements if we let him run off untouched.”

Bile rose in the back of your throat. For your own sake, you chose to believe him. “So? We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need your permission, and he didn’t want your compliance. He didn’t even bother to justify himself before he turned away, starting back on the trail as you stood, still too shocked to move. “C’mon, we’ve already lost enough sunlight, and I’m not wasting arrows on scum. The fucker can drag himself back to his hideout, for all I care.”

You could’ve argued. Bakugo didn’t seem to think the blow was fatal, but you could’ve checked, made sure, offer what might’ve been a dying man a few last seconds of company before he bit the bullet. You could’ve, part of you wanted to, but…

But then, Bakugo tossed a glare over his shoulder, and your attention was brought back to the crossbow in his hands, to the machete strapped to his belt, to how pitifully small your knife was, in comparison. You didn’t want to lose the trust you hadn’t really gained, just yet. You didn’t want to take that kind of chance, not when Kirishima wasn’t around to give you the benefit of the doubt.

So, you shut your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the quiet sobbing in the background as you followed in his tracks.

~

Surprisingly, Kirishima was the first one to slip into your bed.

You told yourself it was a mistake, when he let himself into your room in the middle of the night, closer to sunrise than it was to sunset. None of the doors locked, thin plywood serving as more of a source of comfort than an actual barrier, and beyond your small collection of personal possessions and the bedside table you’d commandeered from storage, your room was identical to any of the eerily unoccupied barracks on the lower layers of the bunker. Still, you expected him to turn around, to see your sleeping form curled up in a corner of your cot and realize he had the wrong room. It was late, and he made a mistake. It didn’t have to be anything more.

But it wasn’t that late, and Kirishima never really made mistakes. He was too careful for anything like that.

At least he was being careful now, too, as far as you could tell with your eyes clenched shut, your breathing restricted to slow, shallow inhales that left your lungs feeling just a little too tight. He was gentle, if nothing else, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest and burying his face in the nape of your neck. You didn’t squirm, you didn’t push yourself away, but you must’ve been too stiff, too still, too rigid. He didn’t seem to buy the act, however desperate it was.

“’suki’s real proud of you.” His voice was tired, weighted down by exhaustion. Clearly, he wouldn’t be leaving. “He told me about yesterday. Says you were good, cooperative and all. He likes that kind of thing.”

You didn’t respond, digging your nails into the sterile, medical sheets. Your ankle throbbed, and you tried to focus on that, to justify it. To remember why you could still convince yourself to stay.

“He’s a big softie, though. We both are, but I don’t try to hide it.” There was a light squeeze to your side, the ghost of his lips over the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, compared to the bucker’s constant chill, and you tried to think of his smothering body heat as a small silver lining. “I think it’s sweet. Gets lonely ‘round here, y’know? You’re a good fit.” There was a pause, a chuckle. For a moment, you thought he might push a little further, hold you a tighter, but Kirishima only shook his head, going on with that same careless, tired lilt. “I knew you would be, when I first saw you. A fragile little thing like you could never survive out here, not all alone.”

He was half-asleep. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d probably apologize tomorrow, if he even remembered. “I’m not going to stay for much longer. I’ll be on my own again, in another month.”

“We’ll see.” The cot’s barred frame creaked as he shifted, his weight coming to rest against your back – a constant, oppressive reminder of his presence. A memory flickered to life in the back of your mind, a familiar intimacy that’d been earned and asked for, but you pushed it away quickly. You didn’t want to think about things like that, not here, not when this was so one-sided, in comparison. “Get some rest. You haven’t been getting enough sleep, lately.”

You’d leave when it was safe to. When you healed. When you’d worn out your welcome and become more of a burden than a benefit.

You wouldn’t stick around long enough for things to get suffocating, this time.

~

It was a mutual decision, when Bakugo and Kirishima stopped you from leaving the bunker.

They didn’t ask. That was the part that stung, really, the thorn that started working itself under your skin the moment you caught them standing in the threshold, an empty duffle bag slung over Kirishima’s shoulder and a baseball bat tucked under his arm. Bakugo had his crossbow, a pistol you’d never seen before holstered at his hip, but that bothered you less than the way they were muttering, keeping their voices purposefully low. Like they knew how you’d feel, if you saw them. Like they wanted to avoid the tension.

You’d never been very good at picking up hints, though. Much less those you were desperately trying to ignore.

“You’re going out?” You called, approaching them before you could stop yourself, suppressing a yawn as you made a show of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It was early, and you didn’t want Kirishima to know you’d already been up for hours. If he thought you were tired, he’d assume you were losing sleep, and if he thought you were losing sleep, he’d take it as an excuse to visit you at night, again. You… you didn’t like it, when he did. “Let me grab my stuff, it’ll only take a minute. If I knew you two were planning a raid today, I would’ve—”

Bakugo was the first to shut you down. “Sit this one out, alright?” It was a question, this time, but barely, his usual bluntness wrapped in a layer of kindness so thin, you could practically see through it. “’s just a quick supply run. We’ll be out and back before you notice we’re gone.”

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” Kirishima added, offering a small smile. At least he was trying to be nice about it, in his own, patronizing way. “It’s starting to get boring, honestly. It‘d be a shame to ruin all the progress you’ve made for something so minor.”

Right, your ankle. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d complained about it, the last time you’d been in enough pain to limp, even if Bakugo still insisted on tending to your ‘injury’ once a day, at least. The truth was glaringly obvious, even if they still made a half-hearted attempt to hide it, to let you avert your eyes and pretend you believed them.

You didn’t bother trying to hide your disappointment, your expression dropping as your nails bit into the meat of your palm. “You don’t think I can keep myself safe.”

In their defense, neither tried to deny it. Bakugo only looked away, and Kirishima smiled apologetically, his hand already pushing against the bunker’s metallic door. “We don’t want to risk it,” He explained, like you were a liability. Like you hadn’t survived out there for months without their help, injured or uninjured. “If something happened to you, if someone got to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. We both care about you, even if Katsuki doesn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s practical.” Bakugo didn’t look at you. It was a small mercy, really. At least he was self-aware enough to be ashamed. “You need more time. You fucked yourself up bad before Eijiro found you – all that doesn’t go away overnight.”

Expect, it hadn’t been a night. It hadn’t been a day, or a week, and you were starting to question if it’d even been only two months. It was hard to keep track of time, but the weather was already turning, every scrape and bruise Bakugo could’ve concerned himself with was already healed, and you’d already let yourself get comfortable. You’d stayed too long. You’d let them get attached, and you’d failed to make it clear that you weren’t.

You had to get out. Now.

~

Or, you could try to get out, at least.

You’d waited too long for Bakugo and Kirishima to just sit back and let you walk away.

They were stronger than you’d assumed. It was easy to forget what the human body was capable of, when you were so used to be exhausted and half-starved, but it wasn’t difficult to remember, not with Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your wrists, one of Kirishima’s arms splayed over your knees, stopping you from thrashing as they shoved you against a bed, a real bed, the frame wooden and the mattress more than just sponge and stuffing. It was one of theirs obviously, and if you’d stumbled onto it at any other time, you might’ve felt insulted, left out.

Right now, the only thing you could feel was terrified.

“Fucking bitch.” It was a grunt, a growl, followed by something close to a snarl as your elbow connected with his check. He was the one who’s caught you gathering up what little you had to take with you, a canteen already filled and strung across your back. It was on the floor, now, the metal dented and the contents spilling out, but if either of them minded wasting clean water, you couldn’t tell. They were busy, now, too busy dealing with you to worry about something so minor. Too angry to care, leaving you as the center of their rage. “We tried to be nice. We tried to give you a choice. You just couldn’t take the fucking hint, could you?”

“Let me go.” You couldn’t bring yourself to raise your voice, but you tried to come across as frantic, desperate, as betrayed and as disgusted as you really felt. “You’re both fucking crazy. I don’t want to—”

Kirishima didn’t let you finish, he’d never really bothered to. He was already shifting, leaning on one of your calves while grabbing at the other, calloused fingertips pressing into your newly-healed ankle, the remaining bruises still raw and tender. You cried out, more out of instinct than agony, but Kirishima only grit his teeth, rubbing circles into your skin, like that would be enough to soothe you. “We’re just taking care of you, alright? We’re just doing what’s best.” It was pointless to say, but the didn’t stop him from going on, rambling like he was going to convince anyone, including himself. “It’s dangerous, out there. You just need a little more time to realize that. You just need to see that ‘suki and I are your best option.”

They weren’t. They weren’t your best anything, but you didn’t have a chance to retort before Bakugo cursed under his breath, gathering your wrists up with one hand and forcing the other over your mouth, cutting you off before you could protest further. “Just do it,” He spat, all-but ignoring you as he spoke to Kirishima. “There’s no point in trying to explain this to someone so irrational. Let’s just get it over with before we have to do something worse.”

For a moment, you went still, a series of worst-case scenarios flashing before your eyes before you could rationalize them, before you could tell yourself to stay calm. For a moment, there was panic – pure, unadulterated, brutal panic.

And then, something cracked under Kirishima’s hand, and you forgot how to think of anything at all.

You let out a stilted, faltering sob, something akin to liquid fire running from your thigh to your calf to the point where everything stopped – everything below your ankle numb, disconnected, dead meat that still managed to hurt. The rest of your body went limp, your survival instincts gone and replaced with the unbearable desire to curl into yourself and cry, but Bakugo was still holding you, his arms strung around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest as Kirishima slotted himself against your back, cooing soft nothings as you fought not to break down completely. They were talking again, both of them, but you couldn’t seem to listen. It didn’t matter.

Your ankle was broken. Not sprained, this time, not bruised, but broken. Shattered. Dislocated. Forced into a position that meant you’d be forced to stay, voluntarily or otherwise. Whether or not you could still stomach looking at Bakugo and Kirishima, let alone living with them.

You couldn’t leave, and you were beginning to think they were never going to let you.

[citrinesparkles]

doctor todd.

jason todd x gender neutral vigilante!reader. 1,875 words. notes: requested by @jason-redhood as part of my hundred followers celebration! this got a lot longer than i intended, oopsies. thanks for requesting- hope you enjoy! warnings: tending wounds, mentions of food.

"y'know, lurking outside somebody's window is a good way to get yourself shot," jason called over his shoulder.

"i'll keep that in mind," you said, voice strained enough to shoot dread into his veins and draw his attention completely away from his work.

he set the gun he had been cleaning on the table and twisted around to find you gingerly sliding through the open window.

"hey," you mumbled, giving him a weak wave after your boots hit the floor. "sorry for not calling, i just..."

you were backlit, the glow of the city making it impossible to see your features from the dining area- but your posture alone was enough to have him shoving his chair back and crossing his apartment.

"how bad?" he asked, stopping a few steps back, now able to make out the tears in your suit and the bruises around your mask.

"pretty sure i sprained my wrist, and there's a poorly-bandaged gash on my leg, but otherwise i'm peachy."

"how bad's the leg?"

"i'm... not sure. bad enough that i think i need your help." you patted the windowsill with a gloved hand. "obviously."

he nodded and slid to your good side, gently resting a hand on your shoulder. "okay. c'mon, my stuff's in the bathroom."

-

"here." he handed you a pair of shorts and a large tank top. "change into this so i can get to the wounds, okay? i'll be right out here if you need anything."

-

"you're good!" you called.

he nudged the bathroom door back open and scooped your uniform up from the floor, carefully putting it in a canvas bag and tying the handles together before setting it in the tub to deal with later. "alright," he sighed, turning back to face you.

his clothes looked way too right on you, he realized, a wave of emotion he would vehemently deny surging through his chest and pushing heat to his neck and cheeks.

"alright?"

"okay. alright. uh-" he jerked a thumb at the counter- "up here, i guess, so i can see your leg."

you propped one foot on the toilet lid and braced your good hand against his shoulder, his hands instinctively coming up to hover around your waist as you pushed yourself up and settled next to the sink.

the grateful smile you gave him was enough to tug his lips into a smile of his own.

"you're up, doctor todd," you teased.

he stepped forward with a halfhearted eyeroll, fingers brushing the cloth tied hastily around your leg. "can i take this off?"

"go ahead."

he tugged gently at the knot, wincing when you inhaled sharply. "sorry."

the scrap fell away, revealing dried blood and an open wound on the outside of your thigh.

"yeesh, that is nasty," he said.

you scoffed lightly. "gee, thanks."

"hey, if you wanted a nice doctor, you probably should have gone somewhere else." he shifted to the side, grabbing a clean cloth and bottle of alcohol. "fair warning, you're really not gonna like me here in a minute."

your quick "i seriously doubt that." was greeted with a grin that felt a little too fond for his liking.

he told himself it was for your benefit.

...yeah, that sounded good.

he could live with that.

-

he made quick work of cleaning the gash, doing his best to distract you by making stupid small talk about the horrible movie he'd sat through that morning because the tv remote had been out of reach and the mediocre new coffee shop with dry blueberry muffins.

"was the coffee okay, at least?"

"okay, yeah, but not 'five-dollars-fifty' okay. if i hadn't been falling asleep in line i probably would have left when i saw the price."

"there's a nice one up by my place, they make the best blueberry muffins ever."

he hummed. "i'll keep that in mind, next time i'm over that way." he leaned back, studying your cut. "i think stitches would probably be smart."

you groaned. "of course they would."

"i'm okay to do them- i do them on myself- but if you want i can give you a lift to a hospital or something."

"no. if you can, i want you to do them. i trust you."

he sat with that for a minute, searching your face for any hesitation. when he found none, he nodded. "okay."

-

as you both expected, it sucked.

to make things worse, he was rapidly running out of mindless things to talk about.

how many times could two people really argue about pizza toppings before it got old?

-

"alright, done."

"holy shit, finally." you slumped back, leaning on your good hand for a moment before your head snapped back up. "no, not like- i meant thank you, you did great, i'm not being an ingrate-"

"i know, relax." he nudged your knee with a goofy smile. "here, gimme your wrist."

you pouted (which, yes, that was also adorable, much to his dismay), carefully stretching your bad arm out.

he took your hand gently, scooping it up in one of his and bracing your forearm up with his other. "it's actually not too bad, considering you hit hard enough to tear your glove. i'm gonna clean the scrapes here up, though, okay?"

"do i really get a choice?"

"it's your body, so, yeah."

you sighed dramatically. "fine, if you insist. go ahead, clean my wounds for me."

-

he was quiet this time, focusing intently on removing bits of dirt and stuff from your raw palm with a set of tweezers.

trying to ignore the way your eyes seemed to linger on him now that he was looking down.

he set the tweezers aside, glancing up at you to find you smiling at him thoughtfully, and dropped his gaze just as quickly as he had lifted it. "what, you enjoying making me do all the work?"

"you could say that, yeah."

he scoffed. "well, you're going to enjoy it a lot less in a second. time for the alcohol again."

"ugh."

-

he managed to dig up an old wrist brace in the back of his sock drawer. a little big for you, but it would work for now, he figured.

"may i?"

you nodded and held your arm back out for him to loop the brace over your thumb and tuck the velcro strap under and around, pulling it snug against your skin before sticking it to itself.

-

"last one, tough stuff." he pointed at your cheek, where a small patch of dried blood stained your skin. "ready?'

you nodded tiredly. "let's just get this over with. this counter isn't as comfortable as it looks."

he chuckled, dampening the softest cloth he had and wringing it out. "sorry, i didn't think i needed to get an apartment with counter cushions." he raised his left hand up, hovering an inch or so below your chin. "uh, can i..?"

your eyes widened, glancing at his hand. "oh, uh, sure. yeah."

he moved slowly, raising it to cup your chin softly with his middle and forefinger on one side and thumb on the other. "this okay?"

"mhm." your eyes slid shut and he could almost believe that you sank into his touch.

if it wasn't absolutely insane, anyway. his touch wasn't exactly the kind people sank into- much less people like you. people that good, that caring, that stunning? yeah, no.

he tilted your head to the side slightly, rubbing gentle circles across your cheekbone with the cloth and watching as the blood faded.

"so, who did this?" he asked softly, casually.

apparently not casually enough, though, because you snorted at him. "why, you think you need to go avenge me? defend my honor or something?"

"no! i'm just curious. just... making conversation."

your eyes opened, amusement dancing in them and threatening to hypnotize him. "good. i shouldn't have to tell you who won that fight, jay."

"well, i mean, you are missing a chunk of your thigh."

"aw, is the big bad vigilante worried about lil old me?"

he squeezed your face gently, pushing your cheeks up and forward into a goofy fish face. "it's rude to tease the guy tending to your wounds, babe."

he definitely didn't imagine your breath hitching. "babe, huh?" you asked playfully.

"shut up," he grumbled. "don't make me regret helping."

-

"alright, looks like that's the last scrape. you're all cleaned up."

"thanks, jason." you smiled up at him, soft and warm and genuine. "i really appreciate this."

"yeah, yeah." he squeezed your jaw again. "try not to make it a habit."

"mhm." a moment passed quietly before you spoke quietly. "so, you gonna do something here, or can i have my face back?"

he froze.

your mouth- which he was really trying not to look at- shifted into a confident smirk, a challenge written clearly in the angle of your lips.

your eyes, bright under the harsh lighting, told a different story. one of vulnerability, and want, and something close to fear.

"do you want me to?" his voice was hoarser than he'd intended, and he swore you could hear his heartbeat echoing in it.

your gaze dipped to his lips. "would it make everything super weird?"

"you just came crawling through my window in the middle of the night in a mask and kevlar. i think things are already weird."

he felt your hum under his fingers. "then why not?"

"do you really want me to answer that?"

"jason, will you please just kiss me already?"

"well, you did say please." he leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to slip away or yell 'sike!'

all you did was bring your good hand up to his collar and pull him towards you.

your lips were soft and gentle, and the way they pulled upwards slightly when his hand slid from your jaw to cup your cheek was something he'd be thinking about for weeks.

when he eventually pulled back, it took him a moment to open his eyes. he was half convinced that if he did, it would be to his bedroom ceiling, the past half an hour all a dream.

instead, he found your fond gaze.

"finally."

he let out a huff of laughter, thumb running over your cheek. "you should stay here tonight."

"w-"

"not like that," he clarified quickly. "you have stitches, you shouldn't go leaping across rooftops tonight. i can take the couch."

"hm." you smoothed out his shirt collar, the barely-there brush of your fingers against his shoulder almost tugging a whine out of him. "or i can take the couch, and then you can take me home in the morning and let me treat you to an actual blueberry muffin."

"are you asking me out?" it was a teasing comment, paired with a tiny smirk meant to fluster you.

but it was also a reality check.

you seemed to catch the second meaning. "yeah, i am. would you, please, let me take you out on a date?"

"i'll have to check my calenda-"

"you're so full of it."

"yeah, probably."

"is that a yes?"

he laughed, bringing his other hand up to squeeze your knee. "yeah, i can let you take me on a date. i could use a good muffin."

[clarissalance]

Who has the upper hand?

Pairing: Kaeya x G/N!Reader, mention of Varka and Diluc.

Warning: Slight swearing, Kaeya is a lil shit, reader being stubborn and scheming, immense tension

Summary: You’re so terrible at swordsmanship that you can’t withstand 2 strikes from Kaeya or, are you? 

Word count: 3k5

Disclaimer: What is written in here is based on my imagination, nothing from this fic should be taken seriously. Most of the fact I put in this fic does not follow the lore of the game so it should only be taken as a grain of salt. For example: section 8 in Knight of Favonius codebook.

A/N: I struggle so much when I wrote this piece. This was suppose to be angstier but I tone down a little bit (because Kaeya was very OOC in my draft, I think he’s still a bit OOC in this fic but I tried my best ;-;, pls don’t bite me.) 

How did author write a 50k+ oneshot? I can’t write something more than 5k properly ;-; Anyhow, please enjoy this fic. I’m going to have a good rest for 2 weeks before release a comeback. Please shower Kaeya and our new MC with a lot of loves!!!! 

As a strategist of the knight of Favonius, you don't usually have enough time to finish the towers of reports, the never-ending meetings and dealing with cheap tricks Fatui diplomats. Often, you have to skip your daily sword training session, which results in a rather miserable situation. The whole practice ground is staring holes at your defeated posture. You are sitting on the hard soil ground, and the Calvary captain is towering you, his sharp blade just a few inches away from your throat. 

It is not a strange scene for any knights to lose a spar against the Calvary captain, he should be one with the best swordsmanship after Grand Master, and maybe Acting-Grand Master, too. However, as knight, they can usually withstand him at least more than 2 blows. 

Whispers and talks start to circulate around as soon as you stepped your foot in the training ground. It’s very uncommon to see people from that department wandering around this area. The strategy department is famous inside the Knight of Favonius to be the weakling-cunning-mouthy-jerks, who always find excuses after excuses to skip the monthly knight evaluation. 

So, who gives them the right to be exempt from the test? Of course, it’s from the ultimate high chief of strategy department. Rumours say before the strategy chief works for the Favonius knight, the man was once a legendary attorney. That person can flip words from black to white, turns the defendant from guilty to innocent.  With a profound convincing skillset coming from the chief, persuading the Grand Master Varka is easy as a piece of cake. The whole department of 10 people is easily off-hook for 3 years, never participate in the monthly evaluation before the man suddenly dropped the bomb 2 days ago.  

“ I’m tired from coming with excuses to cover for your lazy asses.” The man waved his hand, his eyes staring outside the window. His nails scratching the messy shaved chin.“ Varka seems to get used to navigating my thoughts-”

“Maybe time is wearing away your skill-” At the corner, someone accidentally blurted out, and the whole table gave him a sharp look. Did he have a death wish or something? If so, everyone here can happily dig him a hole, free charge for the coffin.

The chief cleared his voice again, blue eyes melancholy drifted to the table. “So, you guys have tried your best on this monthly evaluation. I hope to see you all again next month.” 

The meeting was dismissed afterwards, and everything spiralled into chaos. The whole department hasn’t touched anything aside from the parchment papers and the quills in the last 3 years. How are they going to master the swordman-ship in 2 weeks? 

But, the worst thing is,

Your well-respected, talented, and tactful chief has run away. 

The next morning, you received the news that a foxy old man is on a business trip to Fontaine with the Grand Master. The expedition is 2 weeks long.

You should have known what he meant when the deceitful man ambiguously ended his sentence like that. Nothing goes well when the chief said:  ‘Farewell, my comrades’. 

 For the last 2 days, you have been starting to familiarize yourself again with how to hold a sword and how to swing the sword. 

As you trail along with the long-forgotten memories, trying to look through the familiar feeling when swinging the sword, you hear footsteps coming in your direction. It is familiar, with the way the person is walking, the beat, the sudden burst of noise in the air, you can only conclude it’s the Calvary Captain. The practice ground seems livelier as soon as the man steps inside, people rushing to his side to give their greetings. Maybe today is one of his practice days.

 “ Never thought I would see you here.” The young man calls out, successfully jostle you up from your thoughts. You give him a complex look and turn away, focusing on the tattered dummies. Your wrist is screaming in protest, legs wobbling. You remember those golden days when you were young when you were flexible, and your bones didn't crack as much. Oh, where the golden days have gone? 

“What do I own the honour of seeing you here, captain?” You fold your arm defensively, voice monotonously. Kaeya despites the most when you start talking in an emotionless tone. Oh, how you love riling him up in the middle of the practice ground! 

“ I come here for my weekly practice, but-” He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “ look like the rumour about the abolishment of special permission for the strategy department is true.” 

So he has heard the rumours. You roll your eyes, face blanks. You know Kaeya has his own way to obtain his information, but you never thought it’d be this fast. Words don’t easily leak from the strategy department. 

“What do you need? Make it short, so I can practice for the upcoming evaluation.” Tired of his long introduction, you ask him directly. If you are going to ignore him any longer, the man will continue poking you. 

Starting an argument only wastes your time, and asserting dominance in the middle of the training ground won’t boost your ego. You’re a strategist, your weapons are detailed plans and sharp word, not sword and bow. Showing off your strength in front of those ruthless knights don't improve your relationship with them. 

“ Straight the point eh?” You give him an impatiently look, tempting to ignore him again before he flashes you a smug grin. “How bout sparing with me?”  

The whole training ground falls in silence, and you direct at the captain a confusing look. Is he serious? No one in the knight except the Grand Master can go against him, not to mention someone who hasn’t touched a sword for three years. 

“I can help you with your training, and you can help with mine” Kaeya speaks with utmost confidence that you almost nod and agree. That man is really deceitful, he knows how well your skill has gone dull, yet he still wants to practice with you? What is this man plotting?  

“ Do you realize how absurd your offer is? ” You give him a complicated gaze, voice unwavering. Everyone takes in a deep breath, tension crackling. It's not everyday scenery you often encounter. A heated argument between the mischievous cavalry captain and the tactful strategist. Nosy people gather around the pair, internally hoping for the war the breaks out. 

“ You know well that I can’t properly block your first strike.” Light-hearted, you joke, but there is no hint of amusement in your voice. Sharpe eyes glaring at the blue figure, you notice the man remains unfazed. 

" Shouldn't you choose a more competent opponent?" 

The sound whispers and talking about the reasons why Kaeya picked such an easy opponent start to circulate, and you can’t help to curl your lips up. Within a  few seconds, you have effortlessly turned the gossiping direction toward your desired path. Flashing Kaeya a victorious grin, you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for his reaction.

You should have worked at PR damage control or marketing instead! The diplomat would have been fine too! At least, you wouldn’t need to practice swordman-ship.

As you mulling on your terrible choice of career, a chill runs down your spine. Tilting up, Kaeya is beaming sweetly at you, the frost slowly creeping up and nipping your shoes. Look like you just pressed the wrong button. 

The man narrows his eyes, and you gulp nervously, avoiding his calculating gaze. Kaeya chuckles, his voice laced with worry, wavering and hurtful. 

“I just want to help you improve as fast as possible. The test is coming in two weeks isn't it?” 

The whole table has turned, and people start to say how considerate and thoughtful the cavalry captain is. The crowd starts to criticize you and tell you to be more grateful and stop suspicious of his unconditional help. Oh, you wish he wasting it on you, many knights in this training ground would love getting advice and improvements from him. 

Applause for our dear Calvary captain, smoothly seeking empathy from the crowd and turning the favour back to him. No wonder how fast he climbed up the rank. 

Bantering and arguing with a person like him is meaningless, so you accept his offer and drag your sword toward his direction. Let finish this within 2 strikes. 

Moving to the centre of the field, both of you face each other, his eyes scanning you sceptically. What is this man plotting again? Bowing, you finally give him a warning look before standing at your ready position. Kaeya holds his sword, analyzing your starting posture. 

As soon as the whistle blows, you charge at the man, opening the spar with a direct hit. Kaeya quickly raises his word up to block the first blow, the sound of steel clashing loudly. He then forcefully diverts the sword to the left, a classic way to counter the strike. 

Knowing your limited strength against him, you take a step back and swiftly angle the blade downward, aiming for a weak spot at his waist. This move would create a noticeable weakness on your right, and only the idiot doesn't use this as his advantage to disarm you. 

You’re right, he uses the loophole you planned, successfully disarm you within 2 strikes. The sword slips from your hand clanging loudly behind as your foot slips and fall on the ground. 

His sharp blade is just a few inches away from your neck. The calvary captain wears a solemn look, his cerulean eyes imbued with irritation. Seems like he figures out you purposefully planed to end the match in 2 strikes. 

Quickly raising your hand in defeat, you shoot him a taunting grin. The referee declares Kaeya is the winner, and people start to clap and cheer loudly, but overall no one is surprised. As the match end, audiences start to disperse, return back to their tasks. 

Kaeya put his sword away and offers you his hand. You stare idly at the gloved hand a moment before putting yours on. The man effortlessly pulls you up, your body flush against his. With Kaeya so close to you, your first reaction is to push the man away, but his firm grip says otherwise. He inches closer, dark blue locks brush your cheek, tall figure towering you intimidating. 

“Why end it so early?” He leans down and whispers, your body tenses up visibly. “Surely, you could handle more than 2 strikes of mine.” The young man in blue hums, his voice sultry. 

“ What are you saying? I haven’t touched the sword more than 3 years.” You remind him, hands pushing his chest away, trying to create some distance. The man doesn’t budge an inch. 

“Your strikes doesn’t say so. The first strike was not bad.” Noticing your effort to push him away, Kaeya stands straight, heels dig into the ground. His lips curl up at the helplessness flashing in your eyes. He loves seeing you struggle, seeing how anxiety and desperation rising in your sparkling orbs. “I think you could at least have a decent fight with me.”  

“ Quit spouting non-sense Kaeya, let me go. We are in public.” You let out an annoyed hiss, punching his toned chest. He still wears the uniform improperly like that, the exposed tan chest can be under many layers. Sometimes you don't even know the reason why doesn't he just button the shirt up properly. Finger grazing at the bared skin on his chest, you turn your head away, cheeks heat up. 

The man loves seeing you squirming in his trap, and you’re not going to let him see that. Anything, but satisfying his masochist hobby. 

“You don’t like skin-ship?” The man fakes a gasp, his orb sparkles with mirth. “But you were being touchy with your friend. Why can't we be a bit touchy? ”  His tone suggestively, the tall man snickers at your blushing mess. Out of everything, why would he mention that? You give him stinky eyes, brows furrow deeply.  

“I’m not touchy with you.” You deny dreadfully. Archon, how long have you wasted your time here with this slithering serpent? 

Kaeya arms wrap tightly around you, your body moulds perfectly into his embrace. You hate how perfectly you fit into his hug like this, but you can’t deny how warm he is, despite the fact he wields cryo. 

“ When will you let me go?” Your voice starts to grow weak, dragging slightly in discomfort.  Kaeya curiously looks down, noticing your pouting. Sensing his gaze, you turn your head away but his fingers have quickly grabbed your cheek, forcing you to look at his deep blue eye.  

“Give me a kiss, then I'd let you go.” His voice serious, but what he just said is not. You look at the cryo wielder horrendously, mouth gaping. His face is composed and relax, like what he just ask is like asking about the weather, asking about your health, not for a kiss. Is he being serious? What in the world did he just ask? A kiss? Excuse me, a what? 

“You...you are not being serious.” You wriggle your way out, escaping from his fingers, but his embrace tightens, caging you inside. Damn it, Kaeya. He’s messing with you. 

When you flash him a furious look, the man shrugs nonchalantly, his cerulean lock fluttering gently in the wind. Suddenly, you have an urge to wipe off that calm demeanour. He can’t be serious. Why does he have to go all the way to annoy the shit out of you? 

The smug grin hanging on his face, the mischief in his blue eyes, the arching brows, everything about him screams a flirt, yet you feel so mesmerized. Blinking a few times, you have to constantly remind yourself this man is not trustworthy. From the attitude to the way he looks at you, to the way he acts around you. Nothing from his action is truthful. Like Diluc’s warning, you can only believe half of his word and action. 

“ Of course I’m being serious.” His voice solemn, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. If he doesn’t like you, why would he spend so much effort bothering you this much? What reaction is he expecting from you?  

“ I really like you, Y/N” Kaeya confesses cheerfully, and you can faintly hear a few gasps around. Not this again...

Archon, you’re going to die early at this rate. You just want to practice for the upcoming evaluation, not becoming a hot topic for all Mondstadt citizen to gossip about. 

And this man too, how can he easily slip out those words when you just heard him flirting with another woman the other day?  You already told him numerous times that you’re not interested in dating him, or anyone right now! 

Hung your head down in exhaustion, you tap his shoulder, mumbling quietly. “ Fine, fine.” You finally open your mouth, too exhausted and bothered by his stubbornness. He only wants a kiss, and you won’t hurt giving him one. Just a kiss then you can get back to your practice.  

“Just don’t confess your love to me in a crowd like this again.” Before closing the deal, you weakly add a bargain, nudging him.  

The calvary captain looks surprised, his eye widens little, not expecting you to agree. Normally, it takes another argument or two before you comply with his request. Kaeya timidly raises his gloved hand to your face, gently caresses your cheek. This time, you lean into his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, eyes glimmering softly. Despite a cryo wielder, his hand is surprisingly warm. 

The man in blue curiously peeks at you, he feels like a feather tickling the itchy spot. Are you plotting an escape route? Since when did you become so obedient? He has never seen the soft fur under the spiky façade you set up to face with the world, but strangely, he likes this version of you more. 

Noticing his relaxed stance, you carefully gently wrap your fingers around his wrist while keeping eye contact with him. Kaeya eye widens, startles at your sudden touching. Trying your best to not break the unspoken connection, you bring his hand away from your cheek. In those cerulean eyes, you see a hint of disappointment, but it quickly dissolves. Slowly, you draw closer toward the hand hanging in the air, lips fluttering on the smooth skin on his wrist. 

The calvary captain instinctively moves back, trying to escape from your sudden contact. Ironic, he is the one who innates the hug and demands a kiss from you. Tightening your grip, you press your wet lips on the exposed part of his wrist dedicatedly while maintaining eye contact with him, eyes drown with submission.

Kaeya stares at you in awe, maybe not expecting the passionate look in your eyes. His azure eye fills with mischief, now replaces with confusion and hesitation. You notice how his ears have dusted with pink despite the winds blowing in the practice ground. The man avoids your eyes, flustering. 

Whispers and gasps start to remind you of the crushing reality, so you let his hand down while grinning cheekily at the cryo wielder. Poking and breaking Kaeya meticulously façade is always something you want to try. The man is a living devil, so it’s extremely unusual to see him losing his composure. 

Sneakily, you untangle his other arm wrapping around your waist, plotting an escape route. 

However, Barbatos doesn’t let you slip away that easily. Quickly regaining his composure, Kaeya snakes his hand around your hip again, tightening his hold. Unlike the first time, the sneaky bastard lifts you up and has the audacity to throw your body on his shoulder, carry you like a sack. 

“ Yah! What are you doing?” You exclaim, fluster at his sudden antic. Kicking and punching on his shoulder, you try as many as you can, but somehow, Kaeya manages to dodge all of them.   

“ You said you will let me go when I give you a kiss!” The crowd uproars, stares and gossips poke pointedly at your back. You don’t want to hear those comments from those knights again. They're not going to let this live down, aren't they? Bury your face in the Kaeya's furry collar, you let out a frustrating sigh, punching his shoulder as hard as you can. 

“ You give me a kiss on my wrist. That doesn’t count.” Kaeya nonchalantly strides away from the practice ground, unfazed by your attempt to escape. This man is a beast, how can he not budge an inch with all of your kickings on his shoulder? 

“ You didn’t specify the place. A kiss is a kiss!” You emphasize, and you can feel his shoulder shaking. Is he laughing? “You didn’t keep your promise.” Fuels by the rising anger, you kick your leg aggressively, struggling to free yourself from the iron-clad grip. This time, his strong arm wraps around your calves like a chain.  

As soon as you raise your head up, the familiar pathway hits your memories. Shit, he is heading toward the headquarter, likely to his office. You can’t let anyone in there see you in this state. Punching his back profusely, you shot back. 

“Not fulfilling the contract is breaking the Knight of Favonius's code of cond-.” Before you can finish your sentence, the man smacks your calves loudly, successfully shutting your mouth. Speechless by his sudden punishment, you let out a disbelief breath.    

“ There are no such a section states about fulfilling contract inside the code of conduct, so stop making the rule up.” Kaeya smugly grins, and you can already picture his blue eyes glinting with mischief, the signature shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

" There is, it's in section eight-" Before you can finish your sentence, Kaeya cuts in, waving his hand dismissively. 

" Section eight is about interaction with your co-worker, there is none about keeping contracts." The calvary captain humming, trying to recalling the content of the book. Speechless by the detailed memories of his, you can only close your mouth, quietly waiting for him to drop you down. If you stay still on his shoulder, will he let you go? 

" You know, not everyone reads and memories the knight of Favonius handbook, you are just unlucky that I know the book by heart." Seeing you deflate weakly on his shoulder, Kaeya lets out a chuckle, patting your head comforting.       

Before heading inside the HQ, the man doesn't drop your down but leans in closely, his whisper tickling your ear. “But at least I had fun seeing you squirming in my grasp.” 

And then it hits you, the bastard purposely falls for of your antic. 

[dauntless-gothamite]

Prove Them Wrong [5/?]

Fandom: Divergent Pairing: Eric Coulter x Fem! Reader Summary: Y/N is a Dauntless transfer from Erudite, and she has a drive, an ambition that sets her apart--it always has, even back in Erudite. She brings her perseverance (and need to prove others wrong) to Dauntless when she transfers, and she uses her mind to make her way through the initiation process. Along the way, she makes friends and enemies, and she finds herself comfortable around the man most people in Dauntless avoid at all costs: Eric Coulter. A/N: I am so glad people are enjoying this so far! I am having a great time writing it, and I am excited about the chapters that are yet to come. I’d love if you let me know what you think of this new chapter, but no pressure, enjoy!!

The next morning, as all the other transfers ran laps, you made your way to the infirmary for physical therapy. When you got there, the doctor who had stitched you up the day before waved at you in greeting. “Hello, Y/N, how is the leg doing?”

“Better than yesterday,” you replied with a small smile. 

“Glad to hear it,” she replied. “You’ll be working with Andre today, he’s one of our physical therapists,” she said and pointed to Andre, who was standing a few feet away and waved. 

“Alright, thanks,” you said and started walking towards Andre. “Nice to meet you,” you said and stuck out your hand.

“Likewise,” Andre said and shook your outstretched hand. “So the program I have designed for you focuses more on keeping your leg muscles engaged without running the risk of tearing your stitches open more than recovery because the injury is serious but ultimately, it is just a deep laceration.” You nodded in understanding, and he led you over to a stationary bike. “For the next half hour, you are going to ride this bike. I want you to work your leg muscles and cardio system, but do not put more strain on your legs than necessary, the last thing I want is to tear those stitches or for your leg to start bleeding. Here is a set of headphones that hook up to the bike’s electronic system; I know riding a stationary bike for half an hour can get boring, so feel free to listen to music while you work. I’ll come get you in half an hour, but you can call me over at any point.”

“Sounds good, thanks,” you said before getting on the bike and connecting the headphones to browse the music selection for a little while before settling on an upbeat song with a strong bass beat. Then you got to pedaling. 

--

You were sweating--not as much as you did during regular training, but you were still getting a good workout in--when the thirty minutes ended. Andre walked over to you and helped you get off the bike, and it took you a second to adjust to the solid ground beneath your feet. “Good job,” Andre said. “It really seemed like you were pushing yourself while still respecting the boundaries set by the injury. That’s smart, if you keep this up, you’ll probably heal quickly. Most dauntless go all out and reinjure themselves, so it takes even longer to heal. But I see you have some brains, a good quality for future dauntless.”

“Thanks,” you beamed at him.

“Y/N,” someone said, waving you over from the entrance of the infirmary. You turned to see Four standing there, and you furrowed your brow; you were supposed to be at physical therapy for another half hour before going back to the training room. 

“What’s going on?” you asked as you walked over to him, Andre right behind you.

“Eric changed the plan, we are working with crossbows today instead of fighting, and since you can participate in this, I came to get you while he explains what's going on to the other initiates,” he explained. “Although, perhaps leaving them alone with him wasn’t the best idea,” he said, half-joking, earning a smile from you. 

“Alright, let’s go then. I’ll see you next time, Andre,” you said to the physical therapist as Four walked with you back to the training room. “So… what’s up,” you said to fill the awkward silence that settled between you and Four as you two walked. He looked at you, amused. 

“Oh, you know. Training initiates.” You laughed at his bluntness. 

“Right,” you chuckled. “So, why did Eric change the plan?” you asked cautiously.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Four shrugged. “Though I suspect it has to do with the fact that he’s particularly… grumpy today, and he probably wants to shoot arrows at someone.”

“Well, that does sound like a very real possibility,” you agreed, and the two of you reached the training room to see Eric walking up and down the line of initiates holding crossbows and aiming at targets, aggressively yanking them into the correct positions, yelling all the while.

“Finally,” he snapped as you picked up a bow and walked to the end of the line, lining yourself up with the target. You closed your eyes to prevent yourself from rolling them at his comment while he continued roughly moving arms and legs of different initiates, sometimes making them wince in shock, surprise at the force, pain, or all three. When he got to Tris, who was right next to you, he looked her up and down, moved her arms, and said “Back straight, initiate! With that posture, you’ll shoot yourself in the foot, assuming you even get the arrow out of the crossbow!” He waited for a second for her to move, but he quickly became frustrated and yelled to Four, “Four, you deal with this one, I’m going to catch Y/N up, since she has finally graced us with her presence,” he said sarcastically. Tris made eye contact with you, and you knew she was wishing you luck, making you smile a bit. 

“Alright,” Eric said, turning to you. Turn sideways, aim down the line, legs shoulder distance apart. Don’t lock the knees, but stand straight. Non-dominant arm straight, other arm pulls the string back once the arrow is notched, pulling with the middle three fingers. Pull the string all the way back to your ear, look down the line, and shoot. Go,” he said, stepping back and watching with crossed arms. You took the stance Eric had described as well as possible, and Eric’s hands landed on your hips, turning them just the slightest bit. Then, as quickly as they had landed there, they were gone. “Same thing as with the punch, initiate. The angle of your hips matters; it’s where your legs and torso connect, so there’s a lot of power there. You can use your core to help your arm pull the string back further, allowing you to aim better and send a more forceful arrow.” You nodded, notching an arrow, pulling back, and looking down the arrow towards the target. Without hesitation, you released, and the arrow landed mere millimeters from the bull’s eye. “Good,” Eric nodded, walking away. 

As you reached for the next arrow, Tris said, “What the hell just happened?”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“Eric. He made us run fifty laps, then he changed up the plan and told us all to take an archery stance. Then, he walked up and down the line, pushing and pulling people into the right positions--I think he almost sprained Al’s shoulder! And then, just now, he just… what, turned your hips? No yanking or bending at unnatural angles or anything!”

“It’s probably just because I got injured yesterday and he doesn’t want to reopen the wound,” you shrugged. 

“Maybe,” Tris said with a sigh. “But still, that was… weird.”

“As opposed to the way Four helped you?” you countered, and she blushed. If she thought you hadn’t noticed the way Four had helped her by taking a softer approach than Eric, she was in for a surprise.

“It’s better to try and get into a position you have a hard time with when you exhale,” she defended, knowing you’d heard Four’s suggestion of a quick breathing exercise. 

“I know,” you smirked. 

“Ugh, let’s just get back to shooting,” she said, and you laughed.

“You two, shut up and get shooting,” Eric’s voice called out, quieting your laughter and causing both Tris and yourself to fall silent. You both made eye contact though, took aim, and released your arrows at the same time, each sending a swift arrow into the center of your respective targets, pride for both yourself and your friend rising inside of you.

“Ten more minutes,” Four called out. “After that, you will retrieve your arrows, put your equipment away, and get to lunch. So give it your all!” 

You took a deep breath, and each arrow you shot for the next ten minutes was aimed with extreme precision, resulting in a pretty crowded center of the target when Four called for everyone to stop. It also made the job of retrieving arrows easier since they were all in one area, which you were grateful for as you pulled each one out of the target. 

As you and Tris walked over to the storage cabinets to put your bow and arrows away, Will and Christina jogged over to you guys, having already put their stuff away. “How was physical therapy this morning, Y/N,” Will asked as he came to a stop. 

“It was good,” you replied, “I just rode a stationary bike so I could get a cardio workout and engage my leg muscles as well as my core in a more controlled setting.”

“That makes sense,” he nodded in approval. “I’m glad it went well. The rest of us had to run around here fifty times!”

“So I heard,” you said, still surprised at the number of laps your friends had run that morning. “And this one here,” he put an arm around Christina’s shoulders, “was one of the first people to finish!”

“Congratulations!” you said with a smile to Christina. She had set a goal for herself to improve her cardio, and it would seem she had reached it. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, blushing slightly at the contact with Will. “So, wanna get out of here and grab some lunch?”

“That sounds great to me,” you nodded, ready to go. 

“Y/N,” Eric said loudly from across the room as he strode towards you and your friends. 

“Yes?”

“Before you go, I want to take a look at your leg; there’s a first-aid kit in here and I want to see if it needs cleaning seeing as you sweat earlier. The last thing I need to deal with is an infection.”

“Alright,” you said and walked over to the bench, your friends following you. You rolled up the leg of your sweatpants, and thankfully, the wound didn’t look too irritated. 

Nodding, Eric said, “It looks good, but make sure to clean it well later. Use soap and water, and halfway through the day or between workouts, I would recommend disinfecting it.”

“Is there anything I can use now? Just to be safe?” He nodded and grabbed the first aid kit from a shelf on the wall, opened it up, and grabbed a hydrogen peroxide wipe. 

“Here,” he said, handing it to you. “There is also some cream here which you’ll be glad to have once you feel the sting of that wipe,” he said, handing you some ointment. 

“Thanks,” you said as you ripped open the hydrogen peroxide wipe and cleaned the wound. 

You hissed as it stung, and Eric sounded further when he said, “Told you,” since he was putting the kit back. You grunted in acknowledgement, and after wiping the area down, you put some of the ointment on, which was a much nicer way of keeping the area clean. Then, you rolled down your pant leg, stood, and made to toss the ointment back to Eric, but before you could, he said “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” you said, surprised as you pocketed it. Eric simply nodded. 

“Now get out of here,” he said, “go eat lunch.” And with that, you were swept out of the training room by your friends. 

--

“So, we missed you at dinner last night,” Christina said as you and your friends sat down at a table in the dining hall. “Although I totally get that you had other things to worry about. You did get to eat though, right? We wanted to save you some food, but it was pasta night, and everyone had to fight just to get their fair share.”

“That’s sweet of you guys,” you said. “Four tried to do the same thing, but he was too late. “Luckily, Eric had a backup plan.” 

“Oh my god, did you eat dinner with Eric?” Tris whisper-yelled, making eye contact with Christina, whose jaw was hanging open. 

“Yeah, last night was a lot. I waited in his apartment while he got me some sweatpants, which are really comfy, and then he got back and made ‘low-carb enchiladas’ for dinner.”

“Of course they’d be low-carb, Will said, rolling his eyes.”

“Were they good?” Christina asked.

“They were so good,” you nodded. 

“How was the company?” Tris asked.

“Honestly it was fine. I think that the fact that we didn’t talk because we were both tired prevented an argument from breaking out.”

“That’s good,” Christina said. “I’m glad he wasn’t completely horrible to you after you’d just gotten hurt. Although, I have to ask, why wasn’t he completely horrible to you today? I didn’t think he’d have that long of a ‘grace period’ after injuries.”

“He probably didn’t want to reopen the wound,” you said, repeating what you’d said to Tris earlier. “Why are you guys so interested in him?”

“Because he is the scariest person here, and he just gave you some ointment for your leg, which is the exact opposite of what it seems like he would do!” Will said. 

“You do have a point,” you admitted. “Look, I don’t know, but it doesn’t really matter. Besides, we still have to talk about the way Four keeps eyeing Tris,” you said, smirking evilly as you turned the attention away from yourself, launching a new line of questioning, this time aimed at your friend.

Tag List: @shykoolaid, @taina-eny​, @parabatai-winchester​, @marvel-ousnesss​, @kid-from-new-zealand​, @polychr0matic​

[t0th3-ark]

More Than Metal

Gavin Reed x Android!Reader: Part 2

Warnings: cursing, guns, alcohol use, crime scene, blood

Part 1

Analyzing Sample…

[Analysis Complete]

Sample Contains:

Thirium 310: 96%

Blood: 2%

Human Plasma: 2%

Analyzing Thirium…

Model ID - AP400

Serial Number: #495 345 12-8

"The fuck are you doing?" Gavin interjects. (Y/N) looks over at him as she kneels at the puddle of blue blood, fingers to her lips. VN opens her mouth to speak but Gavin holds up a hand. "Y'know what? I don't wanna know." Reed scoffs walking into another room.

○ Follow Detective Reed

□ Contiune to Investigate

● Follow Detective Reed

(Y/N) stands, following Gavin from a distance. Gavin glances around the blood stained apartment. "This is so gruesome shit." He mutters. VN tilts her head.

○ Question tactics

□ Urge him to continue working

◇ Leave to investigate in another room

X Continue to follow

■ Urge him to continue working

"Detective, I believe we should collect evidence. You seem distracted." (Y/N) states, hands behind her back. Gavin glares at the android. "You don't get to order me around, plastic." He grits.

○ Question tactics

◇ Leave to investigate another room

X Contiune to follow

X Contiune to follow

(Y/N) remains silent LED flashing blue. Gavin shakes his head kneeling down to inspect the floor where the victim was killed. (Y/N) stares at the blood splatter on the walls.

Analyzing Splatter…

[Information Acquired]

WEAPON: Kitchen knife

ANGLE: 43.2°

VN blinks. "The deviant was an AP400 model, a caretaker. It lived here with it's owners." Gavin looks up at (Y/N). "And how do you know that?" He ponders aloud. "I analyzed a sample of thiruim, there," She says, pointing to the floor. Gavin cringes. "That's fuckin' gross." He murmers. "The deviant was injured. It's blood was mixed with the victims, meaning, it couldn't have gotten far." (Y/N) explains. "We should proceed to the station to interrogate the survivors." She says. "I thought you said we needed to collect evidence." Gavin says, crossing his arms as he stands. "We have gathered enough information from this location." (Y/N) concludes. Gavin laughs, mockingly. "Look at you, smarty pants." Gavin teases, getting a confused blank expression from the android. "Never-fucking-mind. Let's go, dipshit." Gavin growls, walking out. (Y/N) hesitates, wanting to ask him if he was angry with her. That didn't matter. Why did she care?

Gavin walks through the automatic doors of the DPD. He heads by his terminal throwing his keys on the desktop. Hank watches the two walk back in. "Hello again, (Y/N)." Connor says, nodding at her. He smiled. VN nods at him. Androids weren't programmed to smile. Where they? "Good afternoon, Connor." She says, flatly. Hank snorts, grabbing her attention. "I fail to see what is humorous about our interaction, Lieutenant." She says, eyeing Anderson. Hank raises his hands as if he were surrendering, turning back to his computer. "Fuckin' androids." He mutters. "Would you hurry the fuck up? I don't have all day." Gavin says, impatiently tapping is foot on the floor. "Yes, detective." (Y/N) obeys. Connor's LED swirls yellow as he watches her go. "I have an unknown feeling." Connor says to Hank. "I think you may be worried, kiddo." Hank says, frowning. "And you wanna know somethin'?" Hank says, leaning towards Connor. "Me too."

Gavin huffs, slumping down in his desk chair, spinning around mindlessly. (Y/N) watches him, eyes following him as he spins. Gavin stops, glaring at her. "What did I say about the fuckin' staring, tin can?" He complains. "I apologize." VN says, looking somewhere else for his comfort. "Fuck it." Gavin announces. "I'm going home." He says, getting up from his chair. "I beleive we still have work to do, detective." VN says, her LED swirling blue. "Yeah well, Fowler can bitch at me tomorrow about it." He says, walking past her. VN quickly follows him. "I do not believe it is wise to leave your work unfinished." She says, referring to the stack of paperwork on his desk. She watches him swipe his card to clock out. He doesn't say away but holds his middle fingers up at her, with a strange expression. VN watches him exit. Her LED swirls yellow.

○ Follow Detective Reed

□ Stay at the Precinct

● Follow Detective Reed

(Y/N) walks through the automatic doors, following Gavin out to his car. Gavin glances over his shoulder, seeing her following him. He groans, stopping at his car. "What do you want?" He demands, unlocking his car. She stands on the other side of his car.

"I was assigned to help and assist you. I do not think leaving work to drink is a good idea, so I will be going with you to the bar." VN says, opening the car door and getting inside. Gavin stands there, mouth open. "Wait a damn minute." He protests, bending down to look at her sitting in the car. "You ain't doing shit! Get the fuck out." He orders. "I'm afriad I cannot comply, sir. According to your current physical and mental health, drinking alone could put you in danger." VN says, maintaining eyecontact. "Get out." Gavin says again. He wants to pull out his gun and shoot her brains out but something in him doesn't have the strength too. He's tired.

Yet another silent drive. Gavin's radio is turned up on a dangerously high level. VN isn't bothered but is worried about the effect on her partners ears. She concludes it is best to not comment, due to his recent outbursts. Gavin pulls up to Jimmy's, a local bar, and parks his car. Gavin opens the car door, putting his keys in his jacket. VN exits after locking the car doors. She walks behind the detective, deducting that he didn't want her by his side. She notices the package of cigarettes sticking out of his pocket. She assumes he has a lighter as well, somewhere on his person. 

Scanning...

[Jacket Scan Complete]

FELINE HAIR: 

• Burmese

• Chartreux

OTHER:

• Zippo Lighter (Sliver) 

    • Engraving: "Love you little bro. -Elijah"

• Cigarettes (Marlboro 12ct.)

• Car Keys (To: Camaro, Model: 2023)

• Stain - Front: Coffee (2 days old)

• Stain - Collar: Lacrimation from tear ducts

VN stops analyzing as they enter the bar. Gavin exhales, pretending he isn't being followed by a tin can. (Y/N) looks around. It's dimly lit, quiet. Music plays and it smells of alcohol, cigarettes, and cigars. She puts her hands behind her back, following Gavin to the bar. He pulls out a stool, hopping on top. A bartender, assumed to be Jimmy, saunters over to her partner. VN stands close to a wall, analyzing every detail of the bar. "Hey, kid." Jimmy says to Gavin. VN attempts to give Gavin privacy with the bartender but can't exactly turn off her sensors. " 'Sup." Gavin sighs, leaning against the bar. Jimmy chuckles, glancing at the out of place android against the wall. "That yours?" He teases, gesturing to (Y/N). "Don't give me that, J." Gavin scoffs. Jimmy laughs, boisterously. Gavin can't help but smile a little. Jimmy was pretty cool and he gave great philosophical advice. 

"Watcha want to drink, son?" Jimmy asks, turning to the wall of drinks. "Brandy on the rocks." Gavin says, pulling out his box of cigarettes and his lighter. Jimmy sighs. "Rough day, huh." He says, pouring his drink. (Y/N) watches carefully. She started to get an unknown sensation across multiple sensors in her being. She scanned herself for malfunction or errors. Nothing. VN tilts her head to herself. What was that sensation? It wasn't an error or a malfunction? Possibly a glitch. She shakes it off watching the detective. The sensation returns. She attempts to flush her systems, but it remains. She ignores it, concluding it was a glitch. "You can say that again." Gavin says. Jimmy slides him his drink watching him closely. "You look tired, kiddo." Jimmy comments, leaning against the other side of the countertop. Gavin chuckles. "Everyone says that. I'm fine, J." Gavin lies. "C'mon, Gavin. Talk to me. It's a slow night." Jimmy pries. Gavin sighs, lighting the cigarette between his fingers. He raises it to his lips, taking a drag. He looks down at his drink.

VN glances around the room, unintentionally listening. The sensation had left. She wasn't alive. She couldn't feel. It was a simple glitch. "It's been hard without him." Gavin says, taking a sip of his brandy. This peaks VN's intrest. "I know. You seem to care about him a lot." Jimmy responds. He must know more than she knows about the situation. Gavin glances at the android that accompanied him, downing his drink. Jimmy sighs again. "Is that thing givin' you trouble?" He asks, grabbing the glass to refill it. Gavin takes another drag of his cigarette. "Yeah it is. Fuckin' Fowler assigned it to me or whatever." Gavin says, words full of spite. VN feels the sensation return. Her LED blinks yellow.

Analyzing...

[Analysis Complete]

Malfunction?

[Access Denied]

(Y/N) blinks, LED pulsing red. She straightens her posture, ignoring the sensation, yet again. Jimmy nods, following Gavin's story. Gavin takes a swig of his drink again. "You two get along?" Jimmy asks, tapping on the counter behind him. "Fuck no." Gavin snickers. Jimmy smiles, almost sadly. "The things been following me around like a dog. Gets on my fuckin' nerves." Gavin sighs, finishing his second glass. (Y/N) notes his blood alcohol content. Jimmy grins at the detective. "Maybe she's there to help you. Ever thought about it that way?" J asks, grabbing his empty glass again, pausing. "Oh, that's utter bullshit. Don't side with them, Jimmy." Gavin spits, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar. "I'm only sayin', maybe it's there for a reason, kid. You look like shit. It could help you, y'know." Jimmy shrugs, filling his glass again. Gavin snorts, feeling the buzz kick it. "Thanks, J. How nice." Gavin teases. "Give it a chance, Gav." Jimmy pushes. "No way in hell am I trusting a piece of plastic." Gavin argues, gladly accepting his third drink. (Y/N) decides to step in. "Detective," She starts. "Fuck off." Gavin grits, waving his hand at her. Jimmy watches the two. "I beleive you've had enough." She states, hands behind her back still. "This is only my third so fuck off." Gavin growls. He usually had a better alcohol tolerance but not today.

"Your BAC is nine point two and increasing. This can impair your judgement and functioning." (Y/N) says. Gavin laughs. "You're not my babysitter, tin can." He says, lifting the glass to his lips. VN snatches the glass out of his hand, putting it on the bar. "What the fuck?" Gavin hollers, clambering out of his chair, almost falling in the process. "The alcohol had already taken affect, impairing your vital judgment. It is time to leave, sir." (Y/N) says, sternly. Her LED blinks yellow, analyzing his next move. Gavin reaches for his gun, which VN anticipated. She reaches forwards, knocking the gun out of his hands. "Hey, hey, hey!" Jimmy shouts. "No blood on my floor!" He says. A few people have formed a crowd around Gavin and the android. "Detective, we are leaving." (Y/N) says, picking his gun off the floor and pocketing it. "You fuckin' piece of shit," Gavin slurs. "You think you came come in and- and fuckin' steal my job, huh?" He raises his voice, grabbing her by her uniform again. (Y/N) looks down at him. She notes the pain, evident behind is glassy eyes.

○ Let Detective Reed continue 

□ Render Detective Reed unconscious

■ Render Detective Reed unconscious

"Detective, I apologize, but this is for your own good." She says, gaining a confused look from Gavin. She presses her fingers into the point where his neck and shoulder meet. Gavin crumbles to the ground, (Y/N) catching him before he hits the ground. VN wraps his limp arm over her shoulders, hoisting him up. "I apologize, sir." She says to Jimmy. "Eh, don't worry about it. His drinks were on the house anyway." Jimmy says, waving her off. "Take care of him, okay?" Jimmy says. (Y/N)'s thiruim pump falters for a moment, catching her off guard. She scans herself again, not finding anything wrong. The crowd had disappeared, seeing that there would be no fight. She gives Jimmy at curt nod before bascially dragged her partner out the door.

(Y/N) had successfully put Gavin in the passenger seat, starting his car. She pulls out into the road. She had located the detective's apartment, following the coordinates. Once she arrives, Gavin is still unconscious. She drags him out of the car. It would be easier to carry him in her arms, so she does. Walking up several flights of stairs, she reaches his apartment door. She glances down at the keys on his key ring and then at the lock, analyzing the differnt key prongs and the internal structure of the lock. She selects the correct key, unlocking the door. Several cats, greet her at the door. A Burmese and a Chartreux cat. They purr and meow at her as she closes the door. (Y/N) scans the apartment. It's quite messy. The trash seems as if it hasn't been taken out in weeks, pizza boxes litter the counter and differnt files and papers litter the living room. (Y/N) contiunes, walking into Gavin's bedroom. Clothes cover the floor, along with an unmade bed. She sets her partner in the bed. She surveys the room again, finding the comforter on the ground. She nods to herself.

(Y/N) carefully removes his jacket, hanging it on a hook behind his bedroom door. She covers him with the comforter, studying him. He seems peaceful. His face, relaxed. No tension is held between is eyebrows. She tilts her head, reaching towards his face. There it is. The strange sensation in her sensors. She gently brushes his hair out of his eyes, almost mesmerized by how peaceful he is, compared to when he's consious. (Y/N) quickly pulls away as he rolls over in the bed, grunting in his sleep. She looks around his room again. It was very unorganized. She walks over to his half empty dresser, pushing the folded clothes back in order. She closes the drawers, gently. VN then, straightens the differnt colognes and pictures frames on his dresser. One catches her eyes. A picture of, what she assumes is Gavin as a teen, and another male. She tilts her head, the male seeming familiar. She straightens the frame, ignoring it.

VN picks up the dirty clothes off the floor, placing them in the hamper in the corner of Gavin's room. She could see the floor now. She turns off the lamp on his nightstand, straightening the things on top if it as well. She looks around the mostly clean room, leaving Gavin's room. She then drags the overflowing laundry basket out of his room. She closes the door behind her, seeing his cats staring at her. She looks down at the Burmese one as it rubs against her leg. She watches them pad off into another room. (Y/N) looks down the short hallway seeing the bathroom. She peeks inside. It was spotless. Strange. She walks into an empty room, what she assumes to be a guest room. It holds nothing. She walks out, going back to the main living room. Papers, magazines, files, newspapers. You name it. She grabs the file box in the couch, picking up all the papers and files, organizing them alphabetically. It took all but thirty minutes an twenty seconds. She puts the file box beside the couch. She puts all of the magazines and newspapers neatly on the coffee table. She picks up all of the empty and half empty coffee mugs, placing them softly in the sink. She would load his dishwasher later. 

(Y/N) straightens his crooked TV on the wall. She then proceeds to organize his movies by type, then alphabetically. The living room was finished. She clicks on the lamp, closing the curtains. The sun was setting outside. It was six twenty-two. Androids didn't need sleep but she decided that when she finishes she would enter low-power mode to pass the time. She heads to the kitchen. It was filthy. (Y/N)'s LED circles blue. She grabs all of the dishes that were dirty and puts them neatly in the dishwasher. She puts the soap in, turning it on. She grabs a trash bag, placing the numerous empty pizza boxes inside. She empties the trash putting the bags by the front door. The cats come back in, hearing her working. "Hello." (Y/N) says, kneeling beside the cats. She looks at their collars. Coco and Bean. Who knew the detective liked cats, owned them, and gave them matching names. (Y/N) stands, beginning to wipe down the countertops, that were dusty and covering in crumbs. She puts the leftover pizza that wasn't old or moldy in the almost empty refrigerator. She rolls up her jacket sleeves disinfecting the grime in the sink. She notices his landlines blinking on the counter. She lets the chemical sit in the sink, walking over to the phone. Twenty new messages from the same number with the name Eli. She concludes it would be best to leave them be. 

(Y/N) had loaded the washing machine with Gavin's dirty clothes. She had taken the towel from the dryer and folded them neatly, placing them in the linen closet. She rinses the sink next. Spotless. The apartment looked organized and neat. Nothing like the detective from the outside. It was currently twelve forty three. She blinks, hearing the dishwasher stop. She unloads it putting the coffe mugs, plates and utensils back in their respective places. Ealier, she had hauled the trash down to the dumpster behind the apartment complex. She was satisfied with the outcome.

(Y/N) completed all of the detective's laundry leaving it neatly folded ontop of the washer and dryer. She didn't want to disturb his slumber by putting away his clothes. She was finished. VN puts the detective's gun in a drawee in the kitchen. She walks over to the couch, sitting down. The cats jumps up, one testing in her lap and the other lying down beside her. She was interested in why the cats liked her so much. She'd have to research it later. She decided to enter low-power mode.

Low-Power Mode Loading...

[Entering Low-Power Mode]

3...

2...

1...

-LOW-POWER MODE ON-

taglist

@sweet-sage-tea, @bts17army

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

[internalsealpanic]

Monster Monster

I wholeheartedly blame this pic for the existence of this fic. I just wanna hug him and ruffle his hair. 

Summary: Parent Teacher Conferences are very scandalous. 

a/n: This is actually one of my few fics where reading some of my previous fics will help. I highly recommend reading Of Midnight Smoothies and Murder Mysteries to get a better feel on Dick and Reader’s relationship but anything on the Dick Grayson masterlist works too. Special thanks to @littleredwing89​ and @americasmarauders​ for proofreading. Thanks to @littleredwing89​ and @batarella​ for help with the ending. 

warnings: A slur is mentioned but it gets shut down. Also, swearing. 

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

“Tt, stop staring at me.”

You bite back a smile and what was probably a laugh rising in your throat. “Hmmm, no.” You hum, carding your fingers through Damian’s curls. The corners of your mouth twitch into a frown when you feel an angry bump against your fingers. It’s dry and there seems to be no break in the skin as far as you could tell. You let a little sigh of relief escape you which has the unintended consequence of upsetting the gremlin in front of you.

Damian attempts to swat your hand away, snarling as he did. You grin at him, all sharp teeth and pettiness. You, being childish,  do not take your hand away and instead ruffle his hair more. An adorably petulant pout settles on Damian’s mouth making the kid look ten-years-old for once. It takes everything in you not to squeal in  delight. 

“Unhand me. I do not require your mothering and you would do very well to leave the scolding to Richard or Pennyworth.” You can easily picture Alfred scolding Damian but Dick? You try to picture Dick, hand on his hip, trying his damndest to be mean to the kid but you just couldn’t. Sure, Nightwing can be terrifying, even Batman but Dick? Especially with a kid? Not even feasible. You snort openly, the noise echoing in the deadly silent room. The woman on the other side of the room sitting next to a boy with a faceful of bruises and probably a couple of chipped teeth glares at you. Specifically, the woman scowls at your arm, skin festooned with bangles of coiled serpent tails and glittering blades. You fight the urge to stick your tongue out at her. Instead, you tug a bit at your sleeves, baring the golden lines streaked with old gashes. A low humorless laugh escapes you causing her scowl to deepen. 

Damian follows your line of sight. His face folds in utter contempt. The boy next to her flinches. Their size difference made this all the funnier.  “[What did he do?]” you ask in what you hope are the correct words in Arabic. Damian crosses his arms not meeting your gaze. His leg kicks out, the restlessness thrumming in his bones. “[Your accent is atrocious.]”

Your mouth twitches uncontrollably, edging into a fond smile. You tamp it down with a click of your tongue lest the little demon tear your head off. “[I’m out of practice, child,]” Damian grabs at a space beside him only for his hand to close on nothing. Something inside you dies when you stop yourself from cackling. Thank goodness, Bruce has--had--the good sense to take the kid’s katana away. 

“[Anyway, what did he do?]”

“[How are you so sure he did something?]”

“[Because you’re a brat but not stupid. You are by far the most annoyingly reasonable child I have had the displeasure of conversing with.]” Damian’s eyes widened in surprise. It seems the assumed hatred was mutual. You watch as he folds his face back into a glower, not quite fast enough to evade your attention but certainly fast enough to fool  the untrained eye. Unfortunately for him, you’re used to the acrobatics of faces, the chaotic cacophony of microexpression. Most people in your life are, after all, awful at broadcasting their feelings even when it was sorely needed. This is probably why you gravitated to Dick so easily. The man believed in openness, in communication.

Distantly, you can hear the woman across from you tap her foot impatiently against the carpet. A flick of your eye tells you she was sneering at both of you likely eavesdropping (and failing) on your conversation. Why she needs to know what you and a ten-year-old with a stick up his ass were talking about you weren’t sure. Damian turns his head slightly towards you, angling his chin upward to mask the uncertainty in his posture. “[If you must know, he-]”

“Gypsies”

The syllables ring like a loud staccato of gunshots despite how quietly she’d hissed it. You freeze. You can feel Damian stiffen right beside you. Understanding flowed into you molten and bubbling. You feel your throat itch, unkind words coalescing into a lump in your throat. You turn your body to Damian who was now still but you can feel the anger wicking off him. You sling your arm over the head of the chair behind him drawing his attention back to you. 

He arches a brow at you, challenging. The expression falters when the next few words leave your mouth. 

“[You’re off the hook.]”

Principal Jameson is a nasally man. It isn’t his anything to do with his voice. Though, you would be remiss to say that his voice was pleasant. You’re actually half tempted to turn your bad ear on him, block out the words coming from him but that would negate the point of you coming here. His voice isn’t that unpleasant but his entire demeanor rubbed you the wrong way. You’ve seen jellyfish with more backbone than this man. Then again, this might just be a by-product of your presence. Dick, and several other batbrats, have helpfully informed you that you were in fact pants pissing scary to civilians. You would like to say you couldn’t see it but standing in front of this man it was clear as day.  

“Y/n L/n,” you offer congenially. His shoulders ease a fraction but did not offer you a hand. You smother a sigh before offering an additional “I believe Mr.Grayson-Wayne had informed you that I would be coming in his stead to discuss this-” Shit show, your mind supplies but thankfully, your mouth was quick enough to bite it back. “- incident.” Beside you Damian scoffed. You stop yourself from kicking the kid because that really would not do. 

“Yes, well, Ma’am your-” Jameson halts frankly unsure of your relationship to Damian because of course, Dick would leave the leg work to your socially allergic ass. You make a mental note to kick him later. “- charge.” you supply, feeling a modicum of sympathy for the drowning man.Your eyes flick to Damian. His face is impassive, ire still directed at the thirteen-year-old sniveling behind his mother. The term is too cold for your taste but as of right now that’s all you were. Maybe you’ve finally found a Robin you wouldn't get attached to.

“Well, ma’am, you see your charge, Damian, he’s punched another student and has yet to even apologize. He even started a full on brawl.”

“Mhmm, I see,” you drawl tilting your head. You feel Damian stiffen at the ease of your response. You don’t have to look at his face to know that he was glaring at you with something in his eyes withering from the betrayal. The woman across from nods agreeably as if you had said something sensible. Jameson for his part nearly sighs with relief. You click your teeth a little irritable from their responses but more fascinated than anything. ‘I see’ is barely an answer but they each filled in the gaps with their own assumptions. “And has that young man over there apologized for what he said to Damian? Or for the lump on Damian’s head? Surely, you sent Damian to the clinic as well.” you voice out looking as scandalized as possible. 

The room froze. 

Your eyes will probably roll into the back of your head before your meeting is done. Judging from Jameson’s posture, they didn’t. They should have at least checked if the kid had a concussion. A familiar sort of ire rose in you. Oh boy, you’re going to have a field day with these people. You sigh in exasperation before continuing. “Not only did you neglect to send him to the clinic to check on the lump on his head, but you were also planning to let the other boy off the hook?” you accuse, voice rising with some effort.  Your voice has a tendency to draw low when your temper is flaring. It’s an intimidation tactic you'd learned from a while ago. It would probably be ill advised to use it on a man who looked like he was a second away from a heart attack. 

Jameson leans forward, reaching out appeasingly.“Ma’am, we-”

“From what I recall, Gotham Academy has a strict zero tolerance policy on derogatory language, does it not?” You cut him off, voice suddenly vicious. You shift your body in front of Damian putting yourself between him and everyone else in the room. He bristles at the gesture but you and your habits aren’t exactly concerned with his pride. 

“Ma’am I-“

“I rest my case. Please, feel free to contact Mr.Grayson-Wayne if you have more to say.” You settle a hand on Damian’s shoulder. You’re surprised he didn’t fight you or swat your hand away. Taking it as permission, you pull him closer to you as you leave the red faced woman and the paling man gob smacked and silent. Damian himself doesn’t make the sound as you made your way down the hall. You squeeze his shoulder gently hoping it comes across as a reassuring gesture. His posture does not loosen but you do not let him stray from you. You close your eyes as the elevator doors shut. 

“I did not require your assistance.”

“I know.”  Of course, he doesn’t. He is a Robin and an Al Ghul but that doesn’t mean he isn’t gonna get it. You drum your fingers against the steering wheel, the dull beat only serving to irritate your nerves. You swear the traffic in Gotham was somehow infinitely worse than everywhere else in the world even with working traffic lights. Maybe that’s why there were so many crazy people here. Maybe Bruce should have invested his money on better roads. Maybe-

Your eyes slide towards Damian who is somehow shrinking and pressing into the side door. Still, his face is twisted skeptically and braced for a continuation to your statement. You looked heavenward not even hiding the weariness in your smile. The brat is truly a bat-- suspicion and all.  You turn your body towards him, opening up your posture. You fold your leg and rest your chin on your arm. Damian meets your gaze head on, looking imperious as he crosses his arms over his chest. His posture is artificial, probably uncomfortable from the weight of your attention.

You roll your shoulders and reshape your features, reconfiguring yourself from understanding to teasing. “I know. I know but you see, they needed telling off and your tiny gremlin ass isn’t scary enough. And, I promise I won’t tell Dickolas that you defended him so vehemently.” you wink, a conspiratorial grin spreading across your face. Damian straightens, his body is bowed like he was about to spring for your throat but the shape his limbs took on was more natural and seemingly relaxed. The knot in your shoulder loosens. You reach over and ruffle his hair again.  He really is still a kid. You stare each other down. Your smile is as unwavering as his glower.

Both of your stomachs grumble. The sound was loud and abrasive in the closed space of the car. You check your watch and hum, shifting back into your seat. Wordlessly, you switch on your signal light. 

You leaf through the pages of the thoroughly used book in your hands, eyes skimming through the blocks of texts not really absorbing any of it. You  never really found the appeal in fiction. The stories are too neat compared to what you experienced daily. You suppose there is simplicity in them but you find that in nonfiction, the kind of books that explained the mechanics of things. They made sense of the world and were much more useful in your opinion. You’re much more interested in the messy scribbles on the margins, the etchings of a loud mind on yellowing pages. Jason’s notes were written in the same tone of voice he used when he spoke, deceptively layman but upon further inspection was frighteningly insightful. You smile at the little comments and complaints, the snarky little remarks. Remnants of the little boy he had been before. You frowned. You should probably give this back to him once you have the chance and maybe come up with some excuse of why you still have it. Or you can just keep it. 

You look up at Damian who is drumming his fingers impatiently against the lacquered table. His posture is artificially relaxed, likely something he learned from the league or maybe all nervous gremlins do it. You look down at the book again. The sight reminds you of Jay. You tip your head, the loud thunk of your skull is felt more than heard since it was your bad ear that is pressed against the glass. The sound startles Damian who was deep in thought. You hold out the book to him. He must be bored waiting for your order. He pointedly ignores you. 

"I don't need that childish drivel." He snipes. You click your teeth feeling a little defensive of the book. 

You sound exactly like your grandfather, you think but have enough sense to keep it to yourself. No child needs to be compared to Ra's Al Ghul even if he is a brat. 

"Not a fan of-" You look at the book's spine and frown. "-Robert Stevenson?" What kind of dork reads Robert Stevenson for fun? Oh wait, it's the same dork that quotes Shakespeare while bashing heads. 

"I have no need for such things." 

Of course, he didn’t. 

"No, I suppose you don't need anything with the actual text but the margins are quite fascinating." You hold out the book to him again. His eyebrows shoot up looking at you skeptically as he reaches for it. There is no  actual written indication that it was Jay's and the kid likely hasn't spent enough time with Jay to actually tell from the way it's written. You look out the window to turn your good ear to him, listening for any reactions he might have. Every now and then you hear a huff of amusement. You smother the smile threatening to form on your lips with your hand.

"Well, the person who owned this certainly had a lot to say." Damian says carefully, handing the book back. 

"Jay really was a mouthy kid."  

Damian looks at you, little face scrunching up in confusion. You suddenly notice just how easily the booth swallows him up. Why is he so tiny? "If this is Todd's, why do you have it?" 

You clasp the book in your hands, your thumb tracing over the creases. "He leant me this book shortly before he died. He-- Well, I told him that I wasn't fond of adventure stories. I prefer books about science and culture. They're much more useful, yanno?" Damian gives a slight nod. You relax into your seat with his understanding. "Well, he thought it was just that I've never read a good one so he gave me this one. Never quite finished it though." you admit a little sheepish after realizing just how sentimental you felt. Your eyes trace over Damian's expression. It's clear that the sentimentality bled through your words and some childish part of you winces at the vulnerability of it. Damian says nothing and doesn't even sneer in derision. 

You hum, the tune musical but offkey. “Jason, actually did what you did today awhile ago.”  Just like that you begin down a rabbit hole telling the little gremlin about all the stupid shit the older bats have gotten into. And oh boy, there’s a lot. 

“So do either of you want to explain what happened and why GAs headmaster called me sounding like he was gonna piss himself?”

“Hmmm, probably not ” you say around your spoonful of mahalabia, not even looking up from your book. Hilariously enough, Damian had also elected to leave Dick’s presence unacknowledged and busy with his own mahalabia.  Dick scoot into your side of the booth, purposefully squishing you against the wall with a shiteating grin. He loops his arm around you and pulls you closer, planting a sloppy kiss on your cheek. You blanch and push half heartedly at his chest as he laughs. That laugh makes your heart warm and a relenting smile spreads across your features softening them. Your body twitches forward to kiss but you still when Dick freezes instead you plant a kiss on his cheek as well. Dick relaxes at the familiarity of it and you two settle down. 

 Damian stares at both of you befuddled. A heat creeps up your cheeks realizing that Dick is practically sitting on you. Dick, on the other hand, seems perfectly content with your current lack of personal space, so you leave it alone despite the incredulous look Damian is giving both of you. Dick snatches up your spoon taking a heap from your dessert. You make an offended noise in the back of your throat which he simply answers with another broad smile.  Your lip twitches uncontrollably and your shoulders go slack.

“So what happened?”

You and Damian exchange a look. Damian rolls his eyes at you and you shrug at him performatively. “Nothing.” you two say in a chorus of nonchalance. It only succeeds in annoying Dick, so it was partially successful.   

Dick pouts taking another bite of your desert. You stare in disbelief as the grownass man sitting next to you attempts to give you the puppy dog eyes as he eats your desert. You sign on exasperation because it's working and the bastard knows it. Richard John Grayson-Wayne is a manipulative asshole and you are a certified sucker. 

You turn to Damian pleadingly begging him to please either help you or end you. Instead, he simply looks the two as if searching for an answer to a question forming in his mind. You run your hand over your face ready to concede when something clicks. 

"Man-Bat got into GA and Damian fought him off." you say, praying Dick would catch on to the game. For a terrifying moment, he doesn’t. He blinks at you in confusion and your stomach sinks then a smile slowly spreads across his face lighting up every feature. Your heart swells at the sight.

"Bullshit. What was Man-Bat doing in GA?"

"Dunno,maybe bullying students. I don't know what bat creatures get up to." you say grinning. The picture becomes clear from every outlandish story. To your surprise, Damian joins in with a few vague details of his own giving even more details than you'd initially gathered. 

Lunch passes pleasantly with outlandish stories and good food. 

“NEWS: Dick Grayson-Wayne, New Face of Wayne Enterprises, Caught in a Torrid Love Affair with a Mystery Woman. Who Could this Exotic Beauty Be?”

“NEWS: Young Wayne Heir Being Extorted by Mystery Woman?”

“NEWS: Wayne Heir with Secret Family?”

Dick wants to evaporate somehow. He stares at the headlines mortified beyond what he ever thought possible. Maybe the floor will be merciful and it’ll finally swallow him as Jason reads another headline in a ridiculous newsreel voice. 

“No, no wait.  This one is fucking priceless!”

“Jason, please, I am begging you. STOP.” Dick whines, his face flattening against his work table. Tim shrugs, an amused smile adorns his face. Dick is going to scream. “Tim, please please please, make him stooop.” Tim ignores Dick in favor of scrolling through his own tablet looking, frankly unsympathetic. 

“Oh a tryst!”

“Jason, you are making it sound so much worse.”

“Dunno, big bird, some of these make it sound like you fucked her over a table in the restaurant.” Jason watches in absolute delight as his older brother attempts to merge with the work bench, the tanned skin of his neck and ears burning a bright shade of crimson. Tim snickers, unhelpfully. Dick loved that his younger brothers were getting along for once. He just hated that for some reason they just had to be united against him. “All I did was kiss her on the cheek and eat her food.”

Jason gasps theatrically, feigning fainting. “Premarital kissing?! Dick, how could you? What’s next? Premarital hand holding? Think of the children.” Jason exclaims, dramatically pointing to Damian who at this point had been ignoring the ruckus Jason was causing. 

“Jason, you’re awful and you’re being extremely dramatic.” 

“Dick, you don’t exactly have any room to talk in that department.”

“Yeah, Mr. Pretty Man Down, Baby Bird has a point.” Jason says smugly as he offers Tim a fist bump which Tim reciprocates by shaking Jason's fist, a joking smile on his face. Jason snorts as if getting the joke or whatever movie reference this was from. 

Tim's face folds into a barely held back smile. The laughter bubbling in the back of his throat straining his features. “I will say it is really funny that they didn’t recognize Damian.” 

“You know how they are. They probably came up with something like the whole Damian being Bruce’s kid was actually just a cover up for Dick.” Somewhere in the background Damian makes a very displeased noise but Dick can't be bothered to lift his head to check. 

“Please no. That doesn’t even-”

“Here’s one, NEWS: Dick Grayson-Wayne’s Baby Mama? Who is this mysterious woman?” Tim reads out flatly. 

“The PR team is going to kill me. No, wait. Y/n is going to kill me first.”

“She won’t. She probably finds this hilarious.”

“How would she even find this funny?”

“Well, she does enjoy your suffering- Oh shit. This one might piss her off.” Jason clears his throat, sliding back into the newsreel voice. “DICK GRAYSON, HANDSOME PLAYBOY - WITH YET ANOTHER GIRLFRIEND - WILL HE EVER SETTLE DOWN?”

Dick is half tempted to throw his own tablet at the wall. What did he do to deserve this? You certainly don’t.  

“Hey, at least, they called you handsome.” Tim laughs placatingly. It doesn’t work, of course. 

Dick looks up at his little brother ruefully. “Oh yeah because the stuff about my looks was definitely the issue.” 

“Well considering your morning routine...”

“I haven’t even been on a date so who are these other girlfriends?!”

“Well, me and Jason thought the same thing.” Tim shoots down sneering. When did his sweet baby brother turn to the dark side? Likely, Jason’s influence but deep down he knows Tim has always been capable of evil. Jason is cackling proudly. 

“I don't see why you're concerning yourself with this drivel.” Damian says, swiping the tablet right in front of Dick forcing him to look up. Dick smiles at him wearily. “Dami, it’s a little hard when a photo of me kissing y/n on the cheek is plastered everywhere with weird headlines.” Damian tilts his head considering it but he shakes his head muttering something about pointlessness. 

“Goddammit, Disco Stick!” The sound  of your voice ringing out into the bunker sends their banter crashing to a halt. Dick feels his heart jump to his throat. He-- This was how he was going to die and for once  he wasn’t sure he deserved it or not. You stand at the doorway haloed in bright light. At least, his angel of death would be the prettiest one, he thinks-- all the oxygen leaving his lungs. 

Crumpled in your fist was a newspaper. Dick can feel his brothers take a step back as you draw near. Your footfalls were as steady as a pulse which made Dick’s own heart rate ratchet up. Your face is carefully impassive the way it always is when your anger was dosed with something else. Dick is sincerely hoping Jason is right about you being amused by the headlines. 

You stop in front of him, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. You glower down at him frankly looking murderous before you snort and your face breaks into a smile. The thick tension in the air dissipates and the room releases its collective breath. The smile on your face grows even brighter. Nope, this is how Dick dies, his breath catching in his lungs as his mind fizzes out from the sight of your smile. 

“I’m sorry?” Dick lifts himself off the table just barely, still bracing for any sudden wave of anger that will, justifiably, roll over you at some point.  

You lean your body on to the spot next to him, letting the table support your weight. Straightening the newspaper in your hands, you frown. “I look terrible in this.”

“You look beautiful.” Dick blurts out. You raise your brow at him incredulously. Jason folds over trying to hold back laughter, his shoulders trembling. Tim just shrinks from second hand embarrassment. 

“No, she is correct. She looks repulsive.” Damian says flatly as he snatches the paper from you.

You let out a breathy laugh. “To be fair, anyone would look repulsive next to professional pretty boy Dickie Wayne.” There was no sharpness in your teasing. You look at the photo over Damian’s shoulder. It was a cute photo actually. Dick’s arm loops around your shoulder as he gives you a kiss on your cheek as Damian blanches at Dick’s very public display of affection. It was hilariously easy to see where they got the idea that you two were a couple. You weren’t. You haven’t been for awhile.  The thought wrenches something a dull ache inside you. You flatten your lips preventing the edges from dipping into a frown. 

A look crosses between Jason and Tim. Tim leans over, asking in a hushed whisper, “I thought they were back together.”

“Dunno they act like it.” Jason shrugs watching your movement. As if to prove his point, you and Dick lean into each other’s space as you bicker about the merits of Gothamite photographers. Jason is half tempted to shove you two together.  

“What are you two talking about?” You ask, finally leaning away from Dick. 

“Nothing-”

“They were pondering the state of your relationship. I myself have been pondering it.”

For a moment, your eyes meet. For a moment, you are back in a drab hotel in Moscow. For a moment, you are crying your heart out in his arms trying to push him away. 

You click your teeth and stare Damian in the eyes not entirely sure what kind of emotions they were betraying. “We were a thing.” Damian’s brow shoots up. You hear someone’s hand slap against their forehead. 

You flush wanting to  disappear but hold your stance. You hear Dick chuckle beside you as he stands shoulder to shoulder with you. Something in you eases with the closeness, like a gap being filled. “We used to be a couple.” Dick supplies, saving you from your flailing. You tap your finger against the back of his hand as a silent thank you. He taps yours twice in reciprocation. You look down trying to hide a smile. 

Jason and Tim look at each other again and nod. 

“We should probably go.” Jason says carrying Damian under his arm.    

“Todd, unhand me! We are not done here!”

“We’ll see you two later.” Tim waves giving Dick a knowing smile. Dick’s heart jumps up to his throat while his stomach drops to the floor. Is this really the time for his brother’s to play cupid? 

You lean in, letting your body press into Dick’s side as you listen to their footsteps fade away. Your head settling on his shoulder hand bracing you against the workbench. You let the stillness settle and make everything around you more solid. 

Dick shifts a bit, his fingers lacing in with yours. The gesture makes your heart twinge, the chasm in your chest yawning with longing. You swallow. The air is thick with unspoken words like smoke clogging up your lungs. You think that if you could just pluck the right one out of thin air, you could clear the air. 

‘I love you’ itches in the back of your throat but what right did you have to say that to him even after all this time. 

Beside you, Dick is smiling and relishing your presence. The silver glint of your earring winking at him from beneath your hair. He had gotten you that on your first date, a little souvenir you got to commemorate the occasion.  

Dick pivots in front of you making your breath catch. His free hand brushing your hair behind your ear revealing the silver robin on your ear. Silver robins. You had at the time laughed at the absurdity of it but here they were years later. Dick’s hands settle on either side of you boxing you in against the table. Even when he’s got you trapped like this, you feel at ease knowing Dick would never hurt you. Dick leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still intertwined with yours. Your pulse is loud in your ears. You lean your forehead against his, eyes sliding close soaking up the contact. 

“It’s always been you.” Dick says breathlessly. The words do not register, too dreamlike in their conception. You always hoped and wished that you could take it back, that you had never left, that he would love you the same way he did before but you were never foolish enough to hold on to things like that with both hands. Yet here Dick was whispering things that you only let yourself dream of. 

“It’s always been you.” He repeats as if the repetition could make it more real. You swallow the lump in your throat trying to find your voice but you’re afraid that once you speak, the room would  catch fire and the dream would dissolve into harsh reality. 

Dick gently cups your face and for a moment you let yourself be lost in the sea of blue. The stinging in your eyes makes you blink even if you don’t want to. You lick your lips as if somewhere on them were the right words. 

You can’t even fathom the combination of words that could encapsulate the cocktail of longing and love you felt for him. 

Your tongue darts out, wetting your bottom lip as your eyes focus on his lips. You swallow again your throat feeling thick even as you lean into his space, pushing off the work bench. Your nose rubbing against his, his long lashes fluttering against your cheek and tickling your skin. Dick leans in, his lips on yours, the pressure barely enough to make contact. You twitch forward, lips melting against his.  The world around you stills and disintegrates leaving only him in its wake. 

The kiss is all tender softness, a promise of love and loyalty quietly exchanged between you. A delicate push and pull. Undemanding yet uncompromising in its gentle intensity. 

You both pull back, only barely. Your skins still thrum with hunger for contact. Dick leans in again, his lips brushing against yours making them tingle at the sensation. Murmured breaths exchanged between you. This time you both find the right words. 

Dick turning to reader seeing the familiar glint of her earing

“I still love you.” 

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

I was thinking it was just them in the cave standing next to each others fingers twining with each other leaning into each other's space

he brushes the strands of her hair away

After brushing her hair away he presses his forehead against hers and he just kind of comes out with it

like he'd been holding back on saying it but couldn't anymore

 Why not have the reader do something like this?

What if she nudges her nose against his? Or rubs her nose against his, like an Eskimo kiss? And it’s silent, her eyelashes flutter against his cheek. They say in Inuit, when you feel eyelashes stroke on your skin like that, it’s a way of saying “I love you” without actually saying it.

And maybe Dick knows that? Without her actually saying the words and he just smiled and captures her lips in a delicate kiss. And when they pull back, they both say it at the same time against each other’s lip, all hushed and murmured?

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Thanks for reading!

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