#which was a bad idea on a short deadline and I nearly lost my mind

[nsuyeula]

"My house of stone, your ivy grows; And now I'm covered in you."

-

 My @secretsleuthexchange gift for @_Polaris_09 over on twitter

[xcertaindarkthingsx]

make you mine

pairing: jealous!mando x fem!reader

summary: you’ve been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now as a healer and caretaker for the Child.  one day, the Mandalorian needs your specific skills to help him catch a bounty, and needless the say he is NOT happy about it.  

warnings: two idiots that don’t know they like each other, some fluff and yearning, a smidge of possessiveness/jealousy, canon-typical violence, swearing in basic and mando’a, brief mentions of unwanted touching, mentions of taking care of injuries/stitching and blood, SMUT 18+ (minors BEGONE), porn w/ plot i guess, thigh riding, finger sucking, grinding, a lil’ dirty talk (if i miss any just please let me know!)

word count: 7.6k (i’m soRRY)

a/n: WHEW OK so i originally wrote this for #dincember but because i suck at deadlines and take forever to write it just turned into something else. reader is a lil insecure but mando makes it all better (self-projection, anyone?) ummm, this is my first time writing for din AND my first time writing smut but i hope you guys like it! comments/likes/reblogs/feedback are completely welcome and much appreciated! i apologize if this is a mess kladjflkd but shoutout to @a-dorin and @princessxkenobi for being wonderful beta readers and helping me when i got stuck.  i am planning on making this a two parter, so if you want to be added to my tag list let me know! if you prefer to read on ao3 you can do so here . mando’a translations at the end!

gif credit: @bestintheparsec

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Soft coos filled the air inside the Razor Crest as you desperately tried to rock the Child back to sleep.  You were almost certain he was starting to get hungry, but you were out of snacks and Mando had told you not to leave the ship under any circumstances.

You had been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now, after being picked up on Arvala-7. You were a healer—a pretty damn good one, if you had anything to say about it—and had patched him up after a bounty hunt gone wrong.  

The Mandalorian thought your services would be helpful if things ever got a little dicey again, so he asked you along for the ride (the reality was you had nagged and scolded him so much about how cauterizing was not the answer for every wound, that he eventually caved just to get you to stop). There wasn’t really anything tying you to Arvala-7, so you agreed.

Plus, the Child had taken a real liking to you, and how could you say no to that precious face?  

The Mandalorian was an odd man—well, no.  Not odd.  More like intriguing, and you were drawn to it.  It had been quiet and awkward the first few months.  He was a rigid man of few words, never speaking more than necessary (unless he thought he was alone with the kid; the way he spoke with him made your heart melt).  But after countless late nights together of taking care of the Child and constantly tending to his injuries, you were surprised to find there was a sense of gentleness under all that beskar.

The Mandalorian had been just as surprised as you when he found himself warming up to your presence.  It was all the little moments that had snuck up on him, the stolen glances and lingering touches, and now his heartbeat seemed to quicken every time you were together.

Little did he know, yours did too.  

At the sound of the hatch door opening, you looked up.  You watched as the Mandalorian walked up the platform, admiring his strut.  How someone could look so good just walking, you had no idea, but it was maddening.  

“No bounty?” you called out, turning the kid in your arms so he would be facing out towards his dad.  It was unusual that Mando hadn’t found the target yet, but you were just thankful he was in one piece for now.  He shook his head.

“Not yet.  I ran into some… complications,” he huffed and even though his voice was laced with frustration, it put you at ease.  Being on the ship alone for nearly the whole day, sometimes you just missed hearing that husky baritone filtering through his modulator.  

Not to mention you thought it was sexy as hell.  

You quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Complications?”  

He heaved a deep sigh, lifting a hand for the Child to grab, which he took happily.  “Hey, kid,” he whispered, and you smiled as the Child babbled back.  Mando turned his helmet towards you and continued.  “Yes, but I found a contact who should be able to give more information.  I came back for you and the kid first.  I know you guys must be hungry.”  

You nodded at the same time the little green bean gave a resounding coo, earning a soft chuckle from the both of you.  “I’ll get the pram ready.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

After a quick stop in the marketplace for supplies, Mando had led you two into what seemed to be the only bar in town.  It was only late afternoon, leaving it nearly empty, save for a few older patrons lazily sipping on glasses of ale.  You ignored the way the Weequay behind the bar seemed to look you up and down.     

Mando set you and the kid up with two bowls of soup at a table nearby while he talked business with his contact, who happened to be the bartender.  Sipping your soup, you tried not to eavesdrop as the two began to fall into what you would call a heated discussion.  On Mando’s end.  Apparently, this was a particularly “difficult” target.  

“Lucky for you, he’s got an eye for pretty girls,” the bartender drawled, jutting his chin at you.  “She’ll do fine.”

Your head snapped up from your task of feeding the child, spoon mid-air.  “Excuse me?”

“No.  Absolutely not,” resounded Mando’s gruff voice from under the helmet.    

“Listen, Mando.  This guy is high-profile, practically untouchable, bodyguards with him at all times. And I’m not talkin’ your run of the mill pair of idiots that can’t shoot for a damn, I’m talkin’ highly trained mercenaries.”  The Weequay sighed.  “I don’t doubt your skills as a Mandalorian, but you’re just one man.  You need to get him alone, and she is your only way of doing that,” he insisted.  

“I said, no,” Mando gritted out.  You were non-negotiable.  

The bartender just shrugged.  “Then consider this a loss, cause you’re not getting anywhere near him.”

Your heart hammered in your chest listening to the two of them argue. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks, remembering the way the bartender eyed you when you walked in.  All you wanted to do at this point was bury yourself in the confines of your room in the Razor Crest.

Mando seemed final in his decision, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he didn’t want you involved or if he thought you simply lacked the skills to do so.  He could probably tell you weren’t really the seducing type, and truthfully the thought of trying to do was mortifying.    

But Mando needed this, right?  You thought of all the things he’s done for you, how he’s protected and provided for you.  This was the least you could do for him.  You could deal with one night of potential discomfort so he could get his bounty.  It was a lot of credits.  

“I’ll do it.”

Mando snapped his head around at you so fast, it was a miracle he hadn’t hurt himself.  “For the last time, I said you are no—”

“I’m doing it,” you said a little more forcefully, cutting him off. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring daggers into you from underneath the helmet, but it was going to take more than a dirty look to get you to change your mind.  

“Excellent!” the bartender’s cheery voice cut through the tension in the room.  “Come on back, I’ve got an old dress an ex-girlfriend left behind that you could probably use.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The dress in question was a slinky black number that had you freezing your ass off in the cold of the desert night.  

The dress was too… everything.  Too short, too revealing, too tight; but the only other thing you had to wear were some oversized t-shirts and utility pants, which aren’t exactly sexy, so you were shit out of luck.  

Mando nearly choked when you came out of your room, thankful for the helmet for hiding his widened eyes and agape mouth. You looked absolutely ravishing, the black fabric clinging to all the right places on your figure.  His eyes roved over the valley of your chest, the curve of your hips, the length of your legs, and his hands balled into fists, just aching to hold you.  It’s as if your skin was begging to be touched.  

You cleared your throat, feeling incredibly exposed and wondering what in the blazes Mando was looking at because you were certain you looked absolutely ridiculous.  The noise shook him out of whatever daze he was in and he quickly shifted his gaze.  

“Not a word,” you warned, wobbling down the platform.  As bad as the dress was, the heels it came with were somehow worse.  “I feel ridiculous.”

“You shouldn’t,” he answered a little too quickly. “You look…” words were lost on him as he tried to find the right one.  One that wouldn’t make it obvious that he was losing his kriffing mind in front of you.  “Good,” he finally decided on, and mentally kicked himself for it.  Good?

You gave him an exasperated look.  “I know you’re just being nice.”

He opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by an ill-timed fit of babbling from the kid.  You had bent down as best you could to give him a little pat on the head and he could feel a lump forming in his throat.  

Mando couldn’t express how much he didn’t want you to do this.  And well, he tried.  The whole way back to the ship, in fact.  But for some reason you were completely hell-bent on doing this for him, and he didn’t know how to explain that you and your safety meant more to him than a few thousand credits.  

The reality was, Mando wanted you.  He never thought he’d be so fond for someone besides the Child, but you were the exception.  And even though he wanted to make you his, he knew it would be selfish of him to pursue you, to claim you, when he couldn’t give you everything you deserved; his Creed prevented him from doing so.  

But Mando was a greedy man, so he took what he could get.  He drank up all the kindness you so freely gave him, like a parched soul wandering in the desert, and cherished every little moment the two of you shared. They probably meant nothing to you, but they were everything to him.  And he wanted more.

Not only was he a greedy man, but a stingy one as well.  The thought of anyone other than him seeing you in that dress was enough to send his thoughts into a jealous frenzy.  

“You don’t have to do this,” he tried to reason again.  

You placed a gentle hand on the soft spot between his pauldron and neck and offered a small smile.  “Don’t worry, Mando.  Everything will be fine.”        

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Everything was, in fact, not fine.  

The night had started well enough.  After all of Mando’s failed attempts at dissuading you again, he had finally resigned to silently stewing in his disapproval rather than voicing it.  

You entered the bar while he stayed behind and watched closely from the outside.  He had given you a comms device, that, with the push of a button, would let him know you were alone with the bounty and it was time for him to step in.  

“Just press it, and I will be right there,” he assured, his gloved fingers pressing the device firmly into your bare palm. Something about the protective tone of his voice stirred something in you.  You nodded before looking away, trying to ignore your racing heart.  

The bar was rowdy that night, patrons hooting and howling from the booze.  The smell of stale spice and death sticks wafted in the air, making you wrinkle your nose.  Your newfound bartender friend had waved you over, pointing out the target with a nod of his head.  

Your eyes fell on a Pantoran man across the bar with a drink in his hand, dozens of black suits surrounding him.  His associates—a Rodian and another Pantoran—seemed to all be talking business.  The bartender wasn’t kidding about this guy’s security.

How the hell am I supposed to get this guy’s attention?  You desperately racked your head for subtle ideas but came to a halt when his eyes met yours.  Kriff, he had caught you staring.  So much for subtle.  Trying not to panic, you flashed your best coy smile before turning back towards the bar.

Somehow, that was enough to give him the courage to approach you.  

Cocky bastard, you thought as he swaggered on up to you, leaning in close, leering.  With his chiseled features and striking yellow markings, you would’ve called him handsome— if you didn’t already know what a sleazebag he was.  An air of arrogance surrounded him, the type that made him think he could get whatever he wanted with a flash of those pearly whites. Typical douche.  You wanted to smack him for being so close.  

Instead, you flashed another winning smile. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you leaned in close and with a breathy whisper of, ‘Let’s get out of here’ he was tossing credits to the bartender and signaling to his guards that he was leaving with you.  

The Weequay had shot you a knowing look as he watched you leave; a warning.  You assured him that everything was fine with a slight nod of your head.      

The asshole had his arm snaked around you, hand on your ass, as you made your way to the motel just across the street.  You fought back the urge to throttle him, instead fawning about how, ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you, darling.’    

Your hands began to clam up as he retrieved the keys from the clerk, and you tried to convince yourself that everything would be fine once you clicked the button on your comm from the inside of the room.

Wrong.  

Immediately after the Pantoran locked the door, the unease in your stomach began to grow.  Bile rose in your throat at his grinning face, the way he fidgeted and licked his lips as he pressed you into the wall.  A hand landed on your bare thigh, trailing dangerously high, where you shuddered in disgust at the feeling.  

“We’re gonna have so much fun,” he whispered, and that was your cue to press the comms device you were desperately clutching in your small purse.  Your mistake was failing to mask the faint beeping noise it emitted.  Your companion stiffened at the sound, pressing you further into the wall.  

“What the hell did you just do?” he growled, using the other hand to rip your arm from your purse.  He stared at the comms device with contempt, before turning his attention back to me.  “You bi—”

He never got to finish, because the next thing you knew your Mandalorian was crashing through the door, blaster in hand.

The scene Mando had walked in on nearly made him sick.  That osi’kovid’s hands all over you, and worst of all, the look of pure fear on your face after being made.  He’d planned to put a quick end to the whole ordeal, but the bounty had plans of his own.

Mando rushed him, shoving him into the wall and away from you.  As expected, the Pantoran went flying before crumpling onto the floor.  What Mando hadn’t been expecting was for him to be armed. He didn’t peg him as the type to get his hands dirty.  

The Mandalorian was about to release the fibercord whip from his vambrace when the bounty rose from the floor with a sneer, a small combat knife in hand as he lunged at Mando, before wrestling him to the floor and sending his blaster skittering.  

You watched in frozen horror as the two fought for the upper hand. At one point, the bounty had tried to charge at you, slashing wildly, but Mando was already there blocking his blows. The knife caught on the cowl above his chest, slicing the skin underneath with a sickening noise.  That seemed to kick your brain into overdrive, and you dived for the fallen blaster on the ground.  

You took a steadying breath before you aimed and shot once, twice, at the bounty’s leg.  He cried out from his place above Mando before clutching his leg and finally falling over.

Mando rose and immediately released the fibercord, imprisoning the bounty.  He held his hand out for his blaster, and you watched with wide eyes as he smacked the butt of it into the Pantoran’s face once, twice, three times.  The third time ended with an appalling crack, his head lolling forward, and leaving him unconscious.  

You stared as Mando stood in front of the bounty, seething.  You could have sworn his hands were shaking.      

“Stars, Mando, your neck,” you murmured, breathless.  The room was dim, but you could see the dark stain of blood that was beginning to drench his cowl.  Your hands went to inspect the wound, but he quickly brushed you off.  

“We need to go,” he grunted, gathering the rope and heading towards the back entrance of the room.  The two of you hadn’t exactly been quiet and the bounty’s guards were bound to notice their boss had been gone for too long.  When you had opened your mouth to argue, to insist that you needed to check his injuries, he was already out the door.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins as you walked back towards the ship.  You pulled your arms tight across your body in an attempt to quell your trembling hands; guilt, bubbling up in your stomach as you replayed the events of the night in your head.  

You had been the one to volunteer yourself for the mission.

You were the one who had repeatedly insisted that everything would be fine.  

And now, your Mandalorian was bleeding profusely from a nasty wound on his neck.  

“Mando,” you pleaded, trying to keep up with him in your ridiculous heels.  Instead of acknowledging you, your words fell to deaf ears.  He was stomping his way back to the ship, the unconscious bounty in tow.  

Worry bloomed in your chest.  The wound had looked bad back at the motel, but it was as if he couldn’t even feel it.  You could hear his ragged breathing from behind; whether it was from the fight, the long walk, or the wound, you weren’t sure.  

“Mando,” you tried again, this time raising your voice as you approached the hatch of the ship.  

Nothing.

He let out another grunt as he hauled the bounty onto the ship, towards the carbon-freezing machine.  You pursed your lips, jaw clenching in his direction. You did not appreciate being ignored, especially after just half-saving his ass just moments before.

Granted, you were the one that had put him in that position, but that was besides the point.

His back was to you and you stepped closer, ready to unleash a piece of your damn mind, when you stopped.  You took in his brooding stance and clenched fists.  The tremble in his hands.  Anger seemed to roll off the Mandalorian in waves, making you falter.  

What the hell was his problem?

“Mando, can you kriffing listen to me?  I need to treat you, you have no idea if he nicked an important artery or something.  I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, but you’ve been bleeding for a few minutes now and I just need to look—” annoyance rose in you as he continued to prep the carbon machine.  “Maker, can you even hear me?”

The Mandalorian couldn’t hear you, not clearly anyways.  Blood was still rushing in his ears, his vision still tinged red.  But with another call of his name, you were finally able to get through and he suddenly whipped around.  

“He touched you,” he gritted out, seething and shaking. “That skanah had his hands all over you and I swear if I didn’t need him alive for the bounty, he’d already be dead.”  He punctuated the last word with the slam of a button on the machine.    

You took a step back, eyes wide and brows furrowed. Something warm tightened in your chest and belly.  Wh-why did he care so much?  A lump had lodged itself into your throat.  “Mando, I—I’m fine.  Alright? I’m okay,” you tried to assure.  “So, can you please calm down and let me just—"

But the Mandalorian already had his back turned again.  You threw your hands up in the air, groaning in frustration as he continued to work.  Another minute passed and with a faint whoosh, the bounty was finally set in carbonite.  

A shiver ran through your body as the cool night air blew its way into the Razor Crest, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin.  Seeing you tremble in the cold seemed to break Mando out of whatever angry stupor he was in.    

In all honesty, he hadn’t meant to ignore you, but something in him snapped back at the motel.  The image of that skanah touching you had made his blood boil, and his sole goal was to get him back to the ship and be done with it.  

“You’re… cold,” he stated, the words coming out slow and soft, like pulling them out of a dream.  You must have been freezing in that dress.    

Your head snapped up at him.  “I—what?”

“Let me get you a blanket or—” He hesitated when he saw you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes screwed shut.  

You couldn’t believe this idiot.  

“Mando, seriously?”  Your heart and your brain were having a hard time deciding whether you should be flattered about him caring so much or pissed off because he didn’t seem to give a damn about himself.  

You chose a mix of the two.

“Mando,” you sighed, looking up at him.  “I promise you I’m fine, thank you.  Really.”  You gave him your most genuine, caring look to show you were thankful for his concern, and then quickly replaced it with a hard one.  “But if you don’t get up into that cockpit right now and let me treat you, I’m going to use that damn pulse rifle on you.”

And just like that, you had managed to dissolve the lingering traces of anger in his mind.  His lips twitched under the helmet.  “That supposed to scare me?”

You glared.  “Don’t push it.” You could have sworn he was laughing under there.

The Mandalorian would have laughed if the wound on his neck hadn’t began to ache.  Instead, he begrudgingly nodded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender before disappearing into the cockpit.  

He began to input the coordinates back to Nevarro into the navicomputer, warmth unfurling in his chest as he listened to you check on the Child.  A tiredness had begun to settle in his muscles from the fight earlier, and he grimaced as he reached for a lever on the control panel.  The pain on his neck was getting worse, and if he was being honest it burned like all hell, but he was not going to admit that to you.

The door behind him slid open and you stepped in frazzled, medkit in hand.  Even with your hair in disarray and scrapes littering your arms and legs, he thought you looked breathtaking.  

“Uh, so bad news,” you began, gesturing at the medkit.  “They didn’t have any at the market earlier, so we’re out of bacta shots and spray.  I’m gonna have to stitch it closed depending on how deep it is.”  You shot him an apologetic look.

He nodded, putting in the last of the coordinates before removing his chest plate to give you easier access, and turning his chair to face you.  You closed the space between the two of you, quickly going to work.  Careful hands began to peel away at the fabric stuck to the wound, a hiss of pain at the tip of his tongue as you ripped off the last of it.

“Sorry,” you whispered, inspecting the fabric before discarding it.  “You’re definitely gonna need a new cape.”

He shrugged.  “At least now you’ve got a new blanket.”  You always had a habit of curling up into all his old stuff.  

With a smile, you returned your focus to the task at hand, mentally sighing in relief as you began to clean the wound.  It could have been worse, but it was still very deep.  An inch to the left and just a smidge higher, and you would have had quite the problem on your hands.  

“Idiot,” you muttered.

“What was that?”

“Lucky,” you corrected, biting back a smirk.  “You got lucky.  Any higher and this would be a lot messier.”  You tossed the last of the gauze out and prepared the needle and thread.

Mando took in your awkward stance as you tried to bend down and begin stitching.  Standing was fine for when you were cleaning, but for something this intricate it wasn’t the best position.  You cursed and tried again, trying to get the angle right, but it was no use.  The thought left his mouth before he even had a chance to filter it.  

“You can sit on me if that’s easier.”

Heat blazed on your cheeks at his words, nearly dropping the damn needle.  “Oh—um—” Coherent thoughts didn’t seem to be forming in your head at the moment.

Panic flooded the Mandalorian’s brain as he took in your shocked expression and realized his mistake.  “I—well, not like that—what I meant was—” he spluttered, trying to find the right words, thankful that his helmet hid his mortified expression.          

“No, no it’s okay I—I know what you meant,” you managed to choke out after picking your jaw up off the floor.  It would have been comical—the certain and capable bounty hunter struggling to regain his composure—but his words had flooded your mind with some less than innocent thoughts and images, ones that left you heated and flustered.  You swallowed hard in an attempt to relieve your suddenly very dry throat.  “I can, if you’re okay with it?”

He slowly nodded, mentally kicking himself for being so daft.  He held his breath as you stepped closer, bracing a hand low on his chest as you perched yourself on his lap.  You cursed, trying to your best to maneuver yourself onto him without being inappropriate.

Finally, you were situated, hovering precariously over his thigh.  You breathed deep, willing your mind and body to calm down. Being in such close proximity to the Mandalorian was… dizzying, but you had a job to do.  And so, you went to work.  

A few minutes in, Mando could feel the tension rolling off your body, the tremble of your thighs as you tried to hold yourself above him.  “You can sit if you need to.”

The thought had crossed your mind, but truthfully you were afraid of how your body would react if you did. Eventually you gave in, shivering at the cold kiss of beskar on the insides of your thighs as you straddled his leg.  A knot was forming in your belly, low and warm.  

Maker, help me, you thought.

The change in position had slid your dress higher and Mando’s eyes began to wander again, taking in the exposed skin where your dress had hiked itself up, the material bunching around your hips.  His hands felt that pull again, that ache to touch you; to dig his fingers into the soft, plump flesh.  

Osik, he cursed, trying to control himself.  In his mind he conjured up the image of a blaster, mentally taking it apart and putting it back together as a pitiful attempt at a distraction.

You had fallen into a steady rhythm of stitching and knotting, your hands absentmindedly working.  The Mandalorian had fallen into a dull haze in the wake of your delicate touches, despite the sting and pull of the needle.  But when your hands brushed the edge of his helmet, he snapped to attention, reflexes kicking in.

A strong hand had immediately encircled your wrist, forcefully locking it in place.  Your breath seized at the realization of your colossal fuck-up.  How could you be so stupid?

“Shit, shit, I—I’m sorry,” you stammered out.  “Mando, I—I promise I wasn’t going to take it off, I just needed to adjust it to get the needle under.”  Your heart thundered against your chest, and you swear you could hear it in the empty silence of the cockpit.  The iron-clad grip he had on your wrist was starting to hurt, biting into your skin.  

Mando saw the flash of fear in your eyes, the way you had flinched at his touch and loosened the grip on your hand.  Regret began to bubble up inside him.  He opened his mouth to apologize, it had just been his instincts, but you beat him to it.  Your next words caught him off guard.  

“Do you trust me?”

He swallowed hard. Of course he did.  There was no question about it.  You were the one constant in his life besides the kid; the one he found he could rely on time and time again for anything. You had never betrayed him, in Creed or otherwise.  He took a steadying breath before answering.  “Yes.”

You tried to ignore the burst of warmth in your chest at his admission and what it implied. Instead, you nodded, slowly allowing yourself to move again and continue your care.  “Lean back,” you whispered and he obliged, fully baring his neck to you. It was a vulnerable position, but the cautious movements of your hands crushed any anxiety that threatened to well up in him.

And maybe it was that cautious, careful touch that had begun to wear down his walls; the tenderness you so freely gave that softened his heart and opened him up.  He wanted to make up the last minute to you, to show that he really did trust you.  Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop the next thing that tumbled out of his mouth.

“Din.”

You paused mid-stitch, confusion flickering on your face.  “What’d you say?”

His heart felt like it was going to fly out of his ribcage.  “My name.  It’s Din.”

Confusion slowly morphed to shock at his revelation.  He had just shared his name with you; something incredibly personal and dear to him. Knowing it felt… intimate.  How many people actually knew his real name? You couldn’t stop that slow smile that had begun to spread on your face.  

“Din,” you repeated, hushed as if someone else would hear.  His heart skipped at the sound of his name on your lips; the soft way your voice curled around the short syllable.  Your eyes peered into his through the visor of his helmet, a question behind them. “Just ‘Din’?”

“Din Djarin,” he corrected.  

You repeated it again, delight clear on your face.  “I like it.”

I do too, he thought.  Especially when you say it.  “You can use it whenever, as long as we’re alone or it’s just the kid.”

“Of course,” you nodded, then added a soft, “Thank you.”  For trusting me.

The two of you had settled back into a comfortable silence, his hands resting comfortably on your hips, and Din couldn’t fathom why you kept biting back a smile.  You were the first to break it.  

“I’m sorry, for all this.”

“It’s fine, it’s not that painful.”  

You shook your head.  “No, I mean—” you gestured at his neck and then to you. “He was aiming for me.”

He scoffed.  “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d let anything happen to you.” You could hear the anger beginning to simmer beneath his words again.  “No, I… I would protect you every single time.  Besides, that osi’yaim got what he deserved in the end.”  

Your eyes flicked to his visor again and you tried to ignore the way the knot in your belly tightened at his promise to you and the shiver his low voice sent down your spine.  Instead, you tried to change the subject.  “Osi’yaim?”

“A useless, despicable person.  A waste of space.”

A soft laugh escaped you lips.  “You need to teach more Mando’a.  Something besides the bad words.”

Din’s heart clenched at your request. Something about you asking to learn his language stirred something deep in him.  “Of course,” he managed to reply, but it came out more strangled than he had meant it to.    

You continued with your task, getting lost in the repeated movements of your fingers.

Watching you work had always fascinated Din.  You granted each injury the same amount of attention, whether it was as small as a papercut or as big as the gash he had now.  It was endearing.  The meticulous way you ensured every stitch, every bandage, was perfect and in place. The adept movements of your fingers, steady with every touch.  The way you bit your lip and furrowed your brow as you concentrated.  

He was captivated by it, and you, every time.

His gaze was concealed by his helmet most of the time, but tonight you could feel the weight of his eyes on you.  Your cheeks began to burn at the thought of him staring at you so closely and you thanked the maker that he couldn’t see the crimson hue painting your face.  

“Are you warm?” he asked, the low rumble of his voice startling you.  

“What?”

“You’ve been shivering since you started, but… you’re all flushed,” he explained.

Your eyes widened at his words, heart stopping.  “Wait—how can you see my—”

“Heat sensors.” Din couldn’t help but notice the way the heat on your face spread even more, down the soft slopes of your neck and chest.

Of course, heat sensors.  You were absolutely mortified, a nervous laugh erupting from your chest.  May as well be honest.  

“No, not warm, more like embarrassed,” you tried to explain, unable to meet his eyes.  

Din tilted his head, trying to understand.  “Why?”

You scoffed.  “’Cause I just realized I’ve been sticking my ugly mug in your face for the past 20 minutes.”      

Din was dumbfounded.  Ugly? The mere thought of you seeing yourself in that way made his heart ache.  How could you think such a thing when he saw you as the most radiant thing in this galaxy?  That, every time he saw you, he had to remind himself to breathe?

He had no idea what the in blazes he was doing, but he knew that he couldn’t let you go on thinking such things about yourself.  Din reached out and tilted your chin up towards him, making you meet his eyes.  

“Cyar’ika, you are the furthest thing from ugly that someone could be.  I—you are absolutely stunning.  Do you—do you know what seeing you in that dress tonight did to me?” he confessed, letting out a breathy laugh.  The front of his pants tightened in reminder.  “I’ll teach you something new in Mando’a right now.”  He paused, letting his fingers brush over your chin. “Mesh’la.”

It felt like you were on fire at that point, burning under his gaze, but somehow you found your voice underneath all the flames.  “What does it mean?” you breathed, unable to mask the tremble in your voice.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”    

Your body betrayed you, melting into a puddle with just a taste of his touch and the boldness of his words.  It was a devastating effect, and there was no denying the dampness that had pooled between your legs now.  You managed to stutter out a, ‘thank you’ before trying to finish the last knot of his stitches.

“All done,” you whispered.    

Din watched as you admired your handiwork and noticed that you made no move to remove yourself from him.  Instead, your hands were softly dragging across the planes of his exposed chest, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went.  It was such a foreign feeling, flesh against flesh on such a shielded part of his body.  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him there, let alone so gently.  

A strangled sound caught in his throat as you brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, just above the other side of his collarbone.  It was almost too much, the shot of electricity that singed his nerves, but it felt good.

His body involuntarily bucked at the sensation and his hands gripped your hips roughly, pressing you flush against him.  

You gasped at the sensation, of your clothed core dragging against the beskar plate on his thigh, your knee brushing against the bulge that had tented his pants.  Your hands scrabbled to find something, anything, to anchor yourself from the blinding pleasure that fizzled through you.

“Maker,” Din murmured, letting out a shuddering breath.  “Osik, cyar’ika, I’m didn’t mean to touch you like that but—”

“But what if I want you to?” your own voice sounding foreign to your ears.  You did not miss the way his breath hitched, caught in the modulator of his helmet.  

Din’s mind was reeling. “You—you want me to?” he swallowed thickly around the ball of shock that was caught in his throat.  

And you’re nodding, eyes dark and body and mind clouded with need, leading his hands up your torso and chest; but Din, he needs to hear you say it.  “Use your words, cyar’ika.  I need to hear you.”

“Yes, Din.  Please,” and that’s enough to dissolve any shred of self-control he thought he had.  The sound of you saying his name like that, a plea for him and only him, was maddening.  

His hands were on you in an instant; hands that you had seen nearly beat a man to death just for touching you, but on you they were soft, gentle.  Desperate, but tender.  Rough, but passionate and loving.  The contrast was making your head spin.  

“Din,” you whimpered. “You have to be careful, your cut—”

“I don’t care,” he rasped.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you?  Make you mine?”  He pulled you closer against him, hands grasping at anything he could reach.  He wanted to erase any trace of the bounty from your presence.

You tried to answer, but you were a mess, filling the cockpit with soft moans and mewls as you bucked your hips on his thigh.  

“I want to watch you make yourself feel good, can you do that?  Just like this?”  You frantically bobbed your head.  “Good,” he answered, stroking your cheek.  “You deserve it after tonight, sweet girl.”

The sound of ‘sweet girl’ sent wet heat straight to your core.  If anything, you thought he was the one that deserved to be taken care of right now.  But you were not about to argue with the Mandalorian who insisted on you using him to get yourself off.    

Your hands pawed at his chest again, struggling to find some kind of purchase to anchor yourself. They finally settled for his biceps, nails digging deep.  He watched as you grinded down on his thigh, eyes screwed shut.  His hands fingered the strap of your dress and you nodded, giving him permission to slide it down.  

Din took in the sight of your bare chest, your nipples pebbling in the cold air of the cockpit. He ached to take them into his mouth, hear you whimper and moan against his tongue, but he settled for brushing his gloved fingers over them and watching you arch.  

You ground down harder, desperate you get the friction you needed.  Din’s hands slipped from your breasts down back to your hips, stilling them.  A high whine escaped your throat and it was almost pitiful.  

“Up,” he instructed, confusion marring your face as you lifted yourself off his leg.  He gripped the thigh plate and dropped it to the ground, promptly setting you back onto his thigh.  “Wanna feel you,” he growled, and you could only moan in response.  

Soon enough, your arousal had seeped through your panties and onto the fabric of his pants.  The heady smell hit his nose and his mouth watered, desperate to know what you tasted like, to know what sounds you would make if he buried his face between your thighs.  

You guided his hands back up your chest, up to your neck.  His fingers cupped your face again, thumb brushing the bottom of your lip. You held his hand in place, biting the leather tip of his glove and slowly slid it off, letting it drop between you.

The feeling of his bare thumb resting on your lips sent another wave of arousal through you.  “Wanna feel you,” you breathed, grinning before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking hard.  Din’s eyes rolled back and he groaned; the sight of your hollowed-out cheeks and the sensation of your tongue on the pad of his thumb nearly sent him over the edge.  

One hand trailed to the base of your neck, tangling itself softly in your hair.  He took in the way your eyes were screwed shut, the furrow in your brows as you chased your high.  You had taken your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard and almost splitting it from the pressure.  It was almost the same concentrated expression you wore as you tended to his injuries, though it was clear you were concentrated on something far more rewarding now.  

“Mesh’la,” he commanded.  “Look at me.”

You wretched your eyes open, fixing your gaze on him.  

Din watched, enraptured, as you continued to pleasure yourself.  You were a sight before him; pupils blown, mouth agape, chest heaving as you tried to ease the ache in your belly.  He was lost in the way your eyes sparkled, perfectly matching the dark galaxy you were set against just outside the viewport.  

Your moans filled the cockpit, desperate sounds and pleads of Din’s name as he sent delicious licks of pleasure throughout your body.  You held on for dear life, panting as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

He feels the tension simmering from your shuddering figure, like a coil just waiting to spring.

“Are you close, mesh’la?” he whispered, his words and the rasp of his voice sending you higher and higher.  “Are you going to come for me?”

And you’re a wreck, whimpering and pleading, yes, Din, yes; and all Din can think is he can die happy knowing how you moan his name.  He shifts you, pulls you right onto the straining bulge in his pants and you both gasp, the sensation pulling you even closer to your orgasm.  A bare hand snakes between where the two of you are pressed against each other and he presses right onto your clit.  

A sob tears from your throat and stars burst behind your eyes as you’re pushed off the edge; and you’re falling, waves of ecstasy washing over you and burning straight to your toes. Din holds you close as your body continues to shudder, a steady hand on your back coaxing you down from your high. He lets out a groan when he feels evidence of your orgasm seep through to his clothed cock.    

Fog clouds the bottom of his helmet as you softly pant, the pleasure lulling to a dull thrum in your veins. He’s admiring your sleepy eyes, the flushed cheeks of your afterglow.  You give off a shy smile, peering into his visor.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs right next to your ear.  “Just like I said.” 

“Thank you,” you hum, pressing a searing kiss onto his bare neck and sliding a hand over the hardness trapped beneath you.  

Din hisses at your touch and you laugh, trying to ease the ache between his own legs.  “Mesh’la,” he warns, grunting at the loss of contact as you lift yourself off him and slide between his knees, kneeling.  

“Yes?” you respond, sliding your hands up and down his thighs, and pausing at the button of his pants.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you quickly cut him off.

“But I want to, Din,” you assured.  You rest your head on his knee, peering up at him with wide, innocent eyes, awaiting his permission.  “Wanna return the favor, wanna taste you,” and you grin at the strangled sound that leaves his throat.  He couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to.  

Finally, he nods, spreading his legs wider to accommodate you.  Your smile grows and your nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons on his pants.  You’re just about to free him from the confines of his boxers when an alarm signal sounds from the ship, startling the both of you.  

“Come in, Mando,” Greef Karga’s voice crackled through the small room.  “We’ve got a problem.  I repeat, we’ve got an emergency, please come in.”

Din groans and you throw an exasperated look towards the comms on the control panel.  “Just ignore him, it can’t be that—” and you’re cut off by another sound.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying.  

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead into Din’s knee.  You loved that little green bean to death, but damn him for his horrific timing.  Din softly slid his hand over yours and you looked up.  

“It’s alright, cyar’ika,” he hummed.  “Go check on him,” and you slowly nodded, shooting him an apologetic look before rising from your spot on the floor.

Din watched in mild amusement as you wobbled to the door, before turning his chair towards the control panel and sighing.  His own arousal was almost overwhelming, but he did his best to shove it to the back of his mind.  

Whatever Greef needed, it had better be good, he grumbled in his head.  

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

mando’a translations:

osi’kovid – shithead

skanah – very hated person, fucker

osik – shit

osi’yaim – cowardly, useless person

cyar’ika – darling, beloved

mesh’la – beautiful

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

thank you for reading! let me know what ya think!

[ari-writes-hq]

Unlucky Days and Back Scratches

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Bokuto x Fem! Fiancée! Reader

Summary: Bokuto has a really bad day and just wants to be in the arms of his love

Words: 2,476

Warnings: Bokuto has a bad day (he's accident prone), fluffy fluff, and some grammar errors maybe?

A/N: I'm genuinely terrified to post this for it is my very first fan fic (that I started and finished and it took me 3 days to do so too). I'm honestly getting the confidence to post it because it's 12:20 am and @toru-oikawas-milkbread. Please be nice to me and I hope that ya'll enjoy <3

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It had been a very, very, very long and rough day for Bokuto Kōtarō. It first started when he had accidentally overslept, due to staying up late into the night making love to his beloved girlfriend-turned-fiancée and had completely forgotten the early start that Meian had scheduled for the team, he was late to practice by nearly three hours. On top of that, “Silent Mode” was turned on on his phone as well, so he didn’t hear the mass messages and calls from his various teammates.

Aside from waking up late, Bokuto struggled leaving the house. How could he leave his long term girlfriend of nearly four years who had just agreed to marry him, and someone who doubled up as his best friend, all alone in their big apartment? The beefy 6’2 male just wanted to stay home and wrap himself around his woman who slept peacefully next to him in all her naked glory. If she had been clothed, Bokuto probably would have only been an hour late to practice. He doesn’t regret it though, he knows that he’s going to end up staying late to make up for the time that he had lost.

When Bokuto finally made it to the MSBY building, he had tried to sneak his way to the locker rooms, but with his luck and the morning he was having, he had accidentally knocked over the janitor’s broom and mop that had been leaning up against the wall. Quickly, his coach and teammates, who were having a small discussion of what to work on next, whip their heads towards the noise, finding a sheepish and guilty Bokuto. Within seconds, he was bombarded by his coach and teammates.

Somehow escaping their wrath, Bokuto was able to finally make it to the locker room where he struggled to open his locker. Has the code changed? Did someone switch his lock as revenge for him coming in late? About fifteen minutes later, with the help of Sakusa, who was sent in by Meian, he found out that he had just been twisting the knob the wrong way. Then, while trying to change, he realized his jersey was far too small and as he was trying to get the constricting article off, he had accidentally tripped and fell over one of the metal benches. There is now a bruise on his left shin.

During practice, and after getting a new shirt, Bokuto’s work performance seemed to lack. He kept messing up his serves. If he wasn’t hitting it, he was missing it. Then at one point he had put a little too much force into one of his spikes, causing the ball to lose control and hit one of the managers in the face, they walked away with a bloody nose. The salt and pepper haired male never truly believed in karma until now. As he was trying to receive a ball, the ball then bounced up from his upper forearms and nailed him in the face… fifteen times.

On top of that, he couldn’t get any of the new moves down. It was concerning since he was one to learn decently quickly when it came to new techniques. Meian had even questioned him about his performance loss. Bokuto had no idea, normally he was on top of his game both in practice and games. So why is he suddenly having a hard time with everything?

After practice, which ran three hours late in the night, Bokuto thought his bad luck was finally at a stand still. Outside, the sky was clear, the stars were bright, well, assuming that they were since the city lights made it impossible for anyone to see them, and there was a gentle fall breeze, so, Bokuto decided to walk home rather than message his lover, who he believed was asleep.

Not even three minutes out of the ten minute walk, rain had suddenly downpoured. Clouds rolled in, hiding the once clear sky, lightning flashed the same gold as Bokuto’s eyes, thunder rang in his ears, and the once gentle breeze suddenly became rough. If not for the rain, Bokuto’s gravity defying, black and white hair would have fallen into its dejected droop.

Why does the world hate me today? He had thought to himself as he huddled underneath a building's canopy. Quickly pulling out his phone, he had checked the time, Midnight, Y/N’s probably asleep. Maybe Akaashi? He opened his messages and pressed his old high school teammate’s name before pressing the text box and sending a quick, Akaaashi, are you still awake? Y/N dropped me off at work today and it was really really nice out when I got off so I decided to walk home instead of catching a ride but now it’s storming. I forgot my bag so I don’t have anything to protect me from the rain. Please, come save me. Satisfied with his message, he pressed “send” with a hopeful smile.

Roughly two very slow minutes passed by before Bokuto’s phone went off.

Yes, Bokuto, I am awake. I will come get you. Next time look at the weather forecast. Where are you? Was Akaashi’s reply. Bokuto grinned at his phone quickly sending him a,

Thank you, Akaashi! I’m-, Bokuto raised his golden eyes to look around his surroundings, not entirely sure where he is himself. I actually don’t know where I am. A few moments after sending the message, Bokuto’s phone lit up, an “incoming call” from the former setter. Answering it, Bokuto pressed the “speaker” button.

“Bokuto, how can you not know where you are? You know what, don’t answer that.” The male on the other side of the receiver sighs. “What are some shops and landmarks around you? Street names?” Bokuto hummed, quickly looking at his surroundings once again.

“Well, I do know I’m not too far away from the MSBY building, uh, there’s a fountain outside a res- oh wait! That’s the restaurant I proposed to Y/N last night! I’m under a… oh I forgot the name of the roof thingy,”

“A canopy?”

“Yes! That thing! I’m under one of those across from the restaurant I proposed to Y/N!”

“Good, okay. I’m on my way. Do not move from your spot, I don’t want you to get lost… again.” From the other side of the phone, Bokuto could hear his friend unlock and open his car door. “You understand?”

The former ace chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just hurry, please,” he basically whined. “I want to go home and cuddle Y/N. I miss her.” Akaashi rolled his eyes and hung up, causing Bokuto to pout down at his device. “Akaashi’s so mean.”

What seemed like an eternity, Akaashi’s car came into view. Bokuto, unsure if his friend can see him, raised his large arms and flailed them around, only stopping when the car came to a stop right next to him. Throwing the front passenger door open, Bokuto slipped into the seat and closed the door with a, “Thank you so much, Akaashi,” he put the seatbelt on. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

The dark haired man put the car in “drive”, starting his way towards the other man’s home, he replied, “Nah, you didn’t wake me up. I have my deadline coming up so I’m trying to finish everything as quickly as I can.” Bokuto nodded enthusiastically. The short car ride was filled with some talk of the past, bringing up some of their most memorable moments from high school, then, some of the talk was the two catching up, given the fact that the duo both worked two completely different jobs and have very little time to hang out anymore.

Akaashi talked about his work, telling what little he could to his friend, not wanting to spoil anything. Believe it or not, Bokuto read the little stories that Akaashi edits for his work, just because the two don’t see each other often doesn’t mean he can’t support his friend in other ways. After Akaashi, Bokuto talked about his day, how everything seemed to go wrong for him and all he wanted to do was to go home and be in his fiancée’s arms.

Soon enough, Akaashi pulls his car in front of a luxury apartment complex. Getting out with another, “thank you”, Bokuto closed the door and swiftly made his way into the building. Once Akaashi knew that his friend was inside, he drove off. The tall male was on a mission: get into the arms of his lover as quickly as possible. He knew that the moment she wrapped her arms around his body, even if he had to wake her up for it, his bad day streak would end.

Running up to the elevator, Bokuto pushed the “up” button and impatiently waited for the elevator with his thick arms crossed and a pout on his lips. Giving up with a huff, Bokuto makes his way to the stairs and runs up them, tripping at least five times and falling once. Why did I choose to live on the top floor? Y/N even said it was a bad idea. He grumbled to himself, tripping on the very last step that leads to his home.

Rushing to his front door, he removes his keys from one of his pockets and fumbles with said keys, even dropping them not once, not twice, but three times before he finally was able to unlock the door. Throwing it open, he yells, “baby, I’m home!”, as he takes off his shoes and places his keys on the hook next to the door. His golden eyes racl over the large, dark living room and the equally dark kitchen. Realizing that she is in fact not in the room, he makes his way towards their shared bedroom.

“Baby, you awake?” He slowly opens their closed bedroom door, trying to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake Y/N up if she is actually asleep. Peeking in, his eyes fall onto her body lying on his side of the bed, her back facing him. “Baby?” he whispers, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, albeit louder than intentional. This caused the girl to jump in her sleep and whine.

“Baby, you home?” she called out, turning towards the door, mind blank, not realizing and too tired to care that it could have been an intruder. The tall man hummed in confirmation and quickly started to take his clothes off, wanting nothing but to be in his lover’s arms as fast as possible. “Kou, you okay?” Y/N piped, worried as she watched the man catch his foot in his shorts and nearly face plant had he not caught himself on the edge of the bed. He launched himself onto the female.

“No, bad day,” he mumbled, face smooshed into her neck.

“Wanna talk about it?” Y/N ran her hand through his droopy salt and pepper hair. The larger man removed his body from the female’s, a pout on his lips as he sat back on his knees, Bokuto began to talk about his “unlucky day”.

Half an hour and many tangents later, he finished the detailed story of his day. Large hands reached out to Y/N and roughly, but softly, pushed her to lay flat on her back, then, Bokuto took hold of her arms and splayed them out on the bed, he did the same to her legs too. Happy with her position, Bokuto nestled himself in between her legs and covered the female with his body like a blanket.

Smooshing her cheek with his, he let out a puppy like whine. “Hold me,”. He reached his hands out to her arms and moved them around his torso. “Want you to hold me, baby, please, need it. Need you to.” Bokuto rubbed his nose against her cheek before peppering kisses down her neck and nuzzling into it. “Please, baby.” He whined more.

Chuckling softly, Y/N tightened her arms around the man and moved her head to the side to place a soft smooch on his head. “Of course, baby. Anything else you need?” Bokuto let another whine out, shifting himself so he could get closer to the woman, even though he was lying on top of her with all of his body weight. “Kō?” Bokuto mumbled into the female’s neck, although she couldn’t hear him. “Baby,” she tapped on his back. “Can’t hear you.”

The man huffed and lifted his head up, his black and white hair disheveled, golden eyes glossy, and a pout on his lips. “Scratch my back, baby, please,” he whined and dropped his head back down into the warmth of his fiancée’s neck. He wiggled in Y/N’s hold, scooching up her body so he was closer to her ear. “Pleeeeeease, baby.”

“Ask and you shall receive, my love.” Y/N’s left hand that was flat against Bokuto’s back arched into a claw. Slowly and softly, but with some pressure, she traced her nails up and down his back, or wherever he specified (the nape of his neck seemed to be his favorite spot). Every so often, Y/N would look at her ring finger to admire the pear shaped engagement ring that the male on top of her had proposed to her with the night before.

“Baby,” Bokuto lifted himself up to look at the woman. Y/N hummed, turning her head up towards him to make eye contact.

“Yes, Kō?” He had a lopsided grin on his face and gave a whiney chuckle when the girl’s nails scratched up his nape.

Bokuto moved closer to his lover’s face. “I love you,” he said confidently. “You’re the love of my life,” he nuzzled his nose into hers. “Never wanna let you go.” With that, he pressed his lips onto Y/N’s and flopped back onto her, whining and cooing into the kiss as she kept up with her ministrations. Pulling back from the kiss, he cooed into her ear, “So good to me baby. M’ safe haven. Can’t wait to marry you.”

With that, Bokuto gripped at Y/N’s sides, whining and cooing as he pulled themselves impossibly closer. Placing a small, wet kiss to her neck, Bokuto nuzzled himself back into the woman’s neck. Within the matter of minutes of Y/N scratching his back and a, “I love you too, Kō. I’ve got you, my love, you’re safe”, the love sick man fell asleep peacefully, happy, and safe in his lover’s arms, a smile on his face.

[funkymbtifiction]

which are the behaviour patterns and cognitive processes you observe on yourself particularly that you associate with being an ENFP?

That’s easy. Not. Ha, ha.

The most prominent behavior patterns I notice are typical for ENPs -- in that I become obsessed with something for a short amount of time, exhaust every possible resource I can find on it, and then promptly drop that interest in pursuit of something else. These things can be longer-term interests (I took up hoop dancing for two years, mastered a lot of the tricks, and lost interest) or shorter (various and sundry fandoms I was hot and heavy with for a few months or weeks and then walked away from). As a result of reading up on whatever happens to catch my interest (which is a lot of things), I am something of a “know-er of many things” -- and often people, particularly ISFJs and INFPs, tend to notice that I can hold a competent discussion about anything and contribute to it in some way. I remember random things relating to it and it always comes up in conversation -- someone will mention in an e-mail they watched Vertigo last night and I’ll tell them something I know about the filming / Hitchcock / the symbolism / that happened on set, or what psychological disorder it is about. Then I’ll turn around and talk about cat behavior patterns or that Tolkien based his most memorable myth-romance in his creation story on his own marriage. Basically, I’m a walking storehouse of random information on a bunch of topics, but specialize only in a few things -- and I can never predict what will be a lifetime fascination or a momentary one.

Secondly, is both a plus and a negative -- my idealism. The nice thing about being an ENFP is that they tend to bounce back from things, through a dogged determination to believe the best of other people, the potential the world holds in general, and their desire to change things through ideas. But with this also comes a tendency toward naivety. So on the one hand, it’s nice being able to go through bad things and come out like Anne Frank, still believing that someone somewhere is good and that good things will eventually happen -- and another to be blithely unaware of how being “advanced” and idealistic yourself does not mean the world has suddenly changed. I still remember (and cringe over) an essay I wrote about five years ago talking about the end of racism; in an idealistic way, I had assumed everyone had moved beyond it -- but obviously, that is not the case and race still continues to be a huge global / social issue. That was nothing more than my Ne envisioning a reality that didn’t exist -- and a nice, pleasant, and positive one of optimism and joy, to boot.

Inferior Si’s main problem for me isn’t necessarily neglecting details, though I do have trouble keeping track of them, but more a case of -- not learning from my own encounters with people. SJs have healthy Si usage, which means they learn from their experiences -- and treat them as learning experiences. Inferior Si means weak Si, which translates to “Charity approaches people with hope and optimism rather than realism and has to get kicked 47 times before she realizes who this person truly is.” It’s only after I’ve been hurt or let down or disappointed that I remember this person ALWAYS does this to me, and it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve been able to start recognizing when I’m just using my Ne default to believe the best in other people. It’s this weird dynamic, between Ne “I know what you are doing, you’re trying to manipulate me” intuition, and naive Ne going “... sure, you let me down 46 times, but this time you COULD be different! I’m gonna give you that chance, because I KNOW you can be a better person... I see it in you.” IDK if this is also my 1 fix, but I look at people and just know who they COULD be with some encouragement and support. And it’s hard for me to accept that most of them have no interest in changing. (Because my actual default is: who wouldn’t want to evolve / change / be getting better??)

Fi is hard to put into words. It’s feeling three things at once, and not knowing how to talk about any of them. I more often default into Te -- and I’ll give you an example of how all my functions have been working against me this week.

I have had a lot going on the last few weeks. Whenever my environment is chaotic, so is my mind. My Ne is going in all directions at once, and doesn’t know where to look. It has multiple things going on and projects in mind and can’t focus on any of them -- and half the time, I will pile on MORE ideas or projects as an escape. Case in point: Black History Month typings. Now, a sensible person, a judging type, would have been probably thinking about a month of themed postings for weeks, if not months, gradually storing them up over time so as not to frantically be watching / typing things at the last minute. But not me. Oh, no. I decided the week after I had company, when my house was a mess from painting my office, on the cusp of a massive deadline at work, and while I have a book in-progress... that I would do this. 10 days before I would need to start posting typings. 29 days of them.

My Ne thought it was a great idea. What a way to celebrate the month! What an awesome way to get more POC typings on the blog, and be representative of a huge part of the population! But once the reality of it settled into me, I freaked out. How on earth could I pull this off in time? Would I have enough typings? How many things can I get watched in the next two weeks? How many back-up typings do I have, to help flesh them out?

So, I kicked into Te. I printed out a Month of Feb calendar page. I divided it up into the typings I wanted / intended to contribute, scattering “historical-based” characters to weekends and the middle of each week. Then I found all the archived / in the drafts characters on the wordpress blog, and counted those up. I started filling in the blank squares. My anxiety depleted as the squares filled. I’ll still have to watch films and type new characters, but not nearly as many as I feared, and I’ll probably have enough altogether between new / old / updated with Enneagram typings to fill all 29 days with at least 2 per day. I scheduled everything I have, made a list of the ones I need, and will work at it. Now under control. While at it, I made a list of to-do things for this weekend, itemized it according to importance and need, and am working my way down it. I did the same for my work week, which meant working off it, I got half of it done in advance and won’t have to feel “last minute pressured” next week.

This sort of thing is... somewhat typical with me. I get a great idea, it turns out to be more work than I thought -- I consider quitting, but then break it down into sizable chunks / a work list and make my way through it. The less interest others show, also, in the result, the less likely I am to keep doing it, because my ultimate goal is to impact others through everything I do (typical extrovert).

- ENFP Mod

[imaginepirates]

Bad Days

A Will x Reader fluff in which the reader is feeling down and Will tries to cheer her up.

@apirateslifeforme2 @bonjour-frens @tesserphantom

~3150 words

~~~~~~~

          You felt down. Not for any particular reason, but you recognized the cold melancholy settling over you all the same. It happened sometimes, and it made you feel guilty. Life was good for you. There was no reason for your sadness.

         Your hands, which were supposed to be embroidering a hat, sat like lead in your lap. You tried moving them. They didn't budge.

          You worked for your sister's embroidery shop. It was a pleasant business, being nearly the most peaceful job a woman could get. The only stress came with massive projects and deadlines. The amount of girls needed to work on one dress was astounding.

          You snapped back to focus after gazing absently out the window. The hat in front of you was a plain navy blue item much in need of embellishment. You sized it up, considering what feathers and lace to adorn it with. You decided that a lighter shade of blue would be perfect for the embroidery.

          No matter how hard you tried, your focus slipped in and out. After deliberating for ten minutes, you realized that even with the decisions made, you wouldn't have the motivation to actually decorate the hat.

          You sat at a small table feeling thoroughly defeated. The image of your books upstairs flashed in your mind. If only you could read them.

          Your sister walked in. She was the type of woman with a loud presence. Her sense of style was one that drew the eye. It managed to be rather outrageous, and, at the same time, be wonderfully fashionable. She turned heads. You didn't have this skill, and for that you were somewhat thankful.

          She glanced at the hat sitting forlornly on the table. Then, she looked back to you. Something about your composure gave you away, because she frowned. "You're not feeling too well, are you?" She'd always had a good ability to read you.

          "Not particularly, no," you admitted. There was no use hiding anything from her.

          She sighed. "Take some time off. You're always down here; you don't even go out with the girls to lunch!" The girls she spoke of were your coworkers. "You could use some time to yourself, I think."

          That was her way of saying, 'you're in one of those moods you get sometimes.' It wasn't exactly untrue, but you felt badly for it.

          The greatest thing about your sister was that she didn't judge. No matter how many times you felt awful, she'd let you off the hook. You'd been close since childhood, and you'd managed to keep your relationship positive despite your differences.

          "Thank you," you said. Then, you ascended the stairs at the back of your shop to reach the small set of rooms above. You lived there with your sister. It was small, but it served.

          A pot of cold tea sat on a little table next to scones left over from breakfast. You set one on a plate with some jam and walked to your room. There, you sat heavily on the bed. You grabbed your book, reading as you ate.

          There were many disadvantages to feeling melancholy. One was that you couldn't enjoy anything.

          You set the book back down. Your scone was only half-eaten, but you set it aside. Instead, you laid on your back on the bed. You did so for some time. Your room, after closing the door, was dark. You nearly fell back asleep, but little knots in your stomach kept you awake.

          You needed to do something. It would help. You knew it would. You just didn't have the energy.

          Time passed, though you hadn't the slightest idea of how much. Slowly, you rose from your bed and cracked the door open. The light was harsh to your eyes. Bit by bit, you convinced yourself to leave the room.

          You had decided that the best way to beat your emotions was to counteract them with something else. In this case, you'd be using a someone else. You left a note on your poor excuse for a dining table explaining where you would be.

          Will never failed to cheer you. He didn't even have to do anything; just being around him brightened your day. He was a special sort of person. The sort that, no matter what's happened, manages to obliviously make you happier.

          You'd known Will since his arrival in Port Royal. He was a shy young man, and he was a kind soul. He was much softer than you'd expect of a blacksmith. Where the regular smith's personality was grough and their voice a rumble, Will was much the opposite.

          Not to mention, he'd grown into a handsome catch. Of course, you'd known him since his gangly limbs couldn't keep up with his awkward body. Now, though, after growing into himself, he was a fine man.

          You found yourself at the door to the forge sooner than expected. Your thoughts had so distracted you, you hadn't been paying attention to your path. Thankfully, your feet knew the way.

          You stood at the back entrance. Will was more likely to answer your knocking there. Besides, you weren't coming in as a customer.

          As you predicted, the wooden bar on the inside of the door shifted, and one door opened to a picture of Will's face. A dark apron covered his front. You knew he was making something, and slipped inside so you could watch.

          "Y/N, it's good to see you." He was always polite, no matter the occasion. Somehow, he even managed to make your first name sound formal.

          "I'm glad to see you, too," you said. "But don't let me keep you from your work. I see you've got something going."

          He nodded. "Another sword. The navy can't get enough of them."

          "I'm sure."

          You watched him at work. It was nothing short of fascinating. Many of his movements were perfect repetitions of previous ones. If he struck the metal just so, it would do this. If he heated it again and folded it over itself, it would do that.

          You were glad to get lost in his work. The distraction was more than welcome. Will, for all the physical effort he put into his work, looked ever calm. You could swear that he'd been born in fire and raised in steel.

          He finished not too long after. He'd obviously been working for a while before you came. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. The forge was hot, and his shirt stuck to his chest. You hated to admit how it drew your gaze.

          "How are you?" He asked. "It feels like you haven't stopped by lately."

          "I don't think I have. I'm," you hesitated, "alright."

          "Is something wrong?" Will stepped closer. He'd seen you act this way before. It didn't concern him, exactly, because nothing bad had ever come of it, but it made him sad.

          "No," you said. It was the truth. Nothing was wrong. Yet for some reason…

          "Here, come see this." He led you over to his latest work and pulled it from a bucket of water.

          You'd always taken an interest in his work. Swords were interesting things, and they were beautiful for being so deadly. He made other things too, of course. Many of them were for the navy's use. It made them feel uglier to you. Despite the necessity of the navy, you couldn't shake the image of people in chains.

          Will knew how to keep your mind off your troubles. Often, you did the same for him. He understood that you didn't want to talk about how you felt. Instead, he shifted the topic of conversation to other things.

          The sword was like many others in the shop. There was nothing particularly special about it, save for the fact that it was made by Will. His blades were of good quality, and the navy bought from his master for a reason. That reason was not his master.

          "There's another I've made recently, but it's at the jewelers." Will put the sword away. "They have a floral design planned for the inlay. To contrast with the sword itself," he added.

          "It sounds beautiful. Who is it for?" It wasn't often that Will received commissions for elaborate swords. It happened every once in a while, but any sword sent to a jeweler was prized beyond words. You loved looking at the final product before it was sent off.

           "A captain in England. It's a shame for it to be sent off. I would've liked to see it sometimes."

          You felt badly that Will spent so much time on things without getting to see them again.

          You talked a while about simple things, like what had happened recently and the latest news you had. Unfortunately, the talking couldn't block out the feeling of emptiness sitting in your chest. It weighed you down like a lungful of water.

          "A walk?" Will suggested.  

          "It would be my pleasure." You wrapped your arm in his after leaving the building. He led you down streets filled with little shops displaying pastries and jewelry in their windows.

          You loved taking walks with Will. You never went in any particular direction, you just ambled aimlessly down streets. He was a man of few words, and the surrounding noise likely would've drowned out anything he had to say anyway.

          Your feet led you to the wharf. It was a bustling place, but you could always find a point to sit and watch the activity. You both ended up on barrels, sitting just far enough away from it all to pleasantly lose focus. The sun warmed your skin, making you drowsy.

          "Y/N," said Will softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

          He'd noticed, then. "I don't know what to say. Nothing's happened…you know how it is."

          "Is there anything I can do?"

          It was such a pure question. It wasn't typical for men to concern themselves with the emotions of girls. Will, though, cared.

          "I don't think so, really." You stared at your feet. They dangled off the ground from your position on the bucket. "Being with you makes me feel better, though."

          You felt awkward looking up into his eyes. Cautiously, he took your hand, as if afraid you might pull away. The action made you feel warm all over.

          You sat like that, hands intertwined, until evening began to set in. He led you back to the forge and again donned his leather apron.

          "I have something for you." He climbed the narrow steps to his living quarters. He came back holding a small, rectangular parcel. "Here." He handed it to you.

          You knew it was a book the moment you touched it. You wondered how long he'd had it. You didn't always see each other often, working in very different places.

          Slowly, you unwrapped the brown paper. Pushing it aside with your fingers, you felt the cover of the volume. It was a well-bound copy of Gulliver's Travels. You smiled, and by the look in his eye, it made him feel better. "Thank you."

          "I know you love adventures. It's unfortunate you're always having them without me."

          You couldn't help but laugh. When you were younger, you'd tried teaching Will to read. He wasn't much good at it as a child, and he hadn't gotten better as an adult. He didn't enjoy books the way you did. That being said, you were constantly on literary adventures without him.

          The encounter left you feeling better. You still weren't feeling normal, but you decided better was good. You couldn't get Will's lopsided smile as you received the book out of your head.

          By the time you were home, it was well past dinner. Thankfully, you still had that half a scone left. Your sister had set some food out for you, too, which was considerate of her.

          You fell into bed after eating. You didn't even have the energy to read. Instead, you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

          The next morning, you read your book. You continued well into the afternoon. It was nice, but you could hardly concentrate. It wasn't like you, and you wondered whether you should be concerned.

          You hadn't gotten out of bed save to get food. Reluctantly, you pulled yourself from the blankets and cracked open the curtains. The light was rather blinding, even through such a small opening.

          Your sister had given you another day off, much to your relief. There was still a whole empty section of your chest where there was usually feeling.

          You were surprised to find Will standing out in the street under your window. He was pacing, as if unable to make up his mind. You suspected he was there to speak with you. You also suspect that he was getting up the nerve to knock on the door.

          That was one thing about him. Despite the fact that you were comfortable arriving at the forge unannounced, he couldn't do so at your shop. Really, it was adorable. As if you'd ever say no to his company.

 ��        You didn't give him time to contemplate. The door was open before he knocked. He clearly didn't notice your hastily thrown on clothes, nor your slightly rumpled hair.

          "Y/N!" He took half a step back in surprise. "How are you?"

          "Better, but not fully there."

          "Have you enjoyed the book?"

          "Of course!" It was only half a lie. You'd relished the volume, but not as much as you might have otherwise. "May I inquire as to the occasion?" It wasn't often that Will showed up at your shop.

          "I have the day off, and the forge to myself. I hoped you'd like some company." His hand set itself on the back of his neck in a nervous gesture.

          "I wouldn't dream of saying no." You smiled, perhaps the most genuine smile of the past two days. "Where's Mr. Brown?" Mr. Brown was the blacksmith, or so everyone thought. It was, in fact, Will doing all the work.

          "Out." Will said it flatly, which meant he disapproved of what the man was doing.

          "And what shall we be doing?"

          Will blushed a bit at this. "The Dragon has nice music going in the afternoons."

          The Dragon was a tavern with the keenest fiddler in town. Port Royal didn't actually have many fiddlers, but you were sure this one was good by any city's standards. You'd only heard him on a few occasions, but those few times had shown his skill.

          "I like your thinking." In fact, upbeat music might help you. Besides, it was hard to feel empty when so much was going on around you. Your heart would beat just that much faster.

          The fiddler was a real showman. His name was John, and he was regarded by the tavern-going population to be some sort of celebrity. He could get people singing and dancing like no other.

         And he did.

         It turned out the Will was an atrocious dancer. You were, too, for that matter, but nobody was paying you the least bit of mind. The music, combined with the dancing, finally made you feel. And, said a little part  of your brain, it was nice to be so close to Will.

          You hadn't danced with him before. It was new to you; you hadn't danced with any man before. You found that you liked it, and looking at his face, he liked it too.

          When the fiddling ended, you were faced with the dreadful prospect of returning home. You weren't fond of the idea of being alone again. Sure, you had your sister, but she'd be busy from dawn until dusk.

          Instead, Will had a different idea. "Would you come back to the forge with me?" He asked. "I have something to show you."

          You hadn't the slightest idea what he had in mind. "Of course."

          You walked arm in arm. There was a small, silly smile on your face. You believed it had to do with dancing, and the fact that the night wasn't yet over.

         A night's chill set in. It never got truly cold in Port Royal, but a nip in the air bit at your skin. Once at the forge, Will started a fire. You were glad for the warmth. Your curiosity began to pester you, your brain trying to come up with the reason he'd asked you there.

          Blushing, Will grabbed your hand. "We'll have to go upstairs."

          You blushed, too. Will was much too shy to make any advances on you, but the prospect of going to his room embarrassed you.

          You hadn't been in his room before. There wasn't much to it. There was a bed, and a cupboard, but not much else.

          When Will opened his window and stepped onto the sill, you didn't know what to expect. He stepped out onto the roof, and offered you a hand. It scared you to climb out onto the roof, but you did so.

          To the right, though you could hardly make it out, were two blankets. He led you to them, and you sat on one, pulling the other over your lap.

          "I'm afraid I don't know many of the constellations, but I figured you would."

          "Oh!" You were delighted. "I haven't gone stargazing in forever!" You pointed out a few constellations to him, tracing them in the night sky with a finger.

          The blankets you had were small. To fit under them, you and Will had to sit close together. Very close together. The warmth of his thigh against yours was likely hotter than the fire in the room below.

          Will knew more about the sky than he let on. You supposed he'd learned at sea. The night gradually wore on, and you leaned your head against his shoulder. You hadn't even meant to. In response, an arm wrapped itself softly around your back. Will looked at you with questioning eyes. He was likely worried you didn't want his arm around you, but you didn't pull away.

          It was as you started to doze that Will rubbed your arm. "Tired?" He whispered.

          You hummed your agreement. You made your way back inside, careful not to slip. Will draped the blankets across a chair by the fire in the forge. There wasn't another chair in sight. You wiggled in next to Will, who, if somewhat embarrassed, was receptive to the idea.

          You ought to return home. It was the proper thing to do.

          The fire was warm, and the streets were not. You were tired, and Will's head rested against yours, his fingers playing lazily with your hair.

          So you stayed. Happier than you'd been in weeks, you fell asleep.

[alastaircrowley]

BSD SECRET SANTA GIFT

Of Mysteries and Romance Novels

"Ranpo-san we are one week behind the ideal schedule..."

Kunikida had a dejected look on his face and inside he was panicking badly. Bad enough to want to shred papers for stress relief.

Ranpo pouted. "It's okay Kunikida kun, I am the best detective story writer in the whole Japan. But I need inspiration...."

Kunikida knew that the situation was worse than he originally thought. What Ranpo said could never indicate something good. Kunikida knew it first hand. This time Kunikida didn't have anyone to blame either.

The last year was harsh on the agency. After the fight with the rats, there was a huge collateral damage. And the agency was partly responsible for that. Therefore they had to contribute to the repairs. It was easier said than done. All of the agency workers had to endure arduous tasks along with the side jobs. Except Dazai, because right now he was taking all the cases that Ranpo couldn't, due to his side job. Even the lazy bum, was doing his best.

It was his idea to have Ranpo submitting to one of the novel competitions. He knew that Ranpo was talented, but he didn't predict that it would be an easy win to secure the first place. After that, Ranpo had three novels published in a short time all became best sellers.

But the path to success was a thorny one at best. The company Ranpo signed with provided him the best editors they had. The longest that could last had a record of 6 days 5 hours 17 minutes exact. During that time Kunikida was doing part time tutoring jobs. It was Ranpo's idea to offer the company to make Kunikida his editor. They gladly accepted after running out of editors.

Kunikida hated Ranpo's writer's block for valid reasons. First of all when that happened Ranpo went out, seeking inspiration, and getting himself into trouble at the best cases. Once he was out of ideas he either tried to create a mysterious situation by meddling with people, or worse he got out to find the mysteries that he shouldn't even have found out about.

There was a time when he found out the affairs of a businessman, nearly getting killed in the process. Another time, he was about to get arrested for intruding a politician's privacy. Good thing that the scandal was big enough and related to public affairs that the prosecutor found it justifiable. After all the work Kunikida put in actually. Waiting for Ranpo to be released was the worst part, he worried himself to death. In the worst case, one time, his actions caused a crossfire between mafia and a local gang. Kunikida was still bewildered to this day, wondering how that could ever happen.

Kunikida understood the poor souls who went through the ordeal of being Ranpo's editor. Ranpo was high maintenance proportional to his brilliance. He got lost easily, figuratively and literally. He never cared for his nutrition as long as he got his candies and snacks, so it was his editor's duty to feed him properly. He needed to be looked after. Finding the candies that suited his tastes was also terrifyingly difficult task, for Ranpo didn't like anything other than his favourites which were not really popular. He also insisted on them being his source of inspiration so they were a must. But the worst of all was the part where he had to push him to meet his deadlines. He had to be spartan sometimes, denying him candies and threaten him with physical pain. Desperate times called for desperate measures. The whining never stopped at such times.

Considering that this was one of such occasions, it felt odd. Ranpo was trying to be productive for once and he seemed puzzled. The genius. With a puzzled expression. Well, that was news for Kunikida.

"Kunikida, may I use your ideas for some reference?"

Yes, his day was getting weirder by the second. Ranpo never asked him such questions. "What kind of reference exactly?" he had to ask. Because Ranpo right now, was working on a romance novel. The company insisted on such a thing, noting that the growing fandom was demanding it and Ranpo accepted the challenge on the spot. Without even asking him. Sometimes the work wasn't worth the payment. This was one of those times.

"The main character is the world's greatest detective." he told pondering. "He could even find legendary lost items,or his way into impenetrable places. But he can't find his way to his beloved girl's heart. I feel lost for the first time. It's like I can't come up with anything. I don't even know where to start and what kind of scene it should be. Tell me your honest opinion, I could use your experience."

Kunikida rubbed his temples before starting. "Actually I think your main girl is way too strict for the tastes of your audience, not that I would complain but she's too responsible for her own good. It will wear her out before anything happens between them." he explained flatly.

"You know, since the main character is the greatest detective ever, he will be able to find every single charming thing about her and show it to reader. He is going to show everyone how special she is. That is not the issue here. Go on."

"How to make her fall for him? Why would you think that I would have any ideas?" Kunikida questioned with a blank expression.

"Exacly that. Maybe I need some real life experience for this one. Since I am out of ideas I thought I might as well ask you." Ranpo said with a smile. "Not even my glasses help me with such a mystery." he shrugged.

"In my opinion, the detective seems cold on the outside. He has to show his warm side to her. Besides he has to demonstrate that he considers her as a love interest seriously because she is not into short term relationships. She has to know that she is not another fling. Also I think she would appreciate seeing him hardworking for a change. He is so talented that he doesn't have to work a lot. But you might make it that this time he has to. And they would work together. That's all I can think of, even if it's not much helpful." Kunikida told.

Ranpo was taking notes. Yes, his behaviour wasn't the usual one. Maybe he should go out and buy him his favourite candies.

"Thank you Kunikida, you were a great helper as always." Ranpo beamed cheerfully. "I think I found the missing piece I was looking for. According to my calculations I can finish two more chapters in the span of five days. But we might have to pull a few all nighters for that. Would you mind staying at my place and helping me with the work during that time? I would appreciate your help, you are a great problem solver. Would you mind being there for me, as you have always been?" He asked. After all, it was a sound advice that could even work in real life situations. They had to work together for Ranpo to let Kunikida know about it.

[pitviperofdoom]

BNHA: Yesterday Upon The Stair, 20/?

Title: Yesterday Upon The Stair

Summary: Midoriya Izuku has always been written off as weird. As if it’s not bad enough to be the quirkless weakling, he has to be the weird quirkless weakling on top of it.

But truthfully, the “weird” part is the only part that’s accurate. He’s determined not to be a weakling, and in spite of what it says on paper, he’s not actually quirkless. Even before meeting All-Might and taking on the power of One For All, Izuku isn’t quirkless.

Not that anyone would believe it if he told them.

(Sixth Sense AU)

AO3

Lunch with Uraraka and Iida the next day is a quiet affair.

Usually they’re animated, with Uraraka and Izuku competing to see who can dominate the conversation with chatter, interspersed with Iida’s booming voice and vigorous gesturing. But now, their little group is a muted pocket in the midst of the cafeteria’s general buzz of activity.

It’s not an uncomfortable atmosphere, but it is a somber one. Uraraka’s finally stopped looking like she desperately wants to say something but can’t think of what. Iida, ironically, is doing most of the talking; the main reason why they aren’t totally silent is that he’s making calm small talk—safe, day-to-day topics like school work and class schedules and training.

Izuku, for his part, is just trying not to stare at Tensei too much while he worries about things. Rei’s taken a liking to him, but Izuku can’t bring himself to enjoy the sight of her scampering around at his heels or hanging off his shoulders like a monkey. There’s far too much on his mind. He has a message to deliver and no idea how to do so. There’s a hero killer on the loose. His friend is sad and it’s going to take more than a pep talk and a dirty dog to make things better. He has a short list of hero agencies to choose from and only a few days to make his decision, and Ms. Shimura’s promised “Gran Torino” is not on that list.

(“Be patient,” Ms. Shimura has told him. “You grabbed his attention. He’s just taking a while because he’s making it out to be more complicated than it is. He’ll probably send his nomination in a little late.”)

There’s only a few days before the deadline for his decision, and Izuku isn’t sure how long he can afford to wait.

Eventually, even Iida runs out of topics, and their table lapses into silence. It’s only a brief one, but Izuku sees the way Iida’s hands curl and uncurl in his lap.

“I do apologize,” Iida says. “I’ve been out of sorts, and if I’m making things awkward—”

“Of course you’re not!” Uraraka cuts him off. “And—Iida, even if you were, it’s not your fault.”

“Th-thank you, Uraraka, but… even still.” Iida’s knuckles are nearly white. “In spite of everything, I still have responsibilities, a-and obligations that I mustn’t let fall to the wayside—”

“No one’s expecting you to snap back to normal,” Izuku says, with a quick glance at Tensei. “Iida… you lost someone important.”

“Yeah,” Uraraka says softly. “I don’t have any siblings, so I don’t know what that’s like, but… you know it’s okay to not be okay, right?” She tries a smile, and it comes out a little wobbly. “I-I mean, I know you have engines in your legs, but you’re not a robot.”

Iida manages a smile of his own at that. “I suppose not…” He leans his chin on his palm, and his eyes lose a bit of their focus. “It’s just… there’s this one thing, and it’s—it’s such a petty thing, but it bothers me. Just thinking about it makes me feel ill, but…”

“What is it?” Izuku asks cautiously. Tensei looks up from where Rei is eagerly showing him how to finger-spell.

“It feels like the end of an era,” Iida replies. “And—I know he wasn’t top ranked, he was no All-Might or Endeavor or Best Jeanist, but… it bothers me to see the sun rise and everyone go on with their lives, even though the hero Ingenium is gone. It’s over.”

Uraraka makes a quiet, sympathetic little noise. Izuku feels Tensei’s eyes on him, and sees an opportunity to fulfill an obligation.

He hesitates for a moment. He knows he’s treading on treacherous ground here; he knows that one verbal misstep will make him look foolish at best and horribly disrespectful at worst. So he hesitates, cudgeling his brain for the right words.

“W-well… maybe it doesn’t have to be?” he says at last.

Iida looks up at him, and the fog in his eyes clears and sharpens. “What?”

Izuku swallows the urge to backtrack, because he did make a promise and he’s not likely to have an opening like this again anytime soon. “I mean…” He takes a deep breath, shoots one last glance at Tensei, and takes the plunge. “You’re his little brother, aren’t you? And… you haven’t really picked a hero name.” He sees Iida’s face and bearing change, shifting from wary confusion to white-knuckled comprehension. His nerve nearly fails him then and there, but it’s too late to backpedal now. “I just think, if anyone has a right to carry that torch, it’s you.”

The pounding of his pulse in his ears is almost deafening. Iida gapes at him, rigid with shock, unaware of the way his older brother is watching him intently.

“I…”

“It’s just a thought,” Izuku says quietly, which isn’t quite the same as backpedaling. “I just… I think, if you don’t want that to die, then—then that part, at least, that one thing… you can still protect that.”

“I’m… not sure that’s true.” Iida’s nearly whispering, which is something Izuku has never heard him do before.

It’s what he’d want, Izuku wants to say, but he doesn’t. He has no right to say that, as far as Iida knows. And Izuku doubts that there will ever be a right time to tell Iida the truth, but it certainly wouldn’t be here and now. “Just think about it,” he murmurs, and says no more on the subject.

Iida gives him a curt nod, and nothing more.

---

True to Ms. Shimura’s prediction, Gran Torino’s nomination comes through at the very last minute. Izuku finds out when All-Might pulls him aside for a conversation on the subject, looking like someone just walked over his grave. Ms. Shimura, as close to his side as always, looks like she’s not sure whether to give him a hug or burst out laughing.

“Sorry, bean sprout, I didn’t think he’d take it quite like that,” she says, a little shamefaced. “But I guess, considering how things went, I shouldn’t really be that surprised.”

“His name is Gran Torino,” All-Might says, and there’s a strange tension in the smile on his face. He walks further down the hall from the classroom, keeping his back to Izuku. “He’s taught at UA before, but only for one year. ...He was my homeroom teacher, in fact.”

“Wait. What?” Izuku blurts out, darting to catch up. “He taught at UA? He taught you?” He shoots a wide-eyed look at Ms. Shimura, who gives him an innocent smile in return. The word she had used was friend. He’d never thought—he’d never even imagined—

Well, it was hard to imagine. All-Might was the greatest. The strongest hero, with no one equal to him, much less anyone better. Logically he had to have started out as a student, but… still.

“He knows about One For All, as well,” All-Might continues. “That’s probably why he gave you that nomination.”

“Does he not usually, um, take on students?” Izuku asks, choosing his words carefully. Fishing for information from All-Might is not something he ever could have prepared himself for.

“N-no…” All-Might’s hands wring at his sides. “I was… a special case. I think he was doing it as a favor to… well, anyway. He retired many years ago, and I haven’t known him to be active otherwise.”

“When’s the last you heard from him?” Izuku presses.

All-Might’s steps go uneven for a moment, and he pauses. “I… can’t recall.”

“Did something—”

“Midoriya,” Ms. Shimura says sharply, and Izuku’s tongue locks in place.

“Um… n-never mind,” he murmurs.

All-Might, fortunately, barely seems to notice anything amiss. He’s still speaking, but it’s as if he’s talking to himself. “I wonder… did he nominate you because my teaching is inadequate?” There’s no denying it now; he’s shaking. “I have to admit, the thought of him taking up his name again and nominating you is… a little terrifying.” He holds up a folded piece of paper, and it crinkles in his shaking hand. “B-but in any case, while training you is my responsibility—well, you were nominated, so… i-it’s not as if any of the other agencies can show you how to use—well. Ahem. You should g-go. Learn what you can from him. H-he’s… you’ll do fine. I’m sure of it.”

Izuku takes the paper, feeling his breakfast creep back up his stomach. What kind of person is Gran Torino, if just hearing from him is enough to throw All-Might for a loop?

“Oh! And one more thing,” All-Might says, grasping eagerly at a chance to change the subject. “Your costume! It just got back from being repaired. You can pick it up after school—you’ll need it for next week’s training.”

Izuku’s heart leaps. He’d missed having it when villains attacked the USJ; it would have been nice to be able to fight in it instead of his gym clothes. He’ll just have to take better care of it this time. “Okay. Thanks, All-Might.” He hesitates. “Any… any advice? For learning from Gran Torino?”

All-Might’s hand falls heavily on his shoulder. Izuku can feel it still shaking. Without a word, All-Might squeezes his shoulder, pats it lightly, and walks off.

“Okay then.” Taking advantage of the fact that All-Might has his back to him, Izuku shoots one hand out and catches Ms. Shimura by the wrist, stopping her from following. Once All-Might is out of sight, and his footsteps have faded to silence, Izuku raises his eyes to Ms. Shimura’s pale face.

“There are things he’s not ready to talk about yet,” Ms. Shimura tells him quietly.

“Ms. Shimura, did you stop me because he’s not ready to talk yet, or because you’re not ready for me to know?”

Her face tightens.

“I’m going to find out,” Izuku tells her. “One way or another. You can’t force me to put it off forever.” He glares up at her, still gripping her wrist. “I may not know how you fit into all of this, but I’m in this up to my neck. I can’t force you to tell me anything. I can’t force anyone to tell me anything. But if all you’re going to do is stonewall me whenever I need answers, that’s not fair.”

Ms. Shimura can’t look him in the eye for long, and soon turns her head away. “…You’re right. You’re right, I’m sorry. That was… I wasn’t thinking.”

“What do you think is going to happen when I find out who you are?” Izuku presses. “Why are you so afraid of that?”

“Because you love him,” Ms. Shimura blurts out.

Izuku blinks.

“You love Toshi,” she says quietly. “You love him with all your heart, and I’m glad, Izuku, I’m—I’m so happy that he found you.” The smile that curls at her mouth is a bitter one; there’s not a drop of joy to be found in it. “And that’s why I know you won’t forgive me when you find out what I did to him.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s alone in the hallway, holding on to nothing.

“I hate it when they do that,” he says to Rei. She heaves a sigh and shrugs.

He returns to the classroom without arousing anyone’s curiosity. If nothing else, the tension he’s felt over nominations is more or less resolved. Almost everyone has already made their choice, and is happy to discuss it when there’s a free moment in class. Uraraka’s choice focuses on hand-to-hand combat. Iida’s picking a more average agency to get a feel for the general work environment. Mineta picked Mount Lady, and Izuku isn’t sure whether to pray for Mount Lady’s sanity or Mineta’s physical safety.

Even Todoroki has come to a decision, which is frankly a miracle considering how many nominations he had to choose from.

“You’re picking Endeavor’s agency?” Izuku asks, not long before the lunch bell is about to ring. “You got more nominations than anyone. You could have your pick of any top agency in the city.”

Todoroki shrugs. “I can. So I’m picking the highest one.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Izuku’s voice trails off. His own newly updated nomination list is in his hand, less than half a page long, unlike the veritable ream of papers in front of Todoroki. “I dunno, I figured you’d have had your fill of learning from him.”

“Maybe I feel that way,” Todoroki says. “But regardless of how I might personally feel, he’s still the second-strongest hero, and the most prolific. He knows the industry forward and backward.” The volume of his voice drops. “He’s a bastard, but he still has his uses.”

“Mm.” The noise Izuku makes is noncommittal at best. Rei’s apparently feeling mischievous, because she casually blows at the list on Todoroki’s desk, sending the top two pages flying. Seeing the prank coming, Izuku snatches them back out of the air without looking and puts them down again. “Still, though.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Todoroki says flatly. “What I learn this week will have nothing to do with my father or how I feel about him. I’m not so weak-minded that I can’t focus on what needs to be done.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you were,” Izuku says. “But… for the record, Todoroki?” He pauses, one finger on the stack to keep Rei from blowing it away again. “Avoiding things that hurt you doesn’t count as weakness.”

Todoroki raises an eyebrow at him. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not if there’s a choice. And, uh.” Izuku looks at the list. “You do have loads of choices. But it’s not really weakness. It’s more just… taking care of yourself.” He shrugs, feeling awkward. “I dunno. It’s up to you. I just don’t think you have to prove anything.”

“I understand. And thank you—for your concern.” Todoroki straightens the papers, his face set. “But honestly, I think this will take me where I need to go.” He glances up. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you know who you’re choosing?”

“Yeah.” Izuku glances down at the page, eyeing the name at the very bottom of the list. “I had one recommended to me, so that’s what I’m gonna go with.”

It’s high time he got some answers.

---

The week of on-the-job training arrives. The class splits up at the train station, everyone laden with cases containing their hero costumes. Aizawa sends them all off, and Izuku can already feel his nerves buzzing.

It’s not just for himself, either. He doesn’t like the look on Todoroki’s face, or the way his classmate—friend, Todoroki’s his friend—avoids talking to anyone. He knows full well that Todoroki skimmed details when they spoke at the Sports Festival, and he can’t help but worry about Endeavor’s idea of training. And Todoroki’s not the only who’s quiet.

“Hey, Midoriya?” Izuku looks up to find Tensei standing by him. “Listen… I just wanted to say thanks. For being there for him. I’ve been worried about him lately, so…”

Izuku grins, and signs a quick “you’re welcome.” He’s seen Rei teaching him simple signs when she gets bored during school hours.

“I’m still worried,” Tensei says. “In the past couple of days… I don’t know, it’s like he’s got his energy back, but I don’t know if it’ll last. So just… thanks for looking out for him.”

Nodding, Izuku looks past him to where Iida is already walking away. Uraraka catches on, as well—silence is hard to miss when it’s coming from Iida.

“Hey, Iida?”

His friend pauses. Izuku hesitates, not quite sure what to say. Since their conversation at lunch, he hasn’t mentioned Stain or Tensei once—nor has the latter left his side. Izuku would like to think that this is because Iida is grieving privately, or gradually coming to terms with it, but he can’t be sure.

“You know you can talk to us, right?” he says at last, as Uraraka stands beside him and nods along. “If you need to. We’re your friends.”

“We’re here for you, Iida,” Uraraka adds.

Izuku doesn’t quite see what flits across Iida’s face in that moment; it passes too quickly for him to be sure whether or not he sees anything at all. But in the next moment, Iida’s smiling back.

“Sure,” he says. “Thank you, both of you.”

As Iida turns away, Izuku considers bringing up their conversation from earlier, and his suggestion on Tensei’s behalf, but he decides against it.

Watching Iida leave with his ghostly brother close by his side, he considers quite a few things that he doesn’t go through with.

(If only foresight were as clear as hindsight.)

The train ride gives Izuku forty-five minutes to stew alone in his nerves as he watches the landscape go by. Well—not quite alone. Rei distracts him by signing things she sees out the window, or with silent impressions of the other passengers on the train. Izuku has to take his phone out and pretend to browse his texts to keep from looking like he’s laughing at nothing.

From the train station, the address takes him to a building that looks less like a hero agency and more like a condemned apartment complex. The front door has a broken neon ‘Welcome’ sign hanging over it, almost mockingly. Izuku… isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it sure as hell isn’t this.

He comes to a halt and casts a dubious eye over the place. “Um…” He glances at Rei, who cocks her head this way and that as if the slight change in angle will reveal more information.

I’ll check if it’s safe, she signs to him, and vanishes from his side. Izuku counts in his head and makes it to ten before she reappears, and she looks no less confused than he feels.

“Well?” he asks.

There’s a man in there, she tells him. He’s lying on the floor in a puddle of ketchup.

“I-is he okay?”

He’s completely fine, and he’s awake. He’s just lying there covered in ketchup.

Izuku wishes with all his heart that Ms. Shimura were here. Then maybe he could turn to her and ask Hey Maybe What The Hell? But she’s not here, and this is probably all the information he’s going to get (which is more information than this mysterious Gran Torino expects him to have) so there’s really nothing for it. With a shrug at his friend, Izuku walks into the building.

With Rei’s guidance, he finds the ketchup-covered man in question. As it turns out, “lying there covered in ketchup” is… a bit of an understatement. The floor is a mess of spilled food and shattered crockery. The trailing end of the string of sausage links that protrudes out from underneath the man has a passing resemblance to intestines. The whole scene might have made the little old man look eviscerated, if not for the fact that Izuku already knows what actual evisceration looks like.

And he really is a little old man. He’s a lot shorter than Izuku expected, especially if he’s the Gran Torino that All-Might quietly fears, and that Ms. Shimura has been talking up this whole time. In fact, he’s not just short; he’s tiny. Izuku has more than a head and a half on him—or at least he would, if he were standing up.

From this distance, if Izuku squints a bit, he can see the man breathing. “Um. Hello?” he starts. “Are you oka—”

The man’s head shoots up, and he screams. “I’M ALIVE!”

Izuku startles badly enough to drop the case with his costume in it, right as Rei tries to leap into his arms. It doesn’t quite work, and she ends up scrambling up onto his shoulders instead. It takes all of his self-control to stay still while she does that, while also fighting to get his heart rate back to a more reasonable level.

“Um,” he says, as Gran Torino gets to his feet. “Is… is this hazing? Is that what’s going on? Am I being hazed?”

“WHO’RE YOU?” Gran Torino asks, by shouting it in his face.

“Oh, I’m from U.A.,” Izuku answers, relieved that maybe this is moving forward. “I’m Midoriya Izuku.”

“WHAT?” Gran Torino shouts again.

“Midoriya Izuku!” Izuku repeats, enunciating as clearly as he can. Slowly, Rei starts climbing down off of him. “You nominated me, remember?”

“WHO’RE YOU?”

“I’m—”

Either he’s talking too quietly or the man isn’t paying attention, because Gran Torino cuts him off with, “You know, I’m starving. I wanna eat something!” and plops back down in the puddle of ketchup.

Two thoughts occur to him. The first is the recollection that All-Might has not seen this man in years, and a simple logical leap takes him to the fact that if All-Might hasn’t seen him, then Ms. Shimura hasn’t, either. The second is Oh God help him the man is senile. It’s not as much of a shock as it could be; Ms. Shimura did imply that he was getting on in years, and if she hasn’t seen him in a long time, then there’s probably a lot that she doesn’t know about him.

“W-well, okay,” Izuku says. Senile doesn’t mean wrong, nor does it mean useless; it just means he needs a little more creativity and patience than he would have predicted. “That’s fine, but I was actually hoping you could help me. Do you remember nominating me, at least?”

The old man looks him in the eye, frowning as if trying to recall a name. And then he does—recall a name, that is. It isn’t the correct one, but Izuku can’t find it in himself to complain because the name he says is “Toshinori.”

Izuku goes still and silent.

---

So this is the student that Nana’s little golden boy has taken a shine to. He ain’t much to look at, if Gran Torino is any judge. But then, neither was Toshinori when he first laid eyes on the brat. Of course, even Toshinori was taller than this one. This kid looks soft and doe-eyed, and a drunk monkey could tie a necktie better than that. But mostly he looks like he hasn’t had a proper sleep in at least a week.

On the other hand… there is something to him, something besides the weird way that the light hits his eyes in the dimness. It’s the sort of something that he wouldn’t have expected Toshinori to pick up on, because it isn’t the same blinding-brightness that Toshinori himself practically sweats. No—this particular ankle-biter has something different.

Maybe it’s the fact that he barely blinked at Torino’s little prank, which could just mean he’s dense, or it could mean he’s too sharp to be fooled by a ketchup puddle and a few sausage links.

…Well. Either way, he can work with that.

The senile act has thrown this kid off balance already—not as much as he’d like, though, so he throws out Toshinori’s name, just to gauge his reaction.

He expects confusion, or at least for the kid to write it off as the ‘dementia’ talking. But instead the kid freezes, and his eyes lose that glazed look of patient confusion. He blinks, and for a split second he looks like he’s seen or heard a ghost.

“Toshi…nori?” the kid echoes, and steps forward with a sharp look in his eye like Gran Torino holds all the answers to his questions—which, let’s face it, he probably does. “Is that his name? Is that All-Might’s name?”

Gran Torino blinks, and the boy steps forward again.

“I have questions for you,” he says. “Lots of them. And someone—well. I’ve been told you can help me. With my power?”

Now they’re getting somewhere. He could still use a little more information on this kid, though—after decades of radio silence from Nana’s brat, he figured asking Toshinori himself was probably a no-go. Torino watches the boy out of the corner of his eye, pretending to ignore him as he turns to the case that the kid dropped earlier. Casually he opens it, and finds a neatly folded green jumpsuit inside. This is his hero costume, from the looks of it. “One For All, huh,” he cackles, and sees the boy’s eyes light up almost literally. “I’d like to see how well you can handle it.”

The eagerness dims then, and if Torino were any judge he’d say the kid was shrinking back a little. “Er, well…”

“You got a nice costume here,” Torino continues, and he does, just judging by a cursory glance. Not too bad, for a Mark 1. “So why don’t you put it on and come at me.” Before the kid can answer, Torino barks out another “WHO ARE YOU?” because it is damn funny to see him jump.

“I can’t control it yet,” the kid answers, and there’s an edge to his voice—ohoho, he’s starting to try the brat’s patience now. “That’s why I came. I need to learn how to deal with these powers, because All-Might doesn’t have much time left.” His hands curl into fists—Torino can see scars on the right one. “Can you help me?”

Torino keeps quiet just long enough to let the boy squirm a little. Then he moves.

His quirk’s just like riding a bike, really. He’s not one to let excess fat grow on his bones, but he imagines that even if he went years without using his power, it would still come back to him like an old friend. In the blink of an eye, he ricochets off the ceiling, walls, and floor—so he’s showing off a little, sue him—and ends up staring down into Midoriya Izuku’s shocked eyes. There’s a grin that Torino can’t keep off his face, and he tosses the facade to the side because they are in business.

“Remains to be seen,” he says, and commits the dumbstruck look on the kid’s face to memory, just in case he ever needs a private chuckle. “Can’t help ya if I’ve got nothing useful to work with. Think you’re big, kid? You’re barely a twinkle in your mother’s eye. Now—if you meant all those pretty words, then get over here and come at me.”

The boy blinks, and his eyes flicker to the side. “A ruse,” he says, like he’s talking to himself. “What is it with teachers and logical ruses? Would it kill them to just say what they mean?”

So, he’s not just a brat—he’s a mouthy brat. In a heartbeat, Torino knocks him off his feet and makes it up to the opposite wall. “I said my bit already, boy,” he says. “You wanna learn a thing or two, or are you all talk?”

When the boy’s eyes meet his, they’re shining with eagerness, lingering confusion, and just a little bit of relief. Those are busy eyes; he looks like he’s not sure what to think, and that suits Torino just fine. Better to keep him guessing. Just for a moment, there’s an almost knowing look in those eyes, like the brat’s got some private joke that he’s not about to share.

“I still have questions for you,” he says.

“That’s nice, boy,” Torino replies. “Tell ya what. I’ll give ‘em a listen once you prove to me you’re worth wastin’ my breath on answers.”

“Fair enough,” the brat says, as his eyes search Torino’s face as if he can find his answers written in the wrinkles. And then he smiles.

Gran Torino takes that smile and locks it away for later, for any future moments where he needs to remind himself that this wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears rookie isn’t another Toshinori. ‘Cause Nana’s brat smiles a hell of a lot, but he ain’t hardly ever smiled like that.

Toshinori’s smile is mask and a symbol, an inseparable part of what makes All-Might, All-Might. He puts his smile on like it’s part of his costume.

This kid brandishes it like a weapon.

[limpblotter]

Happy Friggin Borthday, Cheeseball

a/n: Everyone has nice drawings and art of Thomas. All I came up with is a crappy birthday party that ends semi-terrible for him. Oneshot/Drabble Summary: Thomas’s is taken back by a surprise party that leaves him wishing he wasn’t born Warning: hints of social anxiety, troubled childhood, unhealthy coping mechanisms, anxious ticks (raw draft/uneditted) Taggies: @hell-yes-puns-and-ships w/c:2811

Happy Birthday Thomas! 

Screamed the google banner as Thomas licked open his web browser. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance, the words were almost ironic. His eyes rigidly scrolled down to the date at the corner of his computer. Indeed, it was April 13th, his birthday. The idea of it all sent sickening shivers down his spine. Quickly he slammed his laptop shut foregoing any and all work he had planned to do. Slowly he ran his hand through his fro, pushing back his springy curls only to have them bounce back to their original mane like frame around his face. His birthday, he pressed the top row of his teeth against his plush upper lip as he carefully pressed the home button on his latest Apple Iphone.

He had a flood of notifications. Facebook, twitter, all the social media he kept were all going off to the point he was sure his phone was overheating just by sheer amount. Social media did well for Thomas, a man who had popularity and money with none of the tolerance to handle people. Most of the time he could handle a small group of people at once, more comfortably if flanked by his closest cohorts. Naturally he was a skittish and quiet man, looks aside, he did not mirror the man he was trying to be. Through the third person vehicle of social media, keeping up appearances was as easy as uploading a charming picture of his biceps, or a status about how drab the exclusive club was that night, even the flirtations comment back and forth.

Slowly, he thumbed through what easily was thousands of surface deep compliments and well wishes. After searching through social media, voicemails and texts his frown deepened. Not a single one from them. He angrily flipped his phone over and glared, staring at library wall when the chair beside him screeched. His eyes darted to the sound, his body hunching away from the person…”Oh, it's you.” Thomas didn’t take back recoil. “What do you want, Aaron.”

Aaron Burr, a man who was eager to join into Jefferson’s exclusive world. Jefferson on the college campus was part of an elitist club that valued academics and active members of the socialite lifestyle. Aaron was on the list to join. He had everything going for him, good grades and an impressive background. What he lacked? Personality in Jefferson’s main opinion, in another he lacked a certain...thing. “I heard it was your birthday” Immediately Jefferson was cringing, he didn’t need reminding. “I got you this.” He smiled handing a coupon. Jefferson looked it over and his eyes might have inched less away from it's harden stare to a touch softer. “Discount to Mix-n-Mac” he might have the chance and the money to indulge in the fancier line of cuisine but mac’n’cheese held a special place in his heart. This line of mac was among his favorite. “Thanks, Burr.” Thomas tucked the discounted coupon away.

“No problem, figured today was a special day for you, big man.” He nudged Thomas’s arm. “Any special plans?” “Nope.” Thomas kept it short and polite, slowly opening his computer back up.

“No?” Aaron sounded surprise, like most would have. “Not even with Sally?” “Not even with Sally.” Though some coital hanky-panky with his side piece might have been nice...even on his birthday he had trouble finding the libido for that. Personally he rather have the day go as quietly and calmly as possible. “I tend not to do much on my birthday.”

“But--” Aaron tried to interject and that’s when Thomas lost all his politeness. Thomas started packing up and looked around the library. “Sorry Burr, I’m just too busy.” And with that little white lie aside, Thomas made his escape. His birthday only came with bad memories. Still he glanced at his phone again, more notifications, none from anyone he wanted to hear from. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was the same every year. The day went on with Thomas half assing many of the thank yous and embellishing what he wanted to do. Hinting at going out and drinking though nothing specific. No one could invite themselves that way, not like there was nothing to be invited to. These were all made up, Thomas had no intention on celebrating tonight. Though he would most likely post some typical hung over status in the morning to make it sound like he had a wild, college night out.

Instead he looked forward to a quiet night in his dorm room hopefully without his roommate. Thomas’s roommate almost made him want to go out and celebrate. He hated just the look of that weasley, wispy haired man. Someone who turned HIM down when he offered the club to him. A frat club that would have propelled his sorry, poor ass and he was told he had better things to do. Later to realize they were bunk mates after his friend James had failed to enlist in rooms before the deadline.

It was a Friday night, so he was a little surprised to find many cars were still in the parking lot. More troubling that the hallways along his floor were empty. It was like a ghost town inside. He walked to his dorm room and slowly opened the door, it was pitch black. “Thank God.” He sighed to himself, Hamilton must have been out with friends. The loser actually had friends… In that second he closed the door behind him and flicked on the lights he was met by the worse kind of surprise. “SURPRISE” 

Screamed what felt like millions of people. It was though Thomas’s friend list had poured into his small two bedroom dorm apartment. The people were yelling and flashes were going off capturing Thomas’s less surprised more infuriated face. He tried to plaster a smile on as Sally, the girl he had casually been hooking up with looped her arm around his. “What’s going on…” he seethed between densely clamped teeth. “Isn’t it sweet? Aaron and I did it ourselves.” She beamed and suddenly Thomas was mentally shredding not only Burr’s invitation to join the club but his very existence. “Let’s go, you have so many gifts, so many people want say happy birthday.” Sally near dragged him through the crowd. Thomas looked around, the room felt like it was spinning. The amount of people densely packed in his dorm, some smoking, some drinking booze they had brought, others standing around wasting their breath only added to the heat.

He struggled to keep eye contact, he managed a few muddled hellos and thanks. He nodded towards gifts, people beamed and joked and all he could do was smile. Keeping his lips closed for the nausea began to rise. The door opened again.

“What the fuck Jefferson!” Hamilton had been out studying when he came back to what felt like a frat house party in his dorm. Already red cups littered his floor and his bedroom was surrounded by couples going at it. Hamilton, unlike Thomas, took a calming breath realizing he couldn’t curse out Thomas over the noise. His approach would be a little more subtle. Unlike Thomas, Hamilton might have been a poor scholarship student constantly fighting with FASFA to keep his head afloat, was able to blend. Alexander lit up the room. He shot a few words here and there, witty jokes, flirtatious compliments. People actually wished he’d stay in the conversation but he was a man on a mission. Well, he was a man on an assassination. He eyed Thomas, his tall and muscular figure being led on hilariously by his tiny woman of the night. He weaved through the people and once he got close enough to grabbed Thomas’s free arm and beamed at Sally, a blush warmed her cheeks. “Sorry, mind if I borrow the man of the hour?” He quickly grabbed Thomas and shoved him into the bathroom which now had a very potent smell of sex and vomit. “Jesus.” Hamilton slammed the door and flicked on the bathroom vent fan. “What the actual fuck Thomas?” Alexander began, “you think you can throw yourself a fucking party in OUR dorm?! I have a final in two weeks…” Thomas stopped listening to Alexander’s voice. A part of him was actually grateful Alexander had pulled him away. Now he was away from faces he needed to keep that careless, rich boy facade. Even if it was Alexander here, he didn’t care enough about him to pretend. His large hands grasped the smooth, porcelain edge of the sink and he bent his head over. “JEFFERSON ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING” Alex had been complaining the entire time, hands flailing to emphasize his point but Thomas had drowned nearly all of it out. “Thomas…” Alexander watched as his back trembled. “Are you going to…” He heard a dry gag and fell silent. Was he? A second dry gag followed violent heaving and suddenly Alexander was concerned. “...I can’t…” Thomas groaned, his head was aching. It felt like his brain was beating against his skull and every inch of his head was vibrating.

Hamilton might have hated having him as a roommate but he didn’t...hate the guy. He had some empathy in his voice as he sarcastically shot back, “what can’t handle your moonshine, Southern boy?”

More heaving came, and it was clear to Alexander it wasn’t involuntary. He was doing it on purpose. Before he could ask Thomas what was really going on Thomas managed to whine again in a softer voice, “...I can’t do this right now.” “Do what?” Alex looked around. “People...party...so many…” He fought back hot tears from how hard he was forcing the air up his throat. Suddenly the tall man’s knees gave out and he sank to the ground, his hands still clutching the sink. His body shaking violently. The tears trickling down his face sent Alex into a confused tizzy. “...ok...uh…” The party was the problem? Well getting everyone out wouldn’t be a problem. “Do you want me to call anyone?” He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Thomas alone. He got no answer now. Thomas hung his head, his curls fall over his face and he was nothing but a black curled mane, a shrinking form under the sink. Alexander took one long look at Thomas and closed the door after him.

Birthdays were never his thing.

He remembered every birthday he had. He remembered how poorly each and every one of those birthdays went. A dismal display of wealth for his family’s benefit. While Thomas was forced to the forefront, around people he never knew, forced to speak and constantly under intense scrutiny. If he said the wrong thing, stuttered, stammered, did anything to look less like a strong and proud Jefferson boy he was met with instant lashing and public displays of physical correction. All the while his innocent pleas for a simple birthday, one where he could be gifted something he wanted went unheard by his family. This birthday wasn’t his. It was just another day for the Jefferson’s to flaunt their power and wealth. Thomas started to feel another heave ripple out of him. He felt the heat of his body working to force some invisible lump in his throat out and his brain melting down overpower him. With a hard twist, he forced half his body into the white tub and retched the cold water knob open. He dunked his head into the cold water and held his breath letting it all wash over him.

For a moment, he felt a calm come over him. All that mattered was the icy sting of incredibly cold water wash over his face. He focused on his other senses, he could hear the music stop. The obnoxious bass was gone thank god. The door opened and closed. “Thomas” A voice so soft that it was practically drowned under the water that was pouring down on Thomas’s head. He felt two large hands pull his shoulders up and out of the water and suddenly Thomas coughed. He gasped, and sputtered realizing he had been holding his breath for so long it pained him to inhale. “Thomas what are you doing? Why is half the people on your friend’s list outside talking to Hamilton?” James Madison gently released him in favor to turn off the water. “A-Aaron ….sur-surprised me.” He hissed, teeth chattering from the cold water. His head started to slowly throb again. James glared a bit at the door, he would have a talk to Aaron. “You should have called me.” He turned around giving Thomas his back as he started to rummage through the shared items of the bathroom.

The taller man could hear the sharpness in James’s voice. “S-Sally, everyone, they were around me and…” He suddenly felt a towel flop on his head. His world went black as James started to dry Thomas’s hair.

“Thomas.” James spoke soft but curtly, his voice slightly rough from the fact he had been ill for a few days now. “You could have told them, no--”

“What Jefferson turns down a party?” He grabbed James’s hands and stopped him from massaging the water out of his hair. He looked up at James with wet eyes. “I’m me, Jemmy, I can’t say no. I’ve never been able to say no. Last time …”

“I know…” James was there. That birthday party, Thomas was fourteen. He had saved up birthday money for years so he could buy himself a gift he wanted. He bought himself a violin and practiced every night one song and one song alone until he was proud. On the day of his annual birthday celebration at the country club, Thomas had built up the nerve to play, the shy, timid Jefferson son who never seemed to shine like the rest of his family was now in the spotlight. He began to play in front of the family friends, the Madison family included, when Thomas’s father ripped his instrument from his hand. Publicly humiliated him and his craft before tossing the violin into the trash. Birthdays weren’t days of celebration for Thomas, it was time to show off and prance. Now that he was no longer in Virginia to be paraded around he hadn’t received a single message from his siblings or mother.

“You’re not fourteen anymore Thomas, this is your choice. You don’t have to be anyone’s shiny thing anymore.” James spoke softly, taking his hands back and started ringing his curls until most were just slightly damp. Once he was done he stood up and held out his hand for Thomas. Thomas’s eyes looked guarded, he didn’t want to leave the safety of the bathroom, he was nowhere near stable to join the masses. Madison nodded in understanding and slowly went back to Thomas and sank down beside him. The shorter college student slowly brought his head to Thomas’s shoulder and sighed.

Having his best friend beside him always seemed to bring a courage out of Thomas. Madison was incredibly intelligent, equally as wealthy but he was meek in appearance. From the moment they met, Thomas had an overwhelming need to protect Madison.Over the course of their friendship it was clear which one of them truly needing protection. James had been there, standing there, giving Thomas that sense of security. After a childhood of constantly being redirected this Jefferson felt lost in a sea of empty wealth and titles. Jemmy kept him grounded.

Thomas’s hand gently crawled over James and laid there. In that moment James smiled a bit and nodded. “Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?” James sung lowly, the same little song Thomas had tried to play on that awful birthday years ago. He felt a smile tug on his lips, even during that awful birthday James was there. He closed his eyes and felt everything ebb away. The aches, the heat. He focused every bit his energy on James’s voice, his breathing, the periodic squeeze of his hand. After a few minutes the bathroom door opened and Alexander leaned against the door-frame. “I got everyone out, told them you had a stomach bug and they empathetically left all your gift and booze.”

“Thank you again, Hamilton for telling me...about this.” James motioned to Thomas with his head.

“I figured when you didn’t show up that Burr must have not told you since you’ve been...sick…” Alexander shrugged a bit, “whatever, I’m taking a bottle as collateral.” He turned with a bottle of some expensive booze when Thomas croaked. “Thanks, Hamilton” He closed his eyes and rested his head on top of James’s. He gave James a small squeeze as he finally relaxed.

Alexander checked his watch, “a few minutes until midnight, consider this my birthday gift to you.” He smirked and closed the door as he spoke. “Happy fuckin’ birthday Thomas”

[kuriyamamirairageblog]

Hello again. It’s been a while, huh? Nearly two years, it seems. Yesterday I felt the sudden urge to come around and give a status update on my blog. But, as it was already too late in the night, I figured I’d save it for today. Lots of things have happened in between now and then, so I guess I’ll save the details and jump to the main key aspects. I have finished my bachelors in psychology and started a master’s degree in cognitive neurosciences and neuropsychology. I don’t dislike the subjects studied, but I’m not enjoying the experience. I’m tired of studying the same things over and over. It feels like I’m constantly repeating the same subjects. It makes me feel demotivated. I end up slacking off when I should be doing productive things, and when I reach time periods dangerously close to deadlines, I feel like I’m about to burst with anxiety. Regardless, I’ve maintained a high-average sort of performance, which is great, considering I would like to have the course finished. There is however a set back... I hate the idea of the upcoming internship and master’s thesis. I just feel like it’s a degree of difficulty way too high for what I’ve been prepared for. Besides, just like in other professional areas, theory is a lot different from the actual clinical practice. A few people who work at certain institutes in Portugal went to lecture us during classes. They gave us their testimony about what it was like to work as a neuropsychologist. They were all arrogant people who frankly seemed to care a lot about their work but had not successfully managed to develop as human beings. I suppose I could develop a theory about “Artificial Sense of Empathy”, seen as I’ve been witnessing many cases of psychologists who seem too far away from humanity. Investigation is a no-go, too. I’m not good at it at all, and it doesn’t interest me the slightest. I have no drive for it. It’s dull to me. It’s a torturous kind of work, that I would not be able to do as a lifestyle. I worked as a waiter in a restaurant last summer. It was only good for a few weeks while I was learning the basics, and it was definitely a very outstanding experience in the aspect that I definitely won’t forget it and still talk a lot about it nowadays. But then things got kind of grim. I actually don’t mind the work in hospitality. It was fun to talk to costumers, serve tables, clean things, carry things around in the warehouse and what not. It was honestly amusing, and I can’t say it was a bad wage for a summer job at all. But, as the summer progressed, the boss and the work colleagues got progressively more stressed and started taking their frustrations out on the job. Moreover, due to relationship circumstances not having been the best at the time either, I got really into the job and decided to work in it full time, to get my mind out of things. That decision allowed me to get a very good understanding of what I was getting into, but it also had consequences. I was going in at 10:30 in the morning, leaving for “lunch break” at 4/5pm, then back in at 7  and only leaving at midnight again. Repeat: day after day, only with days off at Monday, from June to mid September. I can almost say that i had no summer, but i learned a lot along the way. I learned from experience the type of effort my parents had to make to able to afford the kind of lifestyle I have, with studies and things like that. But I can’t say it made me value my studies more... I know for a fact now that I won’t be able to handle a life like that because, at some point, I burned out completely and my psychological condition didn’t allow me to move. So I made the decision of never working full time on hospitality again, seen as I don’t want to go insane or have to deal with my colleagues’ frustrations. But I’ve got to make a living somehow and pay bills at some point, so I can’t just go on with part-time jobs forever... And if I don’t want to work in a restaurant like that nor as a neuropsychologist, then, what am I supposed to do? I’ve picked up the hobby of drawing. I got decent at it. Not too good. But decent. And I’ve always liked things like jewels and video games and things of the sort. I wish I could make a living out of something pleasurable like drawing or making jewelry, or even drawing video game characters and writing background stories... Something fantasy-ish that could really get me involved and grow attached to what I do. But there’s nothing like that for me here, and I’m not sure of how to look for it either. But I must confess I’m also very lazy. By now, I could have posted my drawings on tumblr or on deviantart, or something like that to see if I can attract notoriety. But i haven’t and there really is no excuse for it: it’s because I’m lazy and simply haven’t gotten around to do it. Because, instead of being productive, I watch videos or play computer games. I think I’m never really going to get anywhere if I keep at it like that, but for some reason, I just can’t get myself to move my own ass. I’m just so demoralized in that aspect, I always think that nothing is worth the effort. I can’t go on living like this. I must find a way to change that somehow. However, when it comes to the affection matter, things have taken a very complex journey into a place that I can be satisfied with. I’ll try to cut it as short as possible: I got involved with a guy who wasn’t very good for me. He wasn’t a healthy person. Not from the physical point of view, nor from the psychological one either. Moreover, he was economically dependent on a guy he had a relationship with but who he claimed he didn’t love. I thought I was able to support him - that I was strong enough. But I wasn’t, and my love for him didn’t last forever, either. It’s pointless to try to help someone when that someone is making active efforts to counter what you do for them. And I guess it’s preferable to suffer for not having someone than to fight for someone who you love but doesn’t want you back. I think I might have lost a few good friends because of how invested I was in him. At some point, a really close friend of mine told me that I had to learn how to let go and take care of myself, to end the suffering I was in. I can’t say i learned how to let go, but I can say that I learned that I should not disrespect myself to the point of bringing myself down for people who don’t deserve the effort. Careful assessment of one’s worth is necessary. I didn’t see a way out of the case I was in without getting my hands dirty though. I had already tried before to end things peacefully. I was not allowed to leave though. Not because of violence or anything, don’t get the wrong idea. But either he came crawling back or I felt like I couldn’t hold on and I’d try to reach out to him again. So I did things the only way I know. I created an entanglement of lies that I knew would collapse in such way they would destroy everything. He wouldn’t try to reach out to me and I wouldn’t try to reach out to him. It was a near success. I haven’t spoken to him in months and I’m feeling great about that. He tried to reach me a couple of times before via text messaging, but I was a smart fox and kept his number recorded on my cell phone. Every time i receive a text from him, I don’t read it. I delete it. A few months ago I joined a gay dating website. I didn’t have any objective in mind, I just didn’t like not having anyone to talk to. And I know I enjoy the company of men, to some extent, even if I don’t like sex as much as they do. A guy with a very revealing profile picture came texting me out of nowhere. I thought to myself  “oh my, what does this dog want from me?” I almost didn’t answer to his message, but at the time, I was in a “What the hell” mood, so I did. And he’s a gamer. And he’s a biologist. And he’s smart. And he’s super cute. And he makes me really happy. We’ve been dating for nearly three months now and we’re planning a living together. We’ve talked about getting married, and sooner or later, it’s bound to happen. For some reason, I have never felt I could trust someone like this. Of course I have certain insecurities. For example, he’s bisexual, I’m always a little worried that he might crave girls all of a sudden, because that’s always what happened to me in my previous experience with bisexual guys. But he lets me talk about my worries with him. He’s very empathetic and understanding with me, and I can calmly talk about any issue with him. And he does certain things that make me feel like he’s really into me and would never swap me out for anyone else. Everyday he makes efforts to make me believe that. And, even though, I can never reach the 100% trust because of my previous experiences and the scars they left me, I can say I’ve gotten as close as 99%. Love can’t be experienced in the same way for two different people, but I think I have fallen in love for the right person this time, and even if all else goes bad, I still have him. I hope so, anyway. Because, right now, where everything else seems so stressing with work, anxiety and lack of motivation to do things other than playing video games, he’s always there with me, and comes see me every day even though he has to drive all the way here.  I don’t really know what else to say. I feel like that’s already a pretty big post as is. I don’t know how regularly I’ll be posting, but I guess that would be whenever I feel like it. Sometimes, I feel like I complain too much, even though I should be more grateful for the things that happen to me. But I guess that’s just the way I am. And even though I complain about a lot of things, I know that I can appreciate the good things that come in my way. 

[ourhealthyfoodblog-blog]

New Post has been published on Healthy Food and Remedies

New Post has been published on http://healthyfoodandremedies.com/2017/03/27/combat-every-kind-stress/

How to Combat Every Kind of Stress

You know the feeling—tense muscles, a knot in your stomach, maybe a headache. No matter how hard you try, being calm and collected isn’t in the cards. Stress happens to all of us, and a recent American Psychological Association poll revealed that we’re feeling it more now than ever. Women in particular seem to be bearing the brunt: More than 80 percent reported having prolonged stress about money and the economy, and 70 percent say they’re worried about health problems affecting them and their families.

“Women have more on their plates when it comes to the work-life balance, which takes considerable emotional resources,” says Alice Domar, PhD, executive director of The Domar Center for Mind/Body Health and coauthor of Live a Little! Breaking the Rules Won’t Break Your Health. The comforting news is that stress isn’t always bad. “If you know how to manage it, stress can give you the extra energy you need to succeed and get through difficult situations,” explains Jay Winner, MD, director of the Sansum Clinic Stress Reduction Program in Santa Barbara, California, and author of Take the Stress out of Your Life. There’s even a term for this good kind: eustress. “I tell my patients to think of eustress just like it sounds: ‘use stress,'” says Dr. Winner. “When you’re in a situation that’s making you produce all that high-octane adrenaline, how can you put it to productive use?” For example, think about how the stress of nearing a project deadline might push you to focus more intensely and come up with creative ideas. Or how entering a competition motivates you to do your very best in an attempt to win.

The key distinction: Good stress feels exciting and energizing; the bad type feels scary and paralyzing. Unfortunately, you can’t always control when and if you get stressed, but you can learn to cope so that you minimize its negative impact and, whenever possible, make it productive. To help you do just that, we’ve put together this playbook for how to handle just about any kind of tension—be it an in-the-moment crisis or a chronic worry. So take a deep breath and get ready to feel better.

Short-Term Stress

You’re already late trying to get your family out the door when your husband starts freaking out about a lost set of papers, your kids start whining, food gets spilled and the dog starts barking. Oh, and did we mention it’s all happening as your mother calls to say she’s planning to visit—and wants to stay with you—for two weeks?

What’s Going On

Your body’s stress response—called fight-or-flight—kicks into gear. It dates back to prehistoric days, when a quick pick-upand- run reaction meant the difference between life and death.

Once you’re exposed to a stressor, your body releases a surge of hormones including adrenaline and cortisol, which divert blood flow toward your muscles, heart and brain and away from other areas. That enables you to hightail it away from danger as quickly as possible. Depending on how much adrenaline you’re producing, your heart rate may increase and you may start sweating.

What You Can Do

Breathe. A common gut reaction is to jump in and try to fix the situation ASAP. But this will just exacerbate that harried, out-of-control feeling. Instead, take three deep breaths—5 seconds in, 5 seconds out—to slow your heart rate and reduce the pace at which stress hormones are flying through your system, says Sonali Sharma, MD, a clinical instructor in psychiatry at Columbia University Medical Center in New York City. While focusing on your breath, remind yourself that the anxiety you’re feeling is a chemical response, or just visualize the phrase “I’m strong and I’m capable,” suggests Dr. Sharma.

Lighten up. If you can take a step back and laugh at yourself and the situation, great. If not, try to think about something else that’s funny. Like deep breathing, laughter helps scale back your physical and psychological reactions to stress, which gives you more mental resources to devote to the actual problem, says Dr. Winner. (As soon as you stop fixating on what an idiot you are for misplacing your checkbook, you’ve got a lot more energy to focus on finding it.) A study by The American Journal of the Medical Sciences found that just anticipating laughter can reduce the presence of stress hormones by nearly half.

Put it in perspective. Say you’re late for school drop-off, which means you’ll be late to work and possibly just about every other deadline that day. It may seem like the end of the world, but try to think about the situation in the context of the rest of your life: Focus on how great it is to have a job and a loving family—even if they’re getting on your last nerve at that moment. You can also focus on a mental picture of a loved one, a goal or a favorite place. If the problem is an interpersonal one—say your boss is driving you crazy—try to think about the other person’s big picture, too. If your boss is going through a divorce, that may explain why she’s been hypercritical lately. Empathy helps defuse tension.

Take steps to solve the problem. “The ebb and flow of worry can affect your focus, so if possible, make a written, step-by-step outline of what to do to deal with the situation,” says Jonathan Abramowitz, PhD, director of the Anxiety and Stress Disorders Clinic at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Then tackle things in bite-size pieces; productivity combats stress.

Get with the stress rhythm. If immediate action isn’t possible—say you’re waiting for a test result or answer—you may need to settle into it. In this case, Dr. Abramowitz suggests calming yourself by looking for a pattern in your heartbeat, or imagining the butterflies in your stomach actually flying in formation. The deep breathing recommended by Dr. Sharma can also help here, as can defaulting to a few simple soothing habits: A 2009 study found that chewing gum markedly reduced stress hormones and promoted feelings of calm, while another study found that drinking hot black tea seemed to double the rate at which people were able to calm down after a tense situation.

Long-Term Stress

If only stress stayed short-lived and in the moment. But more often than not, those crazy mornings of juggling family and work (and yourself!) can turn into weeks of constant go, go, go. Meanwhile, you’re trying to balance your family’s budget, make meals and do all the other things that need to keep happening no matter how hectic life gets. Not only can it feel overwhelming to spend day after day with a knot in your stomach, but over time you start feeling more and more exhausted, worn-down and emotional.

What’s Going On

“The body’s stress response is meant for short-term situations. If you’re constantly pumping out stress hormones, that’s going to take a toll,” says Dr. Winner. When high cortisol levels cause blood flow to be constantly directed to parts of the body that control the fight-or-flight response (muscles, heart and brain), crucial nutrients won’t get to where they need to go. Toxins can build up in your system, making you feel lackluster and tired, not to mention prone to insomnia and weight gain.

What You Can Do

Keep a stress diary. If you can’t quite pinpoint the source of that always-harried feeling, write down every time a situation makes you feel stressed. After one week, scan your notes for patterns and brainstorm ways to deal with the circumstances. For example, if you find yourself getting anxious right before the commute home from work, think of ways to make the trip more relaxing: Download an audiobook to listen to in the car or bring a booklet of Sudoku puzzles on the train.

Control what you can. You may not be able to do anything about choices other people make, but there are always some aspects of a situation that you can take charge of. “Make a list—from cutting out jitter-producing caffeine to making sure you’re spending your time with positive people,” says Dr. Domar. “Seeing just how much you can control will calm you, not to mention provide a blueprint for you to get to a productive endpoint.”

Take sleep and relaxation seriously. Sleep, it turns out, can be a major anxiety-buster. One study found that even a short nap can slash stress hormone levels. To help your body wind down at day’s end, shut off gadgets such as cell phones, computers and BlackBerrys by 9 p.m. at the latest. If possible, get them out of your bedroom completely! Also try to keep a regular bedtime. If watching a little TV (even in the bedroom) helps you wind down, that’s fine; just stick to something light and relaxing, like a comedy (skip the slasher flicks and evening news).

Sit up straight. Breathing controls your heart rate and oxygen flow, and we tend to hunch when we’re stressed, which slows oxygen and blood flow (not to mention creates tension in your neck). “An easy way to correct your breathing is to keep good posture,” says Dr. Sharma. “When your shoulders are back, you open the chest and you’re automatically more oxygenated, which helps relieve anxiety.” Keep tabs on posture by straightening up and dropping your shoulders every time you send an e-mail or talk on the phone.

Walk it off. Exercise burns through nervous energy and counters tension by pumping your body full of feel-good endorphins as well as norepinephrine, a hormone that may help us better manage anxiety. One study found that a simple brisk walk five days a week can significantly reduce stress levels in women.

When It’s More Than Stress

If you find yourself worrying excessively to the point that it’s interfering with your everyday life, you may be suffering from anxiety. More than 40 million Americans have some form of anxiety disorder. Among these are panic disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, social phobia and post-traumatic stress disorder.

How to tell when you’re more than just stressed out? “For most people, when a stressor is removed, they feel better,” says Dr. Abramowitz. “The difference with anxiety is that it tends to revolve around abstract things that haven’t happened yet.” For example, worrying about a hurt child is stress; worrying constantly about whether a child might get hurt is anxiety.Try these tips to combat it.

Challenge the way you’re thinking. “If a loved one is late and you start worrying about an accident, ask yourself, ‘What else could have happened?’ Right there, you’re opening your mind to alternate possibilities,” says Dr. Abramowitz. Once you’ve expanded the outcome list a little, ask yourself what has typically happened in the past when you’ve had this worry. Has the result been what you feared?

Finally, if you’re still feeling unsettled, try making a bet with yourself. Would you be willing to give up something valuable on the wager that your fear will live itself out? If you wouldn’t, you’ve caught your own bluff.

Invoke other parts of your brain. When worry is chronic, it’s easy to let it dominate. Minimize its role by making space for plenty of other things in your mind. “I see a lot of results when people regularly start doing something creative, possibly because they’re tapping a part of their mind that’s removed from the stress. Likewise, group activities will fuel you with outside energy, and nature can help you reach a meditative state,” says Dr. Sharma. This strategy can work for both in-the-moment and long-term anxiety.

As soon as you start feeling anxious, distracting yourself by calling a friend or browsing your favorite websites can help. And picking up a hobby—taking a painting or writing class, for example—keeps you busy and engaged in general, leaving less time for worrying.

Seek outside help. Psychotherapy can be enormously helpful. One type, cognitive behavioral therapy (in which you gradually change your habits and thought patterns) can be especially effective for people with anxiety. The idea is to learn strategies to combat thinking patterns that lead to anxiety. For some people, anti-anxiety medications can be helpful, usually when combined with cognitive behavioral therapy.