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deadsetobsessions · 2 days

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Danny always knew tax evasion ran in his veins. His parents hadn’t been the most… morally sound of people, and less so as ecto-scientists.

He just didn’t think their lessons would ever result in a criminal empire that spanned the entire city and then some. Danny hadn’t seen it coming. His parents definitely wouldn’t have.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Fox.”

Danny ‘the Phantom’ Fenton sat down across from a rather tense looking (to Danny’s enhanced senses, anyways) Brucie Wayne and his right hand, Lucius Fox. He smiled pleasantly, matching Brucie’s vacant smile with that touch of Midwest suburban mother smile.

With his acquisition of multiple Gotham companies, his rather newly established Fentom Co. became one of the largest holding companies in Gotham, the first being Wayne Enterprises and the second being Drake Industries. After months of constantly working his butt off while fending off assassins, reforming Gotham’s slums and cleaning up some of the streets, and taking care of his nest of street kids, Danny garnered enough power to even stand close to Wayne Enterprises in terms of financial powers.

The topic of this meeting was, of course, the proposed merger of Wayne Enterprises’ Medical R&D division with Fentom Co.’s pharmaceutical department. Usually, Wayne Enterprises wouldn’t even consider such an offer, as their Medical R&D division was the most well funded and least likely to be part of a Rogue’s scheme- and therefore most beloved- department of the same nature in Gotham. However, Danny had something the other offers didn’t.

Blackmail.

His overly polite smile widened as Bruce’s mask twitched. His eyes slid over to Lucius Fox.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve heard much about your genius in… research and development.”

By that, Danny meant that he knew Lucius Fox helped develop Batman’s tech.

He did a lot of stalking that week. It felt rather… invasive, even if he did get a bunch of juicy secrets.

You know what they say: dead men tell no tales… but halfas are generally blabbermouths.

“Is that so? It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Fenton.” The man quickly glanced between the youngsters, accurately predicting that this might have something to do with Bruce’s active nightlife.

“Yes, it is such a pleasure to meet you.”

Wow, Danny didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone sound both so perky and dead inside at the same time, except for Susan at Gotham High’s bake sale.

Bruce wishes he could be a Susan. He’s at best a Becky.

“Will you be staying, Mr. Fox? You’re the head of the R&D department, correct?”

“Ah, yes-”

“Oh, Lucius! I think you had an appointment with the finance department right now! I heard Sally talk about it, you know!”

Lucius Fox sent an unreadable look at Bruce before rallying.

“Oh, it must have slipped my mind. My apologies, Mr. Fenton, it seems as though I can not skip this appointment.”

“That’s alright. I suppose it gives you… plausible deniability… should things go wrong, haha!” Danny allowed his smile to widen a little further than natural. Bruce tensed but Lucius Fox simply politely smiled and left the room.

Ignorance is bliss and all that, Danny amusedly thought.

As the door shut with a click, Bruce dropped the vacant Brucie smile and sighed.

“What do you want,” he gritted out. Danny wasn’t about to let that slide, not after he spent the better part of this month wrangling Bruce’s problem children.

“Ah, it must be because I’m from the Midwest, Brucie, but where I come from, we value these things called manners.”

You uneducated jerk, he doesn’t say.

Danny leaned back in his chair, loosening his smile into something relaxed and sharp.

“…” Oh, boy, Danny could just hear the other man’s blood pressure rising. “What is the purpose of your visit, Mr. Fenton?”

“Relax, Brucie,” Danny sing-songed in a non-relaxing way. “I’m just here to discuss a possible merger that I’m sure you’ll agree to, and give you a couple of updates on your… wayward bird.”

He heard Bruce take a slow, controlled breath. “Very well. Where. Would. You. Like. To. Start.”

Danny ignored the gritted out sentence. He passed a contract to Bruce, who took it like he was handling a live bomb.

“Here’s the proposal, Mr. Wayne. Please, look it over.”

He watched as Bruce looked over the contract with an eagle eye before lowering it, scrutinizing Danny.

“This is… very fair.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. Of course it was fair. Danny wasn’t interested in exploiting the Waynes, despite them being very able to afford it.

He’d brought fifty manufacturing sites for pharmaceuticals, and offered up a building where both companies could send their workers. He provided top notch security- that definitely didn’t have any talons on staff, what were they talking about?- that came from his own security division. Granted, most of them were reformed and trained goons, but hey, creating jobs can only help Gotham’s economy and help break the cycle of poverty, right? Guaranteed by the Wayne name and, most importantly, uncompromised medicine that was accessible to everyone would be a damn good start. He’d also have Penguin’s empire to distribute it to those who couldn’t make it to a clinic or a store, and there were plans in there to work with and establish contracts with Gotham’s welfare department. Well… once Danny finished replacing them with people who wouldn’t try to take a cut of the funds and actually cared about the people. He was thinking… the multitudes of poor grad students and parents that need income. He’s in the process of building childcare centers and…

It’s a good thing he managed to save money from the taxes (thank you, Gotham’s morally ambiguous tax experts that were in desperate need for clients! He could do it himself but having a team of accountants at the ready was seriously so helpful.) because ancients knows the government weren’t about to step into Gotham and help the people here. He needs so much money to pull all of this shit off and a lot of it has to be clean.

Danny inwardly sighed and marked another thing onto his to do list.

Make money laundering fronts.

“Of course, Mr. Wayne. You didn’t think I’d come in here demanding money, did you?”

“I considered it.”

“I am, in fact, trying to help Gotham. You might not agree with my methods, but I’d rather not damage Wayne Enterprises when it’s doing so much to help the people.”

Ugh, he was doing too much work. Danny just wanted to- hah- chill at home and read bed time stories to his kids.

Bruce Wayne, the specific blend between Brucie and Batman, regarded him silently. Danny felt like he went up a few notches in the respect ladder.

Nice.

“You’re a criminal.”

“Says the man in the bat-suit breaking into places and assaulting people.”

Bruce’s hands spasmed around the contract. Danny smiled at him, taking a sip of the coffee they’d prepared. Oo, nice!

“Ah, I heard you’re adopting- pardon, fostering- Tim Drake. Getting empty nest syndrome, Brucie?” He slipped back into using Bruce’s first name. The proposal was formal. This… was very much not.

“What about it?”

“That’s very kind of you. Speaking of which, well, of your birds, I was wondering if you remembered what I asked you to do.” Danny continued, not giving Bruce a chance to reply. “Didn’t I ask for you to keep your birds in line, Brucie?”

The CEO straightened even further, form filling out to be Batman’s imposing figure. “I did.”

“No, you didn’t. Do you know where your charge is, right now? No, not the formerly dead one,” Danny tilted his head, smile shrinking.

“Don’t you dare do anything to Tim. I swear, if you even lay a hand on a strand of his hair, I’ll-”

“Sit your Armani clad ass down, Bruce.” Danny snapped. “Your son’s in your office. I don’t harm children, and your assumptions are deeply insulting. Threaten me again, Bruce, and I’ll make sure you know exactly how much I know about your birds, your cousin, and the commissioner’s daughter.”

Bruce snarled but leashed his anger just enough to sit back down. He itched to go check on Tim, but leaving a threat like Phantom unwatched felt inherently wrong.

“Your other son,” Danny continued. “Is doing quite well. He’s learning that he has hobbies again. He’s actually working under me, you know.”

“He’s what.”

Oh, yeah, that tracks. It figured that Jason wouldn’t tell Bruce about anything. He’s still conflicted about his death. Danny got it.

“Ah, that’s precious information. You’ll have to offer something of equal value if you want to know. There is, on the other hand, a piece of information I’ll give you for free.”

Danny paused for the dramatic effect. It was lost on Bruce, the ultimate drama queen of this world.

“The League of Assassins are hanging around Hotham lately. It’s getting tedious, getting rid of them. I suggest talking to your old flame, you know, with words and what little communication skill you’ve got rattling around in your noggin to get them to pull back. Her interest is… unnaturally focused on Jason.”

Danny read the dark agreement swimming about Bruce’s face and inclined his head. “Should negotiations fail, rest assured that Jason will be protected.”

“…Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Go ahead and discuss the contract with Mr. Fox, I am sure you’ll find little problems with it. Ah,” Danny stood up, fixing his suit jacket. “And you should probably check up on Timothy. He’s probably having a great time in your office, Mr. Wayne.”

“I’ll see you out.”

“Of course.”

Having Batman escorting him out should probably be more intimidating.

Danny stood in the elevator, waiting for Bruce’s contemplative silence to put itself into words.

Sure enough, “What… what kind of hobbies does Jason have now?”

“I’d tell you to ask him, but you two aren’t on speaking terms, are you? He likes books, of course, but recently, he’s found an interest in glass blowing. He made quite a bit of progress on his attempts at sun catchers.”

“I see.”

Well, Danny’s not about to step on that landmine any more than he has to.

——

“Danny.”

“Oh, hey, Jason. Sit down, we were about to have dinner.”

Jason clambered into the window. Danny sighed. He had a door, but by the way Jason never used it, it was like the door didn’t exist.

“Mind telling me why the old bastard showed up on my rooftops with a bunch of glass and glassblowing tools?”

Danny smiled. “No idea.”

“Uh huh.”

Danny placed a hand on his chest and put on his best woe-is-me expression. The teen’s face twitched in annoyance. “Doubt? At me? Why, I never!”

A bread roll thwacked him in the face.

#dpxdc #danny phantom #batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #tim drake #dc x dp #red hood #bamf danny phantom #crime lord Danny #accidental crime lord Danny

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soullessdianthus · 11 months

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𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 | 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞!𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎'𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚

Warnings: yandere themes (manipulation, kidnapping, imprisonment), smut (overstimulation, dubcon/noncon, breeding kink if you want to interpret like so)

Word count: 1.6k

A sound of pouring rain tapping over the window kept you awake. You glanced over the glass and saw the same image as for the days before - dense, forest line cutting the grassy, wild meadow off. The temperature inside and out was warm and it almost felt like summer in the countryside of your homeland. But it was all an illusion.

A high-tech screens had been put inside the window frames to imitate your well known surroundings. He put an effort to make this place look like a decent place. Somewhere you would feel comfortable. But this wasn’t even a real home, it was your prison.

After you interfered a little too much with the canon events in one of the spider-verses, Miguel O’Hara visited your world in person. He demanded an explanations from Peter Parker, a friend from college, about your doings.

Because you two learned lately about the up-coming death of uncle Ben and tried to avoid it by all means. And you almost succeed. Almost.

Miguel, a tall man with a dark look on his face, threatened Peter about the consequences of avoiding such occurrences. Parker appeared to be frightened of the stranger as Miguel’s eyes seemed to glow brightly red from frustration.

Those piercing eyes finally found your form, standing still behind your Spiderman and only then you processed what you just heard.

━ Wh-What? It was OUR idea to save your uncle! ━ You interrupted those two men, gesturing with your hands. But Peter didn’t even bother to look at you, he didn’t have enough courage to do so. He tried to frame you and put all the guilt on you. Which in the end, somehow worked out.

He agreed to that mysterious spidey-guy from another universe that someone had to bear the consequences of messing up with the timeline. And Parker pointed at you. An ultimate betrayal, ripped your heart apart.

Soon after you found yourself in that damn prison with a bracelet over your wrist to “stop you from glitching”. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Miguel was some kind of boss around the place you found yourself in. At least that's what Lyla told you, a artificial intelligence present in the technology around you. It was him who was responsible for you from now on as he visited you every day.

At first, each time you saw him, you tried throwing things at him purely out of rage - a book, a small picture frame or a chair, but each time he managed to catch or turn down anything you tossed. He kept trying to explain to you what was happening and why he couldn’t let you go back into your world. Miguel stated that it was dangerous enough when a non-variant person was messing up with the timeline.

But was this all true? There was no one else you could ask for a second opinion, you had to believe, everything Miguel told you was the truth. Obviously, you questioned everything about him and this place. It felt like you were losing your sanity and a part of yourself.

The well-built man with brown, combed hair was very patient and understable with your rage and sorrow. Until he was not.

O’Hara had enough of your tantrums and one time he scared you truly. Eyes turning bloody red, his veins popping out and his teeth turning into long fangs. He charged at you, shoving your whole body to the wall behind. When your eyes were filled with fear and lungs emptied themself due to the force he pushed you, Miguel contained himself and moved away quickly.

You rarely saw him in this form, but when you finally did - you kept behaving well, not wanting to anger him again. Because you knew nothing about him. What if he was able to hurt you? Or even murder you?

Since then, you tried to suppress any anger and try to figure out how to return to your world, your life. And the brunette kept coming back, each day just to visit you. In the end he was your only company.

Miguel brought you new books or art supplies if you asked Lyla or him directly. The man would spend some time with you - cooking, watching movies, anything you liked to do. But it was months ago.

For the last couple of weeks, you were practically silent and apathetic. Curling inside the armchair near the “window”, napping or sobbing quietly. You’ve been in this prison for too long and it began to crush your spirit.

He acknowledged the change in you and tried talking about it. He kept assuring that he has to keep you here for the world’s sake and balance. Because if someone messes up with the canon again, the universe will collapse. You reprimanded yourself for leaning into his chest when he offered you a comforting hug. Because how could you ever want solace from your captor?

That evening was no different. Miguel visited you after work and found you sitting in silence on that damn armchair. When he crouched down, trying to catch your sight, you scooted backwards in the seat.

━ What’s wrong, cariño?

━ I want to go home. ━ Your voice full with sorrow gained his attention. Where was your spirit he adored so much? The pain in your voice almost made him feel bad. Almost.

Miguel reached towards your exposed calf and started rubbing it with his pointing finger.

━ This is your home, tú lo sabes. [sp.: you know it] ━ His voice sounded peaceful when he reached both of his arms in your direction. His embrace was welcoming, but you knew better. It was like a sweet flavored poison, spreading slowly under your skin, killing you slowly. ━ Come here.

You pushed firmly against his shoulders as you jumped out of the chair and took a few steps back.

━ Miguel ━ you said his name loudly, gaining his full attention. You were being hysterical again. ━ I’ve been here FOR MONTHS. I had life before, I had A PURPOSE. You took it from me!

He tried, he really tried holding himself back this time you talked back. But your whining became annoying and Miguel just knew what would make you feel better.

He stood up to his full height, easily towering over you. Brunette came closer, taking each step slowly, like he was giving you time to calm yourself or at least apologize. But you didn’t even back out.

Miguel was leaning to look into your glimmering eyes and he saw how much you hated him at that moment. “We need to work on that temper”, he once told you, but you thought nothing of it.

His little, feisty nymph. That’s what he liked to think of you.

━ Fine ━ he growled right in your face, before grabbing your arm. ━ I’ll give you a purpose.

The sound of your heavy panting echoed through the room. You tried straightening your hands again, but unsuccessfully as your muscles gave up a long time ago. Only his strong hands kept your ass higher than your head, by the tightening grip over your already bruised hips.

Miguel kept thrusting into your tight cunt until you were a sobbing mess. He already pushed you over the edge at least three times, devouring the little noises you made and how your pussy clenched around his swollen shaft.

Brunette kept one of his palms spread between your shoulder blades, keeping your upper half down, making your spine arch better.

The sweat covered the back of your bent knees, him sliding in and out of you with ease, because of your wetness. Miguel certainly knew where to touch you to make you break into pieces between his fingers.

━ See, doesn't that feel good to be by my side, cariño? ━ He leaned over your puffing frame, cheek dipped in the sheets while he kept fucking you stupid.

━ Mig-Miguel… I can’t… n-no more…. ━ You whispered to him, feeling as each thrust of his hips pushed his cock deeper inside of you. The coiling sensation started to build up again between your trembling legs and in stomach. ━ Please!

━ Just one more, darling. ━ He heard you clearly, but yet he kept sliding in and out of you violently, chasing his own sweet release.

Miguel took his hand away from your back and sneaked between your puffy lips. He spreaded them, opening you up and making it easier for him to find your clit. And when he finally did so, the brunette started rubbing it in a rhythm that quickly made you reach your another orgasm that night.

Your body tensed suddenly and then collapsed into his pelvis, sinking his swollen cock deeper. When your cunt fluttered around him uncontrollably and your eyes rolled backwards, he came inside you, clenching his teeth.

He tilted forward and placed both of his strong hands on each side of you, while coming down from his high. He noticed your grip tightening over bed sheets and smiled, before giving you a tender kiss on the temple.

━ Mi pequeña ninfa. Do you understand now, that only I can protect you? [sp.: My little nymph]

Miguel loved his girl no matter if she had a bad day or not. He was going to make sure, no one will ever take you from him. You’re his precious troublemaker, aren’t you?

━ You belong with me. ━ He growled into your ear.

#yandere miguel o'hara #yandere #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #spider man 2099 #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spider man: across the spider verse #reader insert #smut #miguel o'hara smut

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cy-cyborg · 7 months

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Writing disability: The Super-Crip Trope, and how to avoid falling into it's harmful elements

The "Magical disabled person" or as it's often called in disability circles, the "Super-Crip" is the name of a trope in which a disabled character has some kind of magic or special abilities, which is used to mitigate or erase the impact of their disability. While not a mandatory part of the trope, many super-crip characters are also stronger than their peers, specifically because of their disability's impact on their powers. So why is this trope so unpopular among many disabled people? There's a few reasons. The main one is because more often than not, Super-crips who are written by non-disabled people are often treated as an easy way out of actually having to deal with a character's disability, and a shortcut out of having to do the research into how a disabled character would deal with certain situations. When these writers encounter something they think their disabled character can't do, instead of actually talking to people with the same disability as their character and doing research, they just write that its not a problem because "magic powers go!"

In some cases, but not all, their powers all but erase their disability completely, at least from the perspective of it's relevance to the story. While, to my knowledge, this was never in the comics or movies, A good example of this is a "fan-theory" I've seen among non-disabled X-men fans who claim professor X could use his telepathy to walk, functionally bypassing his spinal injury (Or his leg injury, if we're going off some of the comics' timelines). This would functionally erase his disability, making it an example of both the super-crip trope and the miracle-cure trope.

ID: An image of Professor X from X-men, a white bald man wearing a suit, sitting in a silver wheelchair, and another unknown man in a suit standing beside him, framed by a circular doorway, both their faces are partially obscured by shadow. /end ID]

Another reason this trope is disliked is because writer's often have good intentions when using this trope, but they actually end up undermining the points they were trying to make. Often, super-crips are portrayed as badasses in an attempt to show that "you can still be a hero/useful to the plot and be disabled", but the way they portray it usually implies that disabled people, as they exist in real life, aren't useful unless they have something that compensates for their disability or have impossible powers.

So should super-crips be avoided entirely? Some folks in the community think so, but personally, I don't agree. Despite all of what I've said so far, I think there are ways to write characters who technically fit the definition of a super-crip, without it being harmful. There's an argument to be made that "super-crip" specifically refers to harmful version of the trope, so not everyone will consider characters who aren't part of it, but I do, and I think it's important to discuss both the harm this trope can bring, and how this trope can be used in non-harmful ways. Humans (and creatures with human-level intelligence) are adaptable creatures, and in a world where magic exists and especially in worlds where its common, disabled people will find ways to use it to help themselves. but help is the key word there. So let's talk about some ways you can write super-crips, without it crossing the line into becoming harmful. The following are some things for you to consider about your character's disability, how their magic/powers interacts with it, how they interact with the world (and vice versa) and more:

Are your character's powers an aid or a cure?

The first, and one of the most important things to consider, is if your character's powers function like an aid or piece of assistive tech, or a cure? If you boil it down, is the magic helping them or "fixing" them? This can be a cure in the literal sense, as in giving an amputee the ability to shape-shift to get their limb back, or a functional cure, meaning the power essentially by-passes the disability, like the above mentioned professor-X fan-theory. It's not literally curing him, but it might as well be. In a world where this magic or super-powers exist, it's perfectly natural that a character might use the magic to lessen the impact of their disability, but it shouldn't erase it entirely. Give the magic a trade off, make it imperfect. You character can cummon a magic prosthetic, but there's a time limit on how long it lasts for, or their magic needs to recharge it. A wheelchair using mage might be able to engrave magic runes on their chair that allow them to pass over rough terrain, but only to a certain extent. It might allow them to go up-stairs, but it can only be used so many times per day (and make sure you show the times where they need to get up the stairs, but have run out of uses!) Things like that.

Is the power directly tied to their disability?

Is the power you're giving the character directly tied to their disability? There's 2 ways you could read this, and both should be considered. 1. The power is something you, as the author, gave to them specifically because it would help mitigate their disability (e.g. giving a character without arms telepathy so they can still pick things up/hold things because you couldn't figure out how they would be a badass swordsman without it) or 2. Does this character, in universe, have their power specifically because of their disability? e.g. Did our arm amputee develop telepathy through sheer-force of will because they really wanted to be a swordsman, and their determination manifested as telepathy/A god gave them the powers because they felt bad for them/a wizard taught them how to do it because they were inspired by the person's perseverance? If the answer to the first one was yes, perhaps reconsider and do more research. If the answer to the second one is yes, proceed with a lot of caution. Generally, if the powers originate from someone feeling sorry for your character, being inspired by them or anything to do with their determination and perseverance, I'd recommend changing that. However, if the powers came from your character having to adapt something to to their disability, that is really a case-by-case basis thing. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. your success with it will depend on the character, the setting and the specifics of how.

Is this power common, or is this character the only person in the cast/only person we see with this ability?

Is the power you're giving your disabled character rare, or even unique? It's fine to give your disabled characters powers that are common within the world, but if they're one of the only people who has that ability (or similar abilities), ESPECIALLY if it directly helps mitigate their disability, you might want to reconsider that choice. In a world where everyone can fly, it would be weird if your wheelchair user couldn't without an explanation. But if no one else in the story can fly except your wheelchair user, it starts looking more like you just gave them that power so you don't have to think about accessibility in your world. If you really must give your disabled character the rare/unique power, consider making another character with a similar disability but no/more common powers so you aren't just avoiding the issue, or making the power not related to/impact their disability directly (e.g. giving your leg amputee super-hearing.)

Does this power solve a wider access issue in your world, or does it just make it easier for your character alone?

As a general rule of thumb, if you are writing a story where you don't want accessibility issues to be a thing (e.g. a story set in a utopia), focus on fixing the environment, not the characters. Instead of giving your wheelchair user the ability to fly upstairs, give the buildings ramps and lifts. That way, its a solution for everyone with that disability, no matter their access to things like magic or technology. When talking about super-crips, this is especially important, doubly so if your character's power is rare! I made a (mostly joking) post ages ago about an idea for an earth-bender character in the Avatar universe, who gets fed up with republic city being inaccessible and starts earth-bending all the stairs into ramps. This solves the accessibility issue for them, but also makes their environment more accessible for others without bending to get around. Of course, not every disabled character will want to help/care to help others, but often when non-disabled people write disabled characters with powers, they kind of forget that their character won't be the only disabled person in this world. It often feels like they honestly think fixing things for their character means there's no problem anymore, and that's not the case.

Avoid, "I may have [insert disability here] but I can still do stuff because of my power!"

By this, I mean give your character other ways to address issues relating to their disability than just their powers. One funny example I remember reading in a writing group I was a part of was this author who was bragging about how their paralysed character could still drive a car because they had electrokinisis (the ability to telepathically control electronics). Aside from the fact that wouldn't work on all cars - including the one their character drove, since not all cars have electronic components controlling their acceleration and brakes, the way they described it was extremely complex, and overall not worth the effort when the real-life solution, hand controls, was much, much easier and the setting allowed for easy access to that kind of tech. When I pointed this out to them, they said they had no idea hand controls were a thing, and they had no idea that real disabled people could drive. They thankfully changed it, but there's 2 things to take from this: 1, double check that disabled people can do the things you assume they can't, your magic solution might very well not be needed, and 2. variety is important regardless. No one device, or in this case, magic power, should act as a one-size-fits-all solution. IRL disabled people have lots of tools to help us, I have 2 sets of prosthetics for different tasks, a wheelchair, a grabby claw (for reaching things on high shelves when using my short legs and wheelchair) and hand controls in my car (or at least I used to but we won't get into that lol). My prosthetics won't "fix" all my problems, I need other tools too. keep this in mind when it comes to magic too - it shouldn't be the only thing at your character's disposal.

There's nothing to compensate for.

Remember, don't treat your character's disability as something they need to make up for (especially if they "make up for it" using their powers). Your disabled character is allowed to make mistakes, they're allowed to have flaws both related and unrelated to their disability, they're allowed to not be good at some things, and they don't always have to be the best at whatever their roll in the plot is. In most stories, they should be on par with the other characters, or at least in the same ball-park, but as I mentioned before, a lot of stories don't let disabled characters fail. In order to justify them even being present, they are often made out to be the undeniable best, almost to mary-sue levels of perfection and super-crips especially fall into this issue a lot. They can be good at things, but balance it out, like with any other character.

You don't have to use all of these points, but they are still worth at least considering. For example, Toph fails all of these points except the first three. Despite that, she's still one of my favorite disabled characters in media, even if she's not perfect, and I'm not alone in thinking that. I've seen lots of other disabled people say the same about her. Which of these points you should use will depend on your story, character, setting and tone. As I've mentioned a few times now, the key is striking a balance. At the end of the day though, these are only general pieces of advice and a lot more factors go into making a character like this work. only disabled people will be able to tell you if you've pulled it off, and that's where beta-readers and disabled sensitivity readers come in!

Also, remember, these kinds of tropes don't just apply to the more common/well-known disabilities like amputations and wheelchair users, that's just what I have experience with! Be sure to research any disabilities your character has to ensure you are not falling into these tropes.

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tanoraqui · 1 month

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In Which Space Orcs are Men

[AO3] A "what if humans are space orcs" take on Dagor Dagorath. (Aka the prophecied apocalypse of Middle Earth. Scifi story accessible to non-LotR nerds!)

Elves weren't really supposed to leave Earth. That's what they told us—the Elves, that is, told people thousands of years ago, when Elves could still be found here and there. When I was born, elves were nearly as much a fairy tale as they’d been on Ancient Earth.

Elves weren't supposed to leave Earth, the Elves said in the fairy tales, and in a few old scraps of records scattered around known space. They literally weren't made for it. They could only do it if they brought Earth with them—Arda they called it, leaves or dirt, water or a rare bubble of air, perfectly preserved in a white crystal. There are tons of tales about Elves losing their lifeline jewels—their hearts, their silimirs—and roping people into epic quests to get them back before they—the Elf—faded to nothingness.

Even the jewels weren't enough, though. That's why there are also stories about Elves who fell in love with a person or a place and stayed there until they faded, or Elves who charmed someone into following them back to Fairyland on Earth...because whatever they said, Elves didn't really live on Earth. Humans have maintained their home planet as a monitored nature reserve since like the 40th century, open only to vetted research teams and serious Human religious pilgrimages. The most confirmed accounts of Elves that exist are of their ships appearing out of nowhere, with no trace of any tech that would enable it, at random, always-changing points within 100 miles or so of Earth.

Nobody ever came back from trying to follow Elves home. Mostly Elves tried to dissuade people from trying. But there are always crazy and curious people—and Elves usually attracted those, because any Elf who left the home they were "made" for was usually crazy and curious themselves.

Those were the stories I grew up with. There was a cave near the orphans' creche which was supposed to be haunted by a faded Elf. I didn't really believe it—like I said, the last confirmed Elf was last seen like 5,000 years ago, and not even on my planet. People have met two dozen new sentient races since then. We've discovered that reincarnation is probably real (just functionally untrackable), prompting the Pan-Religious Reform Wars. The last person to see a live Elf was still traveling via natural wormholes—they literally didn't know that you could loop pi.

When the Human natal sun started to turn really red, it wasn’t that big a deal at first. It’s a very important, very sad event for any species, but it happens to everyone eventually. It happened to the Hectort just after we invented interstellar flight. There were some unusual gravatic waves around Earth’s Sol, but nothing worth noting to anyone who didn’t already care for personal reasons.

Then the Elves sent us a message.

The local Parks Service picked it up, of course. I bet the Humans meant to hush it up at first—though the Centaurian government still won’t admit anything—but someone leaked it immediately on the intergalactic net. It should’ve only been famous as a joke of a hoax, but…

It was basically just a metal box with rudimentary fire-thrusters soldered on the sides. It contained two things. The first was a recording/replaying device so antiquated that the only way they got it working is that it was already playing on loop, and didn’t stop until someone disconnected it from its power source.

The message was in Ancient Bouban, which some folklorist soon announced is the latest language an Elf could know, since the last known Elf went back to “Arda.” The voice somehow sounded melodic to every species with a concept of music, from the screeching Vesarians to the deep-sea sub-sonic Thinkers, even when translated through cheap, staticky speakers. And to most species, the speaker was audibly distraught.

They said,

This is the final message from the Firstborn of Eru to the Secondborn, and everyone else. The Battle of Battles has come, and we…are losing. If there are any who remember the ancient love and loyalty which bound our peoples, if there are any heirs remaining of Thargalax the Magnificent, of Nine-Fingered Frodo, of the noble Houses of Haleth, Hador and Beor—

The speaker drew a sharp breath, there.

—by great oaths and greater friendship I bid you now to raise your swords and ride to our aid. Ride as swiftly as you can!

We will hold for another year. We will, they said determinedly. After that, it is unlikely that…

Another, shakier breath. A smile forced into a voice which would rather weep.

Fëanáro and Nienna believe there is a way to destroy the Straight Road. If we must, if it comes to it, we will do so, and trap the First Enemy here in this dying world with us. Though I don’t know about—

Hair-aristocrat! a more distant, slightly less perfectly melodious voice called, in a language so dead that they needed computers to decode it. The walls are falling, we need to go!

If you never hear from us again, and no sudden discord arises among you, you will know we succeeded, the first speaker said quickly. If otherwise…I am sorry. Either way, I bid you all only, remember us! Oh beautiful flames, remember us, as we have ever remembered y—

There was a sudden screech of tearing metal, a defiant, musical battle-cry, and a jarring silence. Then the message restarted.

And that wasn’t even the strangest thing in the box. The strangest thing was the recorder’s power source, which was powering the whole tiny rocket mechanism as well. It was an Elf-jewel right out of a fairy tale, a fist-sized, translucent not-quite-diamond—but instead of rock or water or a much-loved scrap of plant, the only thing it held was light.

...Kind of. It isn’t normal light. It arguably isn’t light at all, as we know it—scientists now think it’s technically some sort of plasmoid aether, except it only acts like a plasmoid aether about half the time.

It has no detectable source within the jewel. It fully illuminates whatever space it’s in, no matter how big. Its visible radiation is a frequency, the scientists say, that matches a hyper-accelerated version of what the universe must’ve sounded like in the split second after the Big Bang.

It makes people remember things, when they see it in person or sometimes even across a holo. Some remember a similar light in a strange traveler’s eyes. Others, dreamily enchanted valleys where spring never faded, or tall castles, bright swords, and stern and glorious lords and ladies. And some of us got hit with a whole lifetime of memories in one go: an identical gem on the brow of a sober forest king, friends who slipped through trees like shadows save for their merry laughter, an impossibly beautiful gold-haired maiden dancing in a glittering cavern...

(And all the pain and loss that came with them.)

And some people just remember the sight of a distant star—in another world, in another lifetime.

Reincarnation was provable but untraceable…until now.

The Thinker ambassador on Astrolax Station 5 was the first to kick up a fuss. Most Thinkers never leave their home planet, they're too huge and aquatic. But like I said, there's always crazy and curious people. The ambassador started bellowing the second che heard the message, without even seeing the light, because, "I know him! My Wisdom! We must send aid!" That made some news, and random other people shared their own, less dramatic revelations, and soon a compilation swept the net with timestamps showing that most of them were organically independent, not just jumping on the bandwagon….

Even that might've gotten written off intergalactically. The Thinkers are big in reincarnationist circles, on account of how they claim that deep in their planetary ocean they can hear echoes of their past lives. But being mostly planet-bound means they're not really influential on a big political level. Or it would've sparked another surge of the Reform Wars, and everybody would've remembered the rock, but not the recording. Or there would’ve been a fight over this potentially infinite energy source (though that is so last giga-annum)….

But first it was shown in person to the current Director of the Admiralty of the Astral Alliance, President of the X-ee Empire and Matron of the House of S,sh, Ch’ees/i’i S,sh. I was actually there—I was Captain of her ceremonial Alliance guards, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage my career after Zanzibus. Very ceremonial, considering the X-eee have laser-proof shells and pincers and I have, what, opposable thumbs? Vestigial tusks?

I wasn’t paying attention at first, too busy being suddenly assaulted by all my own memories. So I missed the President freezing mid-step and gasping (in X-eee), “Mother.” I also missed her rising alarm call of an attempt to speak Ancient Elvish without an Elvish tongue or lips.

I sure didn’t miss her snap back to X-eee for a sharp call to attention, and everything that followed: the call to arms! The rousing of the Alliance! A tour of the galaxy, to find anyone and everyone else in whom the Light could awaken ancient memories! And for the love of X'eeh, why had nobody figured out how to get back to Fairyland with this thing yet, and every warship in the quadrant?!

If I believed in the One Behind, or in any other creator god or gods—I'm not saying I do, but if I did, if there really is something out there all-powerful and all-kind—then it'd be because out of every soul in the entire universe, the probably one in the best position to act on the Elves' message turned out to have, from a past life, two parents and a much-loved twin still in Fairyland. Like, that's insane, right?

I stayed with the Director's ceremonial guards for the whole tour, actually more than ceremonial for once—it was the weirdest mission of my life, and I've been on a lot of weird missions. Or supposedly routine missions that got weird (and usually disastrous). My friends joke that I'm cursed. S,sh requisitioned an Inquiry-class ship, so the science boffins could study the Light and jewel along the way, and we started wormholing at weft speed, hitting a new planet every week. Sometimes every day. In each major spaceport and ground-city, S,sh stood with the jewel on the highest available point and gave a recruitment speech for going to save the Elves and fight the oldest enemy of all reality.

Honestly, it seemed a little redundant? The Astral Alliance was made for this sort of rescue mission (and for escorting trade convoys). But I was...if not happy, then sure as hell more self-certain with my ancient memories restored, and most people who joined up seemed to agree. It was mostly people who remembered, when exposed to the Light, who joined—so before long, we had a whole tag-along trail of mostly civilian ships, trying to get up to Alliance Fleet standard on the road in less than a year.

Three different religious sects tried to kill S,sh for "profaning the mysteries." Five others tried to steal the jewel because we were apparently appropriating a holy object. The boffins announced that, bar the can't-prove-a-negative possibility, the evidently sourceless Light should be counted as an infinite energy source, and at least seven different groups, ruthless financiers and sustainability idealists, immediately tried to steal it for that. And I still don't know what the rival thief-queens of Likkiliani were about, except that I got tied up upside-down from a palmdar tree for two hours trying to stop one, the other paid me 700 cron then threw me off a cliff, and in the end they recognized each other from past lives and just made out on worldwide live-holo before joining our growing fleet.

It turned out they were the Director's past life's great-grandparents, and a Canid pop princess was her niece. The Thinker ambassador was some sort of ancestor, too. Crazy extended family.

Most people who remember just remember the sight of a star in the sky. A buddy of mine from Fleet Academy remembered looking up at it as a Human sailor. The historians—and you’d better bet we picked up some Earther historians on this mission as well!—say this jewel or one like it was probably astrologically conflated with the planet Venus by early Humans.

(The more time I spent around the jewel, the Silmaril, the more I remembered, of my first life and more. Lifetime after lifetime with bad luck dogging my steps, killing loved ones in my arms, destroying cities I was supposed to save… One restless, haunted night, I met a Rigilic in the cafeteria who’d been awake with some of the same nightmares, who’d been my dead older sister once.)

The tour was cut short when word came from the Earth system that there was a black hole growing in the center of their reddening sun.

No, the sun wasn’t compressing into a black hole millennia ahead of schedule—one had just spontaneously manifested within it, like it’d teleported in. No, not literally—that was impossible. We were pretty sure. No, the sun wasn’t falling into it…somehow. Yet. The black hole was only 17 quectometers wide, but it was growing at an erratic but unceasing rate. If their best estimation of the pattern held, it would consume the sun 2 months before the Elves’ deadline, and the Earth 4 to 950 minutes later.

We pulled back to Earth—well, to the dwarf planet Eros, on the edges of Earth’s star system. That’s where the nearest shipyard of any note was, and we were gathering the whole Astral Alliance. This is exactly the sort of thing the Alliance is for.

I was released back to ship duty. Zanzibus was still a black mark on my record, as was Jorab, and really everything on the AAS Endeavor…and that thing in third year of Fleet Academy… But no matter how bad my curse, I was an experienced captain and one of the best pilots in the Alliance. For this, we needed all the best.

The boffins had pretty quickly mastered limited manipulation of the Light, using modified aetheric resonators, and every day they came up with something new for us to test. They focused the Light into a laser cannon like no one has seen before. They laced it through plasma shields until a fully shielded ship glowed like a distant star. They managed to nearly replicate the Silmaril’s crystalline structure, so they could make “copies” that shone like the original for first a few hours; then, with refinement, a full week…

The one thing they couldn’t pin down with any real confidence was how to get to Fairyland. The frequency of the Light resonated with large bodies of Earther saltwater in a particular way, and models suggested that if the Light source moved horizontally along the water within a certain range of distance and velocity, the resonance would create a wormhole-like ripple in space—but wormhole-like, was the key word, and models suggested. The closest anyone had seen to that spatial distortion was in a logbook of dubious veracity from the Delta Quadrant, four hundred years ago. Alteia, my Academy buddy who’d been a Human sailor, took the Silmaril in an M-wing on a series of highly monitored test flights above the Atlantic Ocean, and space did repeatedly start to hollow in front of bom—so bo had to stop every time, rather than risk vanishing with our single, maybe-one-way ticket.

Then Earth’s moon stopped shining in the sky. Its albedo just dropped nearly to zero, from one night to the next. There was nothing wrong that anyone could figure out—nothing with the orbit, nothing with the surface rock, nothing with the artificial atmosphere. Inhabitants reported feeling colder by several degrees, but no measuring equipment recorded anything.

The black hole slightly off-center in the middle of Sol was now 844.9 zeptometers, and growing more steadily.

We didn’t have time to keep testing. We needed to raise our swords and make our ride, even if we only got one shot at it.

I was given command, for seniority, skill, and because I was the one who managed to talk S,sh out of leading the fleet herself. (If my lives had taught me anything, it was the importance of having someone, anyone, ready to be emergency backup.) Ironically, I was back on the Endeavor, with most of my old crew—though we got permission to rename the ship, in honor of the mission. A lot of people did. Alteia was now commanding the AAS Elendil on my right flank, star-friend in Ancient Elvish. That Canid pop princess had taken over a hospital ship and renamed it Rivendell. An Earth Park Ranger, of all things, remembered being my dad—briefly—and he was leading the Rangers plus my Rigilic drinking buddy on the EPSS Elfsheen.

We weren’t sure if any ship but the one with the Silmaril would get through. The fleet numbered in the hundreds in battleships alone, not counting scouts and scuttlers. Twelve races had sent ships on top of their typical Alliance Fleet tithe, and S,sh had brought about half the full force of the X-ee Empire. We all just locked tractor beams and hoped.

I was piloting as well as captaining, with the Silmaril between my forehorns. It was held in place by about a dozen wires and other connectors to the ship, like an old-timey pilot’s headset. We took off in orbit around Earth, as close as possible to the surface—not very close, in warships of Class S and higher, but within range of the oceanic resonance. A Likkilianian thief-queen stood at my shoulder, ready to advise if anything “Musical” started to happen.

Think about what you’re trying to get to, and why, the boffins had advised, so I did—bright-eyed kings and dancing maidens; lost friends, families, cities, planets and all. The jewel got warmer against my skin and shone brighter with every pulse of the engine, brighter than we should’ve been able to see through.

The silver-gold Light twisted and diffused as space did around us. But there was no familiar rippling wormhole boundary—instead, spacetime thinned to a curtain like driving rain, like Vesarian silver-glass.

A ghost appeared next to me. She looked like the oldest, grumpiest writing teacher at the crèche, though I knew that was only in my head.

“There you are,” she said, impatient and relieved like I’d been hiding in the sandbox again, rather than coming to class on time. Her sewing scissors went snip snip snip as she darted them around my body—and a chain on my soul faded into guiding threads.

Before she’d even disappeared again, I punched the engine and blasted through the silver-glass curtain.

Fairy tales said there’d be a peerlessly beautiful land on the other side, green with eternal spring, full of endless light and laughter. They said there’d be sunlit shores and shimmering waves, with welcoming docks for sea-ships, sky-ships and space-ships all…

We flew into the worst battlefield I’d ever seen, in any lifetime. It was more desperately vicious than Jerusalem V at the height of the Reform Wars, more ruined than Glaurung’s wake, more desolate than Zanzibus after the nuclears fell.

Either a massive supercontinent or a small moon had been shattered, leaving nothing but a roiling debris field. The brand-new meteoroids ranged from pebbles to rocks the size of a small space station, and included space-frozen corpses, forests, and what might have once been city blocks.

I gave the helm back to my Pilot Officer—zer had, I can admit, slightly better reflexes for dodging debris—and focused on captaining.

Most of the life signs were clinging to the larger rocks. There shouldn’t have been atmosphere for them, but walls of thunderstorm wrapped around every shard with even a single life sign—wind and water desperately hand in hand to safeguard the last of the Elves. The only thing visible through the impossible storms was the Light of a second Silmaril, on a meteoroid shaped like half a broken eggshell.

A corpse lay at the epicenter of the explosion—what might’ve been a corpse, if it wasn’t also shattered. The broken pieces of a massive stone humanoid, taller than my ship if it’d stood beside her, still bleeding lava so hot that it burned even in frozen space. Another titan knelt at the shards of its head, a figure of towering bark and leaves, wailing with grief even worse than the end of the world.

A slimmer tree-woman stood with one hand on her shoulder, comforting, and the other wielding a skyscraper-sized club spiked with incandescent wildflowers. Guarding her sister’s heartbreak, she fended off a swarm of bat-sized monsters with wings of darkness and whips of flame.

Bat-sized relative to the gods of Elves and ancient Humans. About the size of an M-wing, in flight.

Countless more of the bat-things flung themselves at the storm-bubbles, like carnivores chasing the prey hidden inside. They were fended off by an equal army of creatures with wings of light and swords of lightning, led by a towering figure who seemed to dance from one bloody battle to the next.

The biggest battle by far was the farthest away, over where the sun had been. In this dimension of stories over science, Sol was another woman-shape, smaller than the others but burning just as brightly as her star. Also just as blood-red. The light was centered on a fist she kept clenched at her chest, and instead of containing the black hole, the unseeable thing that it was here surrounded her, striking at her with a thousand hungry jaws and grasping legs, and she had only a one-handed whip of a solar flare to fend it off—

But she didn’t fight alone. A warrior tore at the Darkness’s spidery limbs with his fists, image on the cameras flickering impossibly between every hero I’d ever heard of. A snarling figure bit at it with jagged teeth, gored it with horns, shredded it with claws and talons, and generally made every ancient prey-instinct in me scream. And a queen with a crown of stars, a shield like the night sky and a sword like a streaking comet, stood dauntlessly at the sun-holder’s side.

With all that, and with the speed of even her most exhausted strikes, I thought the sun-holder could probably have gotten away if she’d tried. But I knew how a person fought when they weren’t willing to leave a friend, and a smaller, silver figure lay at her feet, unmoving and drained of light.

But even the battle for the sun wasn’t what grabbed my eye. No—all my attention, all my guiding threads of fate and the quick temper that always used to get me in trouble, before (and sometimes after) I learned to leash it in an Alliance uniform— All of that took me straight to the fight happening orthogonal to the stone giant’s corpse.

It was another one-versus-many. Morgoth, the First Enemy of Elves and Men— Master of Lies, Maker of Chains, Sonofabitch Curser of Bloodlines—towered over even his fellow gods. His shape changed constantly, sickeningly, but it was always black-armored with eyes like dying stars that hated you personally. His maul dripped with lava and every other kind of blood.

He fought against three great gray figures who moved as one. The tallest wielded a star-studded scythe with swift, efficient strokes, and wore the dark gray of corpse-shrouds. The shortest shimmered with more colors than even a Stamotapadon could dream of, and his weapon shifted likewise. The third was the clear, clean gray of skies after rain or tears run dry, and fought with only a shield—and hit harder with it than either of her brothers.

Around their heads darted the only Elves on the battlefield, in small fliers more like sea-ships than aircraft. But they moved fluidly, pestering the Dark Lord like flies, pricking his skin and threatening his burning eyes.

Until Morgoth swung his maul with a roar of fury that traveled even though soundless space. My ship and heart both shuddered. The gray gods all staggered back, and the Elves fell from the no-longer-sky—all but their leader, more fire than flesh, who wore the third Silmaril. Morgoth caught him in one massive black hand and with sharp claws plucked the jewel away, as easily as a ripe berry from a tree—

“All power to fore-cannon and fire,” I ordered—and the jewel on my brow shone bright again as several stored months’ worth of infinite Silmaril-Light slammed into Morgoth’s chest with all the force that the best scientists in the Astral Alliance could engineer.

He stumbled. He dropped both the jewel and the elf-king (who’d been trying to bite him). The Lady of Mercy tossed her shield to catch them, staying low and out of sight—though she needn’t have bothered. The so-called “Lord of All” had already found his next enemy.

“All ships, move forward and join shields,” I ordered, and met his burning stare though the viewscreen. “Then broadcast me on all external frequencies.”

The wires on my forehead shimmered as we shifted Light-flow to the shields—and to my right, so did the Elendil, and to my left, the Cosmian Blade, and all around us the Minas Tirith, the Elfsheen, the Muse, the Rivendell, the Heart of Zanzi, the Longbottom Leaf… They were still soaring out of the silvery distortion behind me, tractor- and Silmaril-towed: sleek Rigilic eels-of-prey and Centaurian cruisers full of Humans eager to fight for their homeworld, Betan mine-ships and Canid X-M-wings and my own Hectoan starlighters, a full third of the X-ee navy with their X-eee–shaped six-engine dreadnoughts, and hundreds more.

“This is Captain Pel Cinia, once Túrin Turambar, of the Astral Alliance ship Gurthang,” I said. My words were broadcast from every ship on every frequency in every language that the people of Arda might know, as the Fleet assembled from forty-plus different worlds flew into position. Our Light-infused shields blazed and locked together, until we formed a seamless wall right in the Enemy’s face, with the Elves and their other allies safely behind us.

I’ve never felt more proud to recite the most cliché line in the Fleet:

“We got your distress call. We’re here to help.”

#the silmarillion #science fiction #humans are space orcs #fanfiction #my fic #dagor dagorath #not tagging characters bc spoilers (they're listed at the end of the ao3 though)

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bakugoushotwife · 7 months

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kinktober day seventeen: sex pollen kink

>>> god i love me some yuuta he is such a beautiful angel and deserves this! this started out as face-fucking kink but turned into this for storyline purposes LMFAOOO

>>> starring: yuuta okkotsu x curvy!f!reader >>> cw: sex pollen theme, pining, jealousy, face-fucking, oral (f!receiving) creampie, swallowing, doggy, headlock! oops!! >>> wc: 4.5k >>> event masterlist

you two make a dynamic duo. this was evident after he joined the school, drawn to you inexplicably. you were bubbly, funny, beautiful, and immensely talented, and you were the first person to smile at him. you became fast friends, and if he wasn’t sent out with toge, he was sent out on missions with you—where he quickly learned that your technique is beautifully complimentary to his own. you confused him though. you were incredibly pretty—non-sorcerers and classmates from jujutsu tech and her sister school approached you all the time, and you always politely turned them down. all sweet smiles and your caring voice humming out, “oh, thank you—i’m flattered, really, just—focused on working!”

you always were so kind, even if you had a good sense of sarcastic wit. yuuta got a taste of your spirited jokes and only grew more enamored with you, silently thanking the gods above for your gentle crushing of other men’s interests in you. but you never seemed too interested in him, hence why he was so confused when you glared at him and stomped away when he agreed to a date with maki zen’in during your third year. he didn’t realize that he was choosing something bigger at the time, deciding that if you weren’t into him he should try to move on—he should just focus on your friendship instead of all the boys throwing themselves at you and all the nights he spent wondering if you would give him a chance.

but things were never the same after that. you asked toge to take any mission you were sent on with yuuta, and you kept to yourself. panda was disappointed. he thought you would have fought for him, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself going after a man who didn’t want you back. you mostly stick to yourself, mingling with toge and some of your underclassmen when necessary. you run solo missions and spend your time in your room or training, all in an effort to avoid him entirely. you hated how weak the whole thing made you feel. you hated being jealous of maki, someone who had done nothing to you and had been a great friend; you hated being away from yuuta, but you knew it would be worse to stick around and pretend that you’re happy for him.

he didn’t know he’d lose you completely. god knows he wouldn’t have tried this if he thought it meant you would stop sitting next to him in class and start sparring with toge during training instead. he missed you. you used to sneak into his dorm a few nights a week to watch movies and lay your head on his shoulder. you used to hint at your favorite boba until he got it for you on missions in the city. you used to use your curse copying technique to boost his own, paired with the increase in cursed energy output powering his; fights don’t feel like they used to, especially without your arrogant smile as you two dismantle yet another assignment in record time. it was awful, and everyone could tell that he was miserable. that’s why yuuta and maki’s relationship didn’t last much longer after the school year ends. he celebrates his birthday wondering if he should call you—and you spend the day typing and deleting a ‘happy birthday i miss you’ text.

your final year of school starts, and you continue to debate with yourself over approaching him. it’s been months since you spoke, and you’re struggling to find the right words to say after all this time and distance. how could you explain yourself? ‘oh hey, sorry for dropping you, it was actually because you dated someone other than me.’ that’s hardly a convincing apology—and you don’t even know if he wants to see you. it had been a lonely several months without him, due to your own irrationality and instability, but still. you couldn’t bring yourself to stick around and yearn for him while he was in a relationship. now that he isn’t…things could be different. you decide to find him after you get settled into your dorm. you’re almost finished up, so you hurry out to grab the rest of your things.

yuuta can’t stop looking for you. it’s your final move in day, and he has to see you. he wants to make sure everything will be okay between the two of you. he knows what room you’ll claim he just has to make the walk from the boys’ building to the girls’. he’s nervous to see you, but he’s excited, too. it all made sense to him now. you did have feelings for him after all, and he stomped all over them whenever he started dating maki. he understands why you distanced yourself even if it hurt him beyond words. but everything could be fixed now, he could admit the truth with the extra boost of confidence that understanding your absence gave him. he could make the first move with the reassurance, he actually cracks a little smile at the thought of your reconnection and acting on the feelings he’s tried to ignore for so long.

then he sees you, and his smile spreads. he almost calls out your name, until he notices choso next to you, carrying what looks to be the remainder of your stuff towards your dorm. you seemed relaxed and cheerful, smiling softly and talking beside him as he nodded and gave the occasional grin to whatever you were saying. so this is what it felt like for you, then, huh? he supposed it was only a matter of time, every man you came across was charmed by you—and rightfully so. you must have finally decided to move on like he did, but it still feels like he’s been stabbed in the heart with a white hot blade. he’s standing on the sidewalk, rooted in place as choso opens the door for you even with the heavy stuff he’s carrying. you duck under his arm adorably, probably giggling out a thank you as you lead him to your bedroom. yuuta might be sick.

but he has no place to. he did this to you, worse—in front of your face. at least you have no idea that he’s watching you. even as his heart crumbles in his chest and he does an about face back towards the boys’ dorms, he tries to make himself smile. he’ll be happy for you. this is all his fault.

the rest of the day passes without you being able to find yuuta. you did run into choso while you were outside of your building. he and yuji were helping nobara out, but the former noticed you struggling to juggle all your things and offered to assist you too. you’ve worked with him before as well, so you didn’t think anything of it as you led him to your room to set everything down. you catch up with him for a bit and thank him for his help before you dismiss yourself in an effort to find your former best friend before curfew. it was a fruitless search. toge hadn’t seen him since he moved in, and panda still hadn’t arrived. he’d leave everything to the last minute. so with sadness settling in your gut, you return to your dorm and prepare for the first real day tomorrow.

it’s no surprise that the first day means missions for the fourth years. yaga gives a whole spiel on how you all are adults now and all grade one or special grade sorcerers at this point in time. so he partnered toge and maki for a mission in nagoya, panda got a solo mission here in tokyo, and then he sent you and yuuta on a mission in osaka.

his heart sank. there was no way he could get anyone to take his spot. he would be forced to walk alongside you and pretend he isn’t horribly depressed. you would mostly likely try to reconcile, and he missed you so horribly he would take you back in any vicinity. he wanted to fix things, to make things how they were supposed to be, and you’re supposed to be his girl. but what could he even do? maybe he would have you under his arm for this mission if he hadn’t been so brain dead. he can only blame himself, so yuuta extends the olive branch first.

he waits for you at the gates. you can see the hilt of his sword as you round the top of the hill, and you swallow hard. you couldn’t help but think he was still avoiding you after looking for him for the better part of a day yesterday, so what would you say to him now? his grayish blue eyes meet yours, and you smile simply from the warmth that builds in your chest at the sight of him. he mirrors your smile easily, and it turns out you two can pick up right where you left off like nothing had ever happened.

it’s relief. you were both so nervous that too much damage had been done. you wondered if the distance had grown so wide you couldn’t bridge the gap, and he could only think the same, but as soon as you joined his side, conversation flowed freely and laughter followed after. and even as the idea of you and choso nagged at his mind, he knew choso would never know you like he does. he would never fight alongside you so expertly, nor have all the history that the two of you have. if that’s all he’s got, then he can make it through this.

the mission itself was a bit more of a struggle, for once. you blamed it on the fact you hadn’t coordinated attacks in months, but this grade one cursed spirit had way too many abilities and tactics to use against the two of you. you have the ability to copy cursed spirits techniques after they touch you, but it seemed as if this spirit had several different styles. they were spreading what appeared to be a fertilizer of some sort over the ground and walls, you couldn’t get close enough to it to touch, and you weren’t sure that copying this technique was going to be very helpful.

“i’ll just boost your energy—we’ll have to fight the normal way.” you determine through a pant. none of your attacks had worked as planned so far. yuuta unsheaths his sword, chewing on the inside of his lip. he nods, seemingly analyzing the spirit and their dust to decide what he would do next. he surveys the abandoned ward of the hospital you were standing in, locating hiding spots.

“i’m going to sneak around, you try to keep it distracted?” he suggested, and you roll your eyes. it’s hardly a glorious plan, but you relent in it, letting him make the first moves would be more effective and decisive for the rest of the fight. he grins at your signature attitude, and jumps high into the sky. you chuckle at his showmanship, then run at the blob-looking cursed spirit with a whistle. you twirl your spear, watching as yuuta drops down in the dust behind it. his sword stabs through it a moment later, and you’re close enough to get your spear into the mix. at the impact, the spirit starts spitting out that powder, and you get a face full of it.

you sputter and wipe at your face, trying to get it out of your eyes as you stumble back. the spirit laughs, while yuuta digs his sword into their flesh and tries to soothe your worries.

“it’s harmless!” he calls out, yanking his sword out of its back and circling to the front to retrieve your spear. “just get it out—you’re okay!”

the spirit laughs again, the glob-like substance melting into a pile as yuuta stabs it again, this time with the intent to exorcize it. “hardly, little woman!” the beast calls out in an automated croak. “cum is the only cure, female—you will die!” it laughs wildly, turning into a liquid under the pressure of yuuta’s energy. his eyes widen as you make a strangled noise of disbelief.

you’re not sure if you’re blinking in shock or still recovering from its dust in your eyes, but you stumble back as it fully disappears. yuuta rushes to your side as soon as it’s over. you’re going to die? unless you…do something extremely lewd? he’s blushing deeply but it’s clearly out of concern for your life, of course. he’s disappointed in himself for letting you get affected. he imagined it had to get in the bloodstream to be effective since he was fine, but he could tell with one look at you that you were not.

your eyes were heavily lidded, lips parted in a perfect pout as you stood on wobbly legs. you were covered in a thin layer of sweat, and he could see your hands pulling at your uniform—and your inner battle to get yourself to stop. he walks towards you, concerned beyond belief. you would die if he didn’t help, and you do look so intoxicating like this…

“don’t come any closer—please.” you choke out, feeling around behind you to find a wall to back yourself against. your entire body coursed with uncontrollable heat and need, your pussy throbbing painfully. everything was intensified, your heaving chest, the smell of the man you’ve wanted for years, and the searing lust he looked at you with. you started to shake, and he knew he couldn’t obey your command. “i can’t control myself right now, please, oh my god–” you whine out as his warm and slightly callused hands cup your hot cheeks.

“you heard it…you’ll die..” he says softly, wide and concerned eyes searching yours. he wasn’t under the same pressure, but his heart was racing and his dick was hurting at the prospect of fucking his crush. his tongue darts out to wet his lips. he looks almost as nervous and needy as you do. “i just got you back—and i’m definitely not letting you die.”

you’re insatiable, the touch only made your brain fuzzy and scream out for more, your hands reach up for his forearms, whining weakly as the connection doesn’t satisfy you at all. “oh yuuta–it hurts so bad.” you pout, the look you give him is so pathetic he almost whines with you. “h-help me, please~”

he nods and smashes his lips on yours. you let out an animalistic grunt in relief, throwing your body at him and taking the kiss from heated to dangerous, your teeth gnashing and tongue poking at his bottom lip to get even closer. he can’t help but contemplate the words of the curse, they simply said cum was the cure. does that mean his or yours? and where? he doesn’t mind trying everywhere.

you pull back, but your arms stay around his neck, hands knitted in his soft locks. “my clothes–god it feels like i’m burning.” he gently pushes you off of him so he could help you find relief, popping the buttons on your top and letting out a shaky sigh at the sight of your breasts spilling over your bra. he snakes his hands around your back, slender fingers working quickly to unlatch the clasps. he does let out a little moan this time—your tits sag when your bra drops, and yuuta pushes all the fabric off your upper half and his hands knead at your chest instantly, causing you to wail and moan. he’s trying to be normal, but this is anything but. he’s spent many a night with his fist wrapped around his dick, thinking about the first time he would have you, but it never went like this. he’s hardly complaining though, you’re so sensitive and your noises are so pornographic he’s trying not to bust in his pants.

“i’m gonna start crying–” you sniffle, none of his touches were satisfying you like you needed, it was getting unbearable. you were burning up and your pretty eyes were filling with tears of needy frustration. he whimpers at the sight and hurriedly peels his own clothes off, shaking his head in worry.

“oh, don’t cry! i’m here—i’ll..i’ll make it better!” he nods, hooking his fingers under your skirt, shoving it to the perfect dip of your waist. he looks at your soaked panties, and his heart stops. he’s really going to do this, you aren’t even in your right mind—he can’t help but feel like he’s taking advantage of you.

“yuuta–please, i want you so bad, need you!” you cry out, crumbling to your knees before him. you paw at his pants, untying his belt and yanking at the sides of his pants hungrily. he gasps at your desire. he was perfectly happy to please you only, wanting to save you more than anything—maybe other than this, you looking up at him with your lip between your teeth as his dick springs free, slapping against his stomach and making you moan out before you grab him. “fuck my mouth, okay–i need your cum, you heard it.” you sigh, eyes hazy with need as you lean in and kitten lick his pink tip.

his hand flies to your head, and he shudders just from that. you admire the sight of him, long and leaning to one side, cutely trimmed and a leaky slit meant just for you. “hope you didn’t let maki touch you—wanna feel all of it down my throat.” you rub your thighs together, fingers blindly playing with yourself to keep you from going insane.

he blinks a bit at your profession of jealousy—and then he remembers choso. “aren’t you dating yuji’s brother?” he confronts, jutting himself forward a bit to see himself splayed along your perfect tongue. you huff at the accusation, brows furrowing as you shake your head.

“never date anyone but you—” you confess, speech starting to slur. you aren’t able to think as clearly, all you can crave is his dick in your mouth, so you swallow him up. your nose tickles the dark patch of hair above his base, pretty teary eyes batting up at him as you moan around his cock. you want him to be rough? okay. he’ll do that for you–your life is on the line after all. he slides his hands to your cheeks as you work your way along him, up and down at such a sensual pace he’s a moaning mess like he’s affected by the technique. his noises only cause more of your own, his weighty tip hitting the back of your throat and making you gag each time. he makes it worse when he decides to apply pressure, holding your head still and moving his hips instead. he fucks your face brutally, you didn’t think he had it in him. tears run down your face and gags and moans are all to be heard. he looks so good, brows set forward in focus and his pink lips parted to let his whimpers free. he tastes even better, and you think you cum when he does, his thick ropes hitting the same spot his dick was, but you swallow it all down anyway and lick your lips—waiting for more. he shudders, this was far too much for him to handle, he didn’t know how he could return to normal after this.

“let me see you now.” he blurts out, sitting on his knees like you. he crawls closer to you, easing you to lay back on the floor. you’re not too good for it, especially not if it meant yuuta was going to make you feel better. you were frantic with need, spreading your legs as soon as you felt his touch to them, he sees your soaked panties again, and his semi perks all the way back up again. “can i take them off?”

“fuck–please, yuuta, can’t take it anymore—put your mouth on me!” you call out his name so desperately he can’t help but wonder if you would be so slutty had someone else gone on this mission with you. the thought quickly disappears when he remembers your declaration, that you’d never wanted anyone but him, and he wants to ask if it’s true. surely he has time, you’re starting to look like pure sex and as bad as he wants to destroy you, he has to do so in good faith.

“did you mean it—that you wouldn’t date anyone but me?” he asks, peeling your sloppy underwear away from your drenched cunt. you nod quickly, the cold air making you shiver with anticipation. you buck your hips toward him a little, still nodding.

“why d’you think i stopped talkin’ to you? you chose her over me.” you pout, and he feels the guilt pang at his heart again as he picks your hips up off the floor, hooking his arms around your thighs.

“it was a mistake–i didn’t know you wanted me–”

“i love you—don’t just want you–need you, pleaseee we’ll talk later!” you squirm in his grip and he snaps into it. your words push him to new heights, you love him. you love him and you need him more than anything, and god he would make sure you never regretted it. his tongue parts your lips and he grows ravenous immediately at the taste of you. he sucks at it, wanting as much of you on his taste buds as he could get. you mewl and pant immediately, bucking into his face and moaning at the way his nose collides with your clit. you can’t reach him with the angle he holds your hips at, helpless and only able to play with your own chest as he devours you. he slides his tongue inside you, groaning at how tight you are. he knows you’re going to squeeze his cock like a vice. you cry out his name in response, and it drives him crazy. white hot need flows through his veins and it's not enough to hear you. he needs to feel you cum in his mouth, feel you buck and writhe in his arms just like this–it makes him feel like the man you need. and the more you call his name, the more he believes he is.

he tongue fucks you for a minute or two, just stroking your walls and tasting your insides. it makes you moan lowly, a purr almost, but when he slides his tongue up to your clit, your sounds turn higher, towards screams. it makes him feral, his teeth scrape against your hood and you lurch forward, whining to touch him. he makes out with your cunt, watching your face contort with pleasure.

“i’m gonna cum for you, oh–yuuta!” you warn in a broken wail, and he moans against you, waiting for you to coat him in your juice. your legs clench around his head, shaking and jerking as your release hits you in waves. he works you through it, licking two fingers in preparation to work you open, but you shake your head. “please, please fuck me, can’t wait anymore–.” you press your legs to his face again, the need almost worse now that you’ve cum once.

“it’s gonna hurt–” he winces, though the brain in his dick agrees with you wholeheartedly.

“it already hurts—please, please, if you care about me at all, just..please!” you sigh out, thrashing in his arms as you plead. how could he deny you when you talk like that, especially if it will make you think he doesn’t care about you.

“i care about you—i love you too, i–i’ll help you, i’m here.” he stammers around, lowering your legs to his hips. he angles his leaky cockhead against your hole, and your head falls back at the feeling and his confession. you nod, reaching for his hands that support your weight.

“good—then fuck me like you love me.” you pant, your body so glorious and splayed wide just for him. he’s in heaven, and he can’t fight off his need any longer—especially if this was what you wanted, what you were begging him for. he fits his tip past your tight hole, sinking his length deeper in fluid strokes. you moan wantonly, and the sounds make his body tingle. you’re walking sex, he’s always thought that, but seeing you underneath him only confirmed your perfection. you nod your encouragement, even thrusting your hips up to meet him, and the pressure makes his eyes roll back.

he fills you up like he was made to, squeezing between your walls and kissing your cervix once he’s in to the hilt. his fingers dig into your meaty hips, slamming your body down on him repeatedly until you’re both a mess of moans and sweat and heavy breathing. you squeeze down on him, mumbles of his name bless his ears and cause his dick to jump.

he turns you over, hoping you can still support yourself on all fours. you shake, but hold yourself up, arching your back for him to slip his cock back in without a struggle. he faces no resistance, your juices dribble down your thighs and all around him, gurgling and squelching once he’s nestled inside. you moan at the new angle, only intensified by him laying over your back and catching your neck in his arm, adding support for your pathetic frame. he’s got you in a headlock, his hips driving into your round ass, the sounds of his gentle grunting sing in your ear. you’re so close, backing into him like you’ll never have the chance to fuck again–which he can assure you would not be the case.

“yuuta–’m gonna cum ‘gain, gonna give yours to me?” you whine out, panting and struggling through your smooshed cheeks. he nods like you can see him, sweat dripping on your back. you massage him so well that he’s surprised he made it this long.

“yes, i have to make sure you’ll be okay.” he sighs, stilling as a loud moan rips from his throat as he floods your insides, noting that he would have to buy a pill to make sure this didn’t turn into a lasting problem at your young adult age. it feels so good though, he doesn’t know how he would ever fuck you differently. you shiver, squeezing all the seed out of his cock as you come down from your own high. you slump forward, his arm was the only thing keeping you from face planting on the ground. he rubs gentle circles into your bruising hips as he catches his breath.

“are you alright, does it feel better?” he quizzes, feeling himself go soft after several minutes of keeping you stuffed. “talk to me, i’m worried–”

“i’m great,” you giggle, feeling cum slide down your legs when he slips out of you, “better than ever. as long as that’s not a one time thing.”

he leans over your back again, turning your head for a sweet kiss to your lips. “no, no. definitely not. sneak into my room tonight and i’ll make sure of it.”

#kyleewritesjjk #kylee's kinktober event #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #okkotsu yuuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu #yuuta x reader #yuuta smut #yuuta x you

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skellymom · 2 months

Text

Ok...been meaning to ask this for some time, but unable to get a screenshot for comparison:

Who stole Hunter's dick???

Honestly, his crotch and the rest of the Batches have been kinda non-existent all through the series, even in their blacks.

Well, except for Wrecker. He usually has something.

And I can't be too weird about this, because when you can see The Batch in their blacks clearly man chest, ribs, and muscles are visible.

I'm not saying there should be a dick outline. Just a small bulge will suffice. I know it's a kids show...but they didn't skimp on Hunter's butt or our men's muscle curves.

Understandably Echo might be missing something post accident. But Hunter, Tech, and Crosshair represent?

Growers not show-ers?

Also .. doesn't Pabu have a laundry? Those clothes are looking really dirty. Especially Hunter's crotch stain. 👀

#the bad batch #star wars #tbb #bad batch #clone force 99 #tbb hunter #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #tbb echo

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hypewinter · 2 months

Note

3 HC/AU Prompt Thingy (3)

1). Box Ghost hears he was powerful and feared I'm the Dan timeline, gets ripped

2). Jason, as a reverent can hit ectoplasm ghosts

3). Guys Night Out (choose whatever ghosts you want)

(I love making these and your the only one who writes for them, :))

Ok hear me out: Full DILF box ghost. Don't scroll away and just give me a second of your time ok?

Boxy gets swoll. Real swoll. His gimmick might still be dumb but now he's so strong that no one dares to point that out anymore. That being said, he is still the best dad ever to Boxed Lunch. I'm talking about helping her tie her shoes, being a willing participant in her tea parties, tucking her in at night, the works. He's such a good father that when Boxed Lunch asks for a super rare Orphan toy that was only ever distributed in Gotham, he immediately agrees to get it for her.

Johnny 13 hears about Box Ghost's little outing and invites himself along as he wants to get Kitty some new jewelry to make up for their last fight. Thus begins a wild night for Boxy and Johnny as they both have a heart to heart (now that Johnny 13 can't make fun of him for fear of being punted through a wall) plus they even bond over how much they love the women in their lives.

All is going well. The boys have done some fun stuff around the city, gotten up to a little mischief, and even picked up Johnny's apology jewelry. The only thing left is Boxed Lunch's toy. As they're scouring an abandoned warehouse full of discontinued toys that's when Jason drops it. He'd been getting reports of strange occurrences all night from his men and he'd finally been able to track it down to this warehouse. Of all the things Jason anticipated, it was not two weird looking metas going through boxes. But nevertheless he has a job to do.

He aims his gun at the two metas and demands they step away from the boxes. They don't. Why would they? They're ghosts, this human can't hurt them. Sure enough when Jason eventually fires at their knees after a couple of warning shots, the rubber bullets go right through. Jason is shocked to say the least. And now his mind is whirring a mile a minute trying to figure out how those two just did that. Meta powers? Hidden tech? How is he going to deal with this? He doesn't want to go through the embarrassment of calling for backup.

Johnny 13 on the other hand, is pretty peeved this guy won't leave them alone. He's ruining their night out! So he decides to scare him. Maybe that will make him leave. So Johnny gets right up in Jason's fac- er mask and lets out a pretty impressive ghostly howl if he does say so himself. Except instead of running away, Jason instinctively punches him. In the nose. And it hurts. A lot.

So now Johnny is reeling in pain, Jason realizes he can take care of these guys the old fashioned way and Boxy has finally found the Orphan toy. "Oh no!" I hear you say. "The fight of the century between Boxy and Jason is about to go down!" Actually no. Not really.

Box Ghost has been teaching Boxed Lunch about conflict resolution recently and he is not about to let his actions contradict his words. So he explains the situation to Jason. Jason for his part is a little miffed but understanding. You're just trying to be a good father. I get it. Besides these toys are just gonna collect dust in here anyways. Oh but you do have to return the jewelry. *Sad (and pained) Johnny 13 noises*

Jason kinda feels bad for the whole, punching Johnny in the nose thing (even though it was totally his fault) so he offers to take them to find non-stolen jewelry for Kitty instead. Thus the boys night continues! Now with extra shenanigans.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #winter answers #thanks for the ask!#who knows #they might even make this hang out a regular thing

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candycandy00 · 3 days

Note

This is my first time really interacting on here, but I really love you work so I just had to request something.💜💜

Character: Nanami

AU Setting: Masquerade ball

Spice Level: NSFW

Mood: Your choice

Kinks: Degradation and size difference

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Non Curse AU. Degradation. Dirty talk. Size difference.

Part of CandyCandy’s 2k Followers Event! Any feedback at all is adored! Dividers by @benkeibear.

The stranger at the open bar is looking at you again. He’s totally your type, with his slicked back blonde hair and impeccably tailored black suit. He’s tall, muscular but not too bulky, and he stands there holding a drink in his large hand as his eyes slide over to you again. He’s wearing a black silk mask that covers the top half of his face, the sort most of the men are wearing at this swanky masquerade ball for bored rich assholes.

You’re just here for the free drinks and food. Your uncle’s tech start up recently hit it big, so he got an invite to this party two weeks ago. “New Money”, they probably called him. But of course his perpetually single ass didn’t have a date, so he invited you to be his plus one. He even bought you a fancy cocktail dress, in shimmery fuchsia with a low neckline and high split up to the hip. You topped it off with a matching lace mask.

When the two of you walked in, your uncle patted your back and jokingly told you to “go nab yourself a rich guy”. You smiled and grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray being carried by a server.

That was over an hour ago, and you’ve barely seen your uncle since then. You spotted him a couple of times, chatting with other tech business bigwigs, but otherwise you’ve been on your own. You don’t mind. The food is fabulous and the drinks are plentiful.

Then there’s the handsome stranger who keeps looking your way. You can see his eyes through the holes in his mask, can watch them travel up and down your body as you move across the room. There’s a dance floor where some of the early 20’s folks are dancing, so you head over and put on a little show. You may not be used to fancy places like this, but you go to clubs with your friends every weekend, so you know how to shake your ass to some music.

It worked. The stranger’s full attention is on you, his eyes practically glued to your every move. You wish he would just come over and dance with you, but you suppose he’s too mature for that. He gives off a totally different vibe from the young guys who hang around you at the club.

Feeling emboldened by his hungry gaze, you work your way over to the bar and stand a few feet away from him, tantalizingly close yet just out of reach. You fan yourself as if you’re hot after dancing, hoping your perfume drifts over to him.

Within seconds, he moves closer to you, leaning back against the bar casually as he asks, “Who did you come with?”

Are you that obviously out of place? You smile at him. “Who says someone didn’t come with me?” you say teasingly, sipping your fruity drink.

“Just a hunch,” he replies, glancing at you sideways.

You point to your uncle across the room. He’s laughing a little too loudly, being just a tad too clingy to the bear-like man standing next to him. You hope they’re hitting it off. “My uncle didn’t have a date, so I tagged along.”

The stranger smiles faintly. Was that his way of finding out if you’re single? His eyes roam blatantly up and down you again. You hope he’s enjoying the closer look. You certainly are. He’s tall enough to tower over you, and his warm, honey-colored eyes draw you in. He’s the kind of man you want on top of you at the nearest opportunity.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asks, moving even closer to you. He smells expensive.

“The drinks and the food? Yeah. Not sure about the people yet,” you say with a grin.

“Oh? This isn’t your usual crowd?”

You turn your whole body to face him. “Not really. I don’t usually hang around snobby rich jerks. But maybe a few of them are alright.” You say the last part playfully, looking him up and down the way he did you.

His eyes flick down to your chest, as if tracing the dipping neckline, then return to your face. “Perhaps we could talk in one of the private rooms, and you can find out if I’m ‘alright’.”

You feel your heartbeat getting faster as your excitement builds, but you maintain your breezy attitude. “Private rooms? Are we allowed to go in those? The owner of this house might not like that.”

The person throwing this lavish party is also the owner of this ridiculously huge mansion. Your uncle mentioned their name but it didn’t seem important at the time.

The stranger smiles again. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

He holds out his hand, and you take it, trying to keep your breathing steady as he escorts you through the room. He keeps pace with you, probably walking more slowly than he’d prefer, and moves in such a way that it seems like he’s clearing the path for you. Such a gentleman! You really hope he’ll be fucking you like a whore soon.

As the two of you step into a hallway, you notice the marble floors and the walls lined with paintings. “Look at this,” you say. “Who actually needs all this? It’s obnoxious.”

The stranger chuckles. “You really think so?”

You stop to look at a Chinese vase. It probably cost more than your apartment and your car combined. “All this stuff is beautiful, but I heard the owner lives here alone. He has to get lonely in this giant house, right?”

The stranger regards you for a moment, then says, “He probably does. Maybe he even throws these parties just to have some company.”

You think about his answer. “If that’s the case, I feel bad for him.”

The stranger says no more on the topic, instead leading you into what appears to be some sort of dressing room with an enormous walk-in closet. It’s exactly the kind of room you imagine a stupidly rich guy would get dressed in. There are multiple full length mirrors, high quality lighting, and a display case showing off dozens of expensive looking watches.

You turn to look at the stranger as he closes the door behind him. He holds out his large yet elegant hand to you again, and when you take it, he suddenly pulls you close, right up against his body. Oh god, he’s so firm and strong! He leans his face down and kisses your lips, both of you still wearing your masquerade masks. His hands slide across your back, one of them moving down to squeeze your ass.

He pulls away and looks at you, his dark eyes peering into yours. “What would you like me to do?” he asks, his voice low.

You lean in closer to him, pressing yourself to his warm, sturdy form, and whisper, “I want you to wreck me.”

He puts both hands on your shoulders and, not too hard but not too gently, pushes you down to your knees in front of him. He unbuttons his sleek black pants as he says, “Let’s put that annoying little mouth to good use.”

Oh fuck. How does he know exactly what you’re into? Maybe you give off a vibe. You watch with anticipation, licking your lips, as he pulls out his beautiful, massive cock. Is everything about this man as sexy as possible? From the color to the shape to the thick, delectable meatiness, his cock is gorgeous.

You don’t waste any time. You lean forward and run your tongue over it, spreading your saliva around, before wrapping your lips around it. You take him so deep, it feels like he’s halfway down your throat, and you love the fact that there’s going to be a hot pink lipstick stain around the base of his cock.

His hand is in your hair, grip firm but not harsh. “You’re practically swallowing me,” he says. “You must’ve been hungry for cock all night. Is that why you put on that lewd little show for me on the dance floor? So you could end up on your knees for me?”

You look up at his face, your mouth still stuffed full, and mumble a whiny “mmhmm” around his cock. You can see his eyes widen slightly behind the mask, feel his fingers flexing within your strands. You move your head back and forth, fucking him with your throat, fighting back gags, your tongue swirling around him the whole time.

And when he reaches his limit, he pulls your head back and says, “Open wide.”

You’re happy to obey, sticking your tongue halfway out of your mouth to give him a proper place to aim. When his warm cum hits your tongue and lips, you slowly swirl it around your mouth, giving him time to see it pooled inside before swallowing it.

He loosens his tie and then lowers himself to his knees in front of you before unbuttoning his shirt, leaving both it and his jacket on but open. You can see his toned torso, can feel how damp your panties have become. He slides the straps of your dress down, revealing your breasts, and then leans down to take one hard nipple into his mouth. You moan as you dig your fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

The stranger eases you onto your back on the floor, then pushes your shimmering dress up to your waist. It’s the most expensive dress you’ve ever worn, and right now you don’t give a shit it gets dirty. He slides down your lace panties and opens your legs, looking down at your wetness with a somewhat self satisfied smile.

“So wet for me,” he says as his fingers probe your depths. “Such a little slut, getting soaked for a man who’s face you haven’t even seen.”

Ahhh, fuck, his voice turns you on so much! His fingers rubbing circles into your clit are driving you wild. You want him, no you need him inside you!

“Please,” you whine, tugging him closer.

He withdraws his hand and lifts your hips off the floor, pulling your lower half into his lap, his thick cock resting against your needy pussy. “Do you want my cock?”

“Yes, please!” you cry, wiggling in his lap, desperate for some friction.

He has mercy on you, positioning himself at your entrance and then plunging inside. You gasp in pleasure, arching your back as he begins thrusting into you.

“So tight,” he groans, gripping your thighs. “You’re clenching me so hard… so desperate… Fuck, you’re the cheapest whore I’ve ever had! You probably would’ve paid me for this cock!”

“Ahhh! Yes, I’m a whore for you! Please fuck me harder!” you scream, feeling your climax approach as he repeatedly hits your g-spot. When he slams into you one more time, you feel the pleasure wash over you as you cum, moaning and trembling.

He gives a few more pumps, then completely buries himself inside you as he cums, filling you up so well.

You both pant as he pulls out and stands up, buttoning his clothes. He then extends his hand to you again and helps you to your feet. While you straighten your dress and pull your straps back up, he looks at you somewhat sheepishly and says, “I hope I didn’t go too far with my words.”

You blink in surprise, then laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about it! I was into it.”

He smiles. “I thought so. I’m glad.”

You open your mouth to respond, but there’s a sudden knock on the door. The stranger walks over and opens it. A man in a server’s uniform is standing in the doorway, looking frazzled.

“There you are, sir! We’ve been looking all over for you!” the server says breathlessly.

“Oh? And what do you need?”

“We’ve run out of champagne! Your guests are getting irritated!”

The stranger pats the server’s back. “Send Ryusuke to buy more immediately. Everything will be fine, I’ll go talk to the guests.”

The server seems to relax. “Thanks, Nanami-san.”

You watch the scene, trying to keep your jaw from dropping. Now you remember the name of the host, the man who owns this huge mansion that you’ve been shit talking all night.

Nanami turns to look at you over his shoulder, a sly grin on his face. “Will you be accompanying me back to the ballroom?”

You smile back at him. “Of course. I might get lost in this stupidly huge house otherwise.”

He takes your hand. “Perhaps if you started visiting on a regular basis, you could learn your way around.”

You walk out the door with him. “That would probably work, Nanami-san.”

#nanami x reader #nanami #nanami smut #kento nanami #nanami x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #x reader #candys2kevent

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The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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catboybiologist · 9 months

Text

Okay maybe it's time to make an actual designated pinned post

Edit: hiya! A new pinned post will come, but quick note that I am starting my transition MtF now. This pinned post, and all the pictures in it, predate that, however. General guide is that I'm referring to pre transition me as a femboy, and will be referring to myself as a trans woman to moment I start HRT. But I'm leaving this old pinned post up for now.

Hi! I'm CatboyBiologist. I'm a grad student in Molecular Biology with a passion for the ocean, nature, Fromsoft games, national parks, and weird tech stuff. I tastefully hornypost about men, women, and all others (so be warned), post spicy hot memes (fuck you I'm the funniest mfer alive), type out long rambles about science and nature, and play Fromsoft games. PLEASE send me cute pictures of your pets.

Oh yeah, I'm also a cis man who does this sometimes:

I also make shitposts out of myself sometimes

I've also made a couple guides on how to replicate these kinds of looks.

General overview of femboy stuff:

How I create cleavage looks from a relatively flat chest:

If you want a somewhat more realistic idea of what my figure looks like:

The best way to specifically see those posts and filter out everything else is probably to use the femboy tag on my profile.

Pronouns? Uuuuuhhhhhhhhh, idk dude just use whatever. It's far more gratifying to me to throw a look out there and see what people wanna use for it than to declare my pronouns. If that doesn't make sense to you, they/them or he/him is cool.

Asks and DMs are always open for science talk, cute animal pictures, casual non creepy flirting, or whatever else... With the SOLE exception of these two questions that I get WAY too often and will give final answers to here:

"Are you a biologist who studies catboys or a biologist that just happens to be a Catboy?"

Both. Do humans not study human biology?

(also I'm actually studying bio irl)

"why is it not catboyologist, hmmm? I am very clever"

To give a serious answer to a joking question I get way too much: This online persona (or whatever you want to call it) is about balancing and integrating two large parts of my personality: my career in and passion for biology, and my queerness and gender nonconformity. I wanted both of those parts to be clear, in a cute and fun username. Basically, "catboyologist" only has the same effect as my actual username if you already know my actual username- you can't interpret the "biologist" part from "catboyologist".

Plus, "catboyologist" has too many consecutive wide vowels. CatboyBiologist breaks it up so it sounds punchier.

Oh yeah and apparently I was a 196 microcelebrity? I never to thought I was popular enough for that but apparently some people do 🤷‍♀️. So uh, hi 196 tag, I'm abusing you for my pinned post LOL

I'll also abuse other tags I use somewhat frequently, so hi y'all

#196 #r196 #r/196 #femboy #/r/196 #rule #cross dressing #catboy #cute crossdreser #biology #oceanposting

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dotieeee · 3 months

Text

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 7

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 7 Warnings:

Some noncon touching and canooding (no spoilers), Snow being creepy af

Replay Level 6

Ready? Level 7 Start:

For Coriolanus Snow, his days of being unsure of himself are long gone.

Sure, he was insecure all his life because of several factors – his family’s former fall from grace being one of them – but he now has almost everything most men only dare dream of: money, some semblance of power, and a bit of fame, courtesy of his increasingly long list of achievements. If life continues to favour him like it recently has, he no longer has reason to doubt himself or be nervous about anything ever again.

And yet, he could’ve sworn he felt his pulse rate spike when his eyes landed on you, stepping out of that car, in that dress – like a princess that walked straight out of those fairy tale picture books he had to burn in his childhood for warmth during the winter. He had imagined what you’d look like in your dress the night before, but he never expected reality to be a thousand times better.

Coriolanus fought the urge to kiss you on the mouth and drag you somewhere more private; instead, he kissed the back of your hand, noting how soft they were as always, but he could also smell a faint hint of roses on you. His signature scent on his girl. He felt his heart swell with satisfaction.

But then, you yanked your hand away and deprived him of the softness of your skin. Almost like you were shying away from his touch. He didn’t like it one bit.

No matter – he has nothing but time tonight to show everyone in Panem, including you, who you ultimately belonged to.

He whispered to you just what he thought of you tonight. then you thanked him for his gifts. You needn’t have; he’d have been willing to pay a hundred times more than that to have seen your reaction as you opened them. He’d spoil you even more – hell, he’d already killed for you, and he’d do so again – once you’ve accepted him as the only man in your heart.

You then gave him the news of Acacius Innis’s acceptance to transfer your apprenticeship to him, which was something he already expected. It’d be foolish at this point not to; not when you know that he’s aware of those incriminating letters Sejanus had sent you.

Sejanus giving you trouble beyond the grave – what a laugh, how his dead best friend’s actions ultimately led to his first love being drawn closer to him for the taking.

He wrapped your arm around his and took you inside, finally revealing his true intention of bringing you here. He noted your wide-eyed look at him and the gasp you let out. You were nervous, that was to be expected. Moreover, you were worried about not bringing a gift for Strabo, but he’d already taken care of that, and he knows that the Plinth senior would appreciate the gift you had brought as a couple.

The party hadn’t even begun, but a lot of important people had already arrived. The moment he entered the grand hall with you in tow, he knew everyone was ogling. The longing, envious stares he got as he carted this breathtakingly beautiful woman clinging to his arm through the hall gave him an immense ego boost.

Coriolanus Snow just revealed to all of Capitol high society that he bagged the smart, attractive and elusive heir to Panem’s most successful tech superpower.

The Plinth couple had been ecstatic that you had made it to the party. Ma mirrored his observation: you looked like royalty. Which you are in almost every sense, he agreed. The only thing he didn’t like was her comment about how similar his and her dead son’s tastes were in women.

Thank goodness that’s about the only thing we share, Coriolanus thought.

Then, she had to pull him in for a hug. At least, he could choose to spend his time with you and go around the room and not have to deal with her and her coddling all night.

He observed you the entire time out of the corner of his eye. The way you smiled at everyone he introduced you to, the way you engaged in conversations he knew you had no interest in, the way you laughed along when a joke was cracked, the way you drank dainty sips from a drink he knew you didn’t like – all this you were doing for his sake, much to his elation and approval. But, of course, he wasn’t about to abandon his sugarplum to fend for herself in such a foreign environment as this. Which was why, being the dutiful future husband that he is, he couldn’t let you leave his side. True, he needed you to learn how to navigate his circle as his future betrothed, but if his girl ever needed his help and support, he’d be there to readily give it.

While he was pretending to be interested in a conversation with Mr Rutherford about the profits he had raked in the last quarter from investing in organic food company stocks, he used this precious time wisely to survey the crowd with his keen eyes.

There was a time in his life when everything he did, he did for the sake of being welcomed within their ranks. But in his short exile from them, he had discovered something for and within himself: what good is acceptance, really, when he can settle for absolute authority? This crowd, and all the others, he will one day herd. These sheep , with their mindless chatter and their lavish clothes and their overdone makeup and their non-existent inhibition.

And Coriolanus is more than aware that among these sheep are wolves. These wolves, with their noses high in the air sniffing, and their hungry eyes aiming for rare, fresh meat – he needed to be steadfast in fending them all off and keeping them from sinking their rabid fangs into you.

One such wolf he’d already scared off: Ovidius Browne, a name he’d seen among endless piles of paper in Acacius Innis’s office (that he may have snuck in when you were busy rifling through computer parts he couldn’t name). So pure-of-heart were you that you failed to see right through the youngest Browne’s attempts at beguiling you for a third chance at securing an internship with your uncle. There will be many others like him too, but after this party, anyone who’s hoping for a chance with you will never get their hopes up ever again.

Even when he introduced you to Dr Gaul, he watched your interaction the entire time in case she did anything that might freak you out. Thankfully all she did was compliment you in her usual, eerie fashion. Even he gets unnerved by her at times, and he has the mild displeasure of working under her wing.

In other words, Coriolanus cared because you’re his , and he was the only son and heir of the great war hero and military general Crassus Snow. His father’s blood was also his, and the Snows protect what’s rightfully theirs with all their might. He was convinced that’s all there was to it.

And yet, he couldn’t help noticing how very little you ate during the following dinner, or that you had snuck off instantly somewhere and lost to his view. He had scanned almost anxiously for you among the unremarkable faces in the grand hall before successfully locating the hint of a red silk dress behind one of the hall’s stone columns, right next to the bar, as if you were hiding on purpose just to get some time to yourself alone. Had he overwhelmed you? Had this little test of his proved too taxing for you?

He had to ask you during the dance, and although your response was vague, he could tell by the way you smiled at him humourlessly: you were exhausted, and yet you were still trying your best to conceal it. Putting up a façade despite being sapped of energy brought about by fraternising with people you barely know.

All for his sake.

It was enough to make his heart melt.

That, and the dance you had executed so perfectly, awakened something in him that he’d been trying so hard to suppress, especially in your presence.

“You’re so intoxicatingly beautiful,” he whispered.

It was true in every way. If only you could look into his eyes, for once.

Why were you avoiding his gaze, anyway? Were you angry with him? Why were you closing off all of a sudden?

The dance ended quicker than he anticipated. He could see that you were attempting to hide your heavy breathing from him, even though the dance wasn’t that strenuous. Perhaps, you needed some air, away from this place and from everyone else, even if only momentarily?

So, with nothing but your well-being in mind, he took you to the rich inner gardens of The Palisades, just outside the grand hall.

You were thankful that he did, you said, as you leaned against the stone wall. Coriolanus had his eyes glued on you collected yourself. His gaze was first on your figure, still tense, then to your chest, heaving slowly as you steadied your breath…

He found his thoughts going astray as he stared at the base of your neck, imagining angry, red-purplish welts all over that smooth supple skin – his work of art – all while he suckled and bit down on the flesh he hadn’t yet marked. He went on further to your lips, picturing himself kissing them raw while you kissed him back just as passionately…

He was thankful he had his hands behind his back, or he would’ve grabbed you and made his imagination come to life.

Still, that arousal coursing through his veins refused to let up, and instead travels down to his groin, making his cock twitch.

He needed to do something about that.

So, when he saw you stand to your full height, he made a rather lame excuse of wanting to show you something, and hauled you by the arm, settling for the dimly lit, hedge-growth-covered greenhouse, where he vaguely remembered seeing rose beds. He was grateful that he found the door unlocked, so he gestured for you to get in first and instructed you to find the roses before locking the door behind him.

He had a goal now: to somehow seek relief for that aching itch you had awakened. It was partly your fault, after all.

If he could just latch his lips on you…he just needed a taste, maybe leave just a single little bruise…

He almost sighed as he wrapped his arms around you and whispered just what he’d been dying to do the moment he saw you.

He manoeuvred your body to face him and finally claimed your lips.

Coriolanus Snow knew of nothing else the moment he did.

He slipped his tongue inside your mouth to get a taste of you and pushed you into the wall. This overwhelming need to feel your heat against him made him press himself on you, but that wasn’t enough for him. You weren’t kissing him back, which irked him a bit. He cupped one side of your face to angle your head so he could kiss you deeper, wanting to burrow his tongue inside your mouth further.

He’d known hunger for most of his life, but never this kind.

But then, you had to turn away, when he hadn’t even had his fill. This frustrated him, your lack of response. This time, both his hands encased each side of your head so he could go back to satiating that appetite you had incited in him. When you refused to open your mouth for him, he nibbled at your lower lip, which made you gasp and finally allow him access.

Until he felt your palms push him away insistently.

He drew his head back in disbelief. You had been holding back from him the entire night, but this was an entirely new wall you put up. Why were you suddenly rejecting him? Hadn’t he been good to you? Had he not showered you with enough gifts? Hadn’t he shown you all night just how much he cared for your well-being?

Something put you off, that much he knew. So, he made up some excuse about having drunk too much alcohol to try and placate you as he rested his forehead on your temple.

Then, he vaguely heard you say you wanted to go home because of school.

Who’s making excuses, now?

He began kissing your temple, your cheek, any part of you his lips could reach. When he corrected you on the date, you mentioned something about helping your uncle.

Now, this was just downright insult. Why would you still work for the Innis prick, when you already work for him? He couldn’t help snapping at you, telling you to skip it, before he could amend his tone and state how your uncle had someone else to help him with whatever the hell it was he was making you do.

If you could just let him do what he wanted so he could go back to thinking of anything else besides how much he wanted to stake his claim on you.

He smirked against your cheek when you admitted defeat and hastened to squeeze your chin lightly between his forefinger and thumb so he could take care of unfinished business. He ran his fingers on your back, all the way to the back of your neck, gripping it and slanting your head so he could caress the groove of your jaw.

He moved to your neck after, this time, not being able to resist tasting that exposed skin...

But then, you begged him to stop.

Coriolanus almost ignored your plea, but there was something in him that made him pull away.

Was it the way you had asked him that made him let go of you?

He studied your face with a tense jaw. Your lips were swollen and puffy because of his kiss, your cheeks flushed with emotion, your eyes looking like you were about to cry but you were trying to hold it in...

It was the most beautiful fucking thing he had ever laid eyes on. He could’ve fucked you right then and there, had his way with you as he’d always fantasised, consequences be damned, had he not been thinking straight.

But instead, he suppressed that urge and quelled that arousal that was already halfway through manifesting. He figured the last thing he wanted to do was to scare you further away.

He took you back to the party as you had requested, catching another couple making out in the bushes, who turned out to be a couple you had met earlier. Mildly amused at the scene, he felt a little smug being seen coming out of the greenhouse with you in tow – if the girl was who he thought she was, he wouldn’t mind her spreading a little rumour about a young gamemaker and his pretty apprentice emerging from an obvious tryst in the hotel greenhouse.

It was close to midnight when the Plinth couple sent the both of you home, instructing Coriolanus to escort you back to Corso III. He could tell you were upset by the tense silence between you. Clearly, even with his display of self-control, he had gotten carried away and might’ve unsettled you with his actions.

So what if he spooked you a little, anyway? With the incriminating letter from Sejanus, he knew you’d be reluctant not to cater to his whims, let alone refuse him. He had a half-mind to signal the driver to take them to his apartment instead, where he could simply... continue what you had interrupted.

Instead, he just pecked you on the cheek before watching you run away from him, into your building and out of his sight. Whatever it was that compelled him to take a step backwards that night, he was sure it was only due to his gentlemanly nature.

As he got home, however, the thought of you withdrawing from him so abruptly weighed on his mind, especially since he had been so successful with getting you to be more open to him. Maybe he had indeed scared you with the threat of exposing your culpability with that stupid letter and this was just you complying with his wishes so he wouldn’t turn you in.

Unless this was some sort of ruse on your part to throw him off. He’d be foolish to put it past you and underestimate you, given your clever nature and your propensity for intrepid, often brash decisions.

His sweet, innocent little Nellie, playing a game?

Normally, he wouldn’t stand for anyone throwing a wrench in his plans, but if he was being honest with himself, watching you trying to one-up him could be an amusing form of entertainment. Like watching a cute kitten struggle as its mother holds it in its mouth, knowing it can’t escape. Plus, it had been a while since he had any fun. After all, what kind of husband-to-be was he if he wasn’t going to indulge his little sugarplum?

It certainly made for an interesting foreplay.

A little over one in the morning later. He still couldn’t sleep and he still had his mind on you…and on your lips, and the slope of your neck, and the way he imagined you arching your back against him as he drove himself inside you over and over…

So he dealt with this distraction, having no choice but to settle for an alternative.

The woman that arrived didn’t really resemble you, but he had to make do. He sent her home at three in the morning with her sobbing pathetically as she picked up the money he left for her on the dresser. He may have said some things to her he didn’t actually mean, but she got the job done. Still, as he tossed and turned in his bed, he wondered what it’d be like to just have you lying on his bed, him snuggling close to your warmth while he wrapped his arms around you and tucked you under his chin.

As he was duty-bound to do, he assured himself. That’s all there was to it.

You lumber out of bed to the kitchen with one eye closed as the mid-morning sun hits you squarely in the face while you nurse a pounding headache. Your brain decides to add to your misery, screaming only a single word repeatedly in your head: coffee.

There’s plenty in the pot, you discover with much gratefulness. You pour yourself some of the warm, fresh brew absently, almost overfilling the cup before noticing your mistake.

Great. No more space for milk or sugar.

“Fun party last night, plumcake?”

The annoyingly smug man you call your uncle sniggers over his plate. That smirk on his face stays on even as he pours an alarming amount of syrup on his cinnamon roll.

“I’m sure my cinnamon roll didn’t do that to you,” he quips, referring to the glare you’re sending on its way. He makes a small noise of approval when he eats a forkful before taking a sip of his coffee. Your stomach makes a little noise to remind you that aside from the cake you inhaled last night, you had eaten very little.

When you finally make a decent cup for yourself, you join him on the kitchen counter, where he takes a cinnamon roll from the tray beside him and places it on a plate. He pushes the pastry towards you. You don’t bother with cutlery this time and copy him, pouring just as much of the frosting before grabbing it with your bare hands and sinking your teeth into it.

Uncle Cas makes the best cinnamon rolls ever.

The baker in question finishes his plate and comments, “I hope you didn’t eat like that last night.”

You find yourself laughing along, having already been energised by sugar and coffee. Your uncle then sets his plate aside to make room for the newspaper sitting on the edge of the counter.

“Nothing like fresh propaganda together with your morning coffee,” he drolls.

A comfortable silence ensues between the two of you as you dig into your second cinnamon roll. You bask in the calming sound of the news pages being rhythmically flipped back and forth. It seems like aeons ago since the last time you had eaten breakfast with your Uncle Cas on such a peaceful morning, without a care in the world except for written exams, term papers, and practical exams that involve testing dummy software you helped your uncle develop in secret.

You’ve turned into a different person since then.

Your uncle eventually puts the paper down and announces that he’s leaving for uni after lunch. He asks if you’re coming with him as he makes himself another cup of coffee. You decide against it. Maybe you deserve a little downtime today before you’re thrown into the lion’s den on Monday. You tell him no, and he nods in approval before going off to his office, taking his mug with him. You notice that he left the newspaper on the counter, and while you don’t normally read the news out of habit, you decide to give it a go after making out several words that include ‘business tycoon’ and ‘birthday party’ at the bottom of the front page.

True enough, there is a mention of Strabo’s grand birthday celebration on the front page, which continues in the lifestyle section. It goes on flatteringly about the Plinths’ success in the ammunitions industry and their efforts against the rebellion, plus the names of Panem’s aristocrats in attendance. You grimace at the mention of your name alongside your new mentor.

“…Spotted at the star-studded birthday celebration of the Plinth patriarch is the honorary Plinth heir, Coriolanus Snow, victor to the 10th Hunger Games and the newly appointed, youngest Gamemaker in Panem history, and with him, Prunella Innis, heir to the Innis Tech empire, whom young Snow has taken under his wing as his new and only gamemaker-apprentice. Snow has recently gained popularity over his groundbreaking innovations…”

The article does a decent job of analysing the different lifestyle trends at the party, including the theme, the set design, and even the food, but if you thought a mere mention of your name flustered you a little, you get to the section of the article discussing the fashion trends, accompanied by an entire colour page of nothing photographs, some posed and some candidly taken, of the attendants at the party.

A photo of you and Coriolanus Snow is smack-dab in the middle, one of the largest in the set of pictures. It isn’t the inclusion of the photo on the paper that perturbs you, but the photo itself: it captured you and Coriolanus facing close to each other, his arm wrapped around your waist and his lips close to your ear as if whispering something to you, probably to point your attention to someone he knows from across the room. You don’t remember exactly when or where at the party the picture was taken because you carried out several conversations that way. Maybe it’s your stomach complaining at the abrupt presence of that much food after being empty for close to twelve hours, or maybe it just churns in offence at how it looks almost intimate. Perhaps it was chosen among many for exactly the same reasons. The caption underneath the photo mirrors your observation.

“The Gamemaker and His Apprentice: Coriolanus Snow and Prunella Innis, both looking sharp and elegant in matching crimson couture and adoringly inseparable at last night’s festivities.”

On second thought: maybe being at the University where you can be busy and distracted from your thoughts is the best way to go. With a sigh of defeat, you get up from your cosy spot on the counter and begrudgingly begin the preparations.

The car Coriolanus mentioned would take you to the Citadel picks you up at nine. Your new mentor is already waiting for you just before the grey hallway leading to the elevator. He smiles his usual disarming smile as you hit his line on vision which you return, hoping with your might that he doesn’t make a sudden move to touch you or kiss you again on your lips or your head or anywhere else.

“Good morning, Nellie,” he greets with his hands in his pockets.

You’re grateful he decided to be professional. He leads the way to the elevator, taking you underground to your uncle’s former floor. This being your second visit to this massive underground complex doesn’t make it feel like less of a descent towards the deepest circle of hell.

The elevator door opens to reveal a rather underwhelming hallway, still grey, but starkly different from the open layout of the Genetics floor. You wordlessly follow Coriolanus as he makes a left turn, passing several doors on the way. Whatever’s inside those doors can’t be much worse than what you saw before meeting the jabberjays. You both reach a nondescript door, which he opens by scanning a proximity card on a sensor on the wall. The door beeps open, revealing a world you’d never thought you’d see.

Instead of grey walls and glass cages, you’re greeted by rows upon rows of supercomputers in varying heights, all with blinking lights, thick, tangled cords and button-and-knob panels, emitting tiny clicking and beeping noises as they do their job containing presumably the brains of your uncle’s entire Games project. Despite the cold temperature required to cool the entire structure, you pace forward without hesitation, gaping in awe at the sight of the colossal pieces that make up your uncle’s work, while Coriolanus merely hangs back to watch your reaction.

For a few seconds, you forget everything else. This was your uncle’s domain – now, it’s yours.

“I have to admit,” Coriolanus begins, interrupting your daydream. “I am overwhelmingly out of my element here, but if anyone can handle this task aside from Mr Innis, it would be you.”

Coriolanus approaches, his steps echoing despite the supercomputers’ cacophony, his friendly smile looking more sinister as his face is bathed in the blinking lights. Another figure emerges from the shadows at the end of the aisle you’re in – someone you had hoped you’d never interact with ever again.

Volumnia Gaul, with her wiry hair and mismatched eyes and her pristine lab coat and her creepy leer, has her hands clasped before her as she begins speaking.

“Ms Innis. Welcome to my team. I trust you find your new work environment to your satisfaction.”

At least I don’t have to face a human head with wings for ears. “Thank you for having me, Dr Gaul.”

“I trust you have been briefed by your new mentor on your job description. I need not remind you that the task you are about to undertake is crucial to the future of the Hunger Games, and therefore requires aptitude, might and relentlessness, the way I know only an Innis possesses.

“Your uncle, Acacius Innis, paved the way for this very room’s existence, which is why his skills were seen fit to lead an advanced department that is to be the Capitol’s safeguard to a new digital age. In consequence, this brainchild of his lies stillborn, and who better to breathe it to life than his very own blood?”

Her sinister smile widens as she takes further steps towards you. “I could not approve more of Mr Snow’s choice of partnership.”

Dr Gaul stops a mere few feet away, sandwiching you between two ominous figures from whom escape is impossible. Any joy you felt entering your uncle’s previous work abode is effectively siphoned and replaced by an almost stifling sense of foreboding. This is a room where mistakes aren’t welcome.

“Mr Snow has told me you helped your uncle build the source code.”

That wasn’t a question, you notice. “Yes, Dr Gaul.”

She clasps both hands in barely contained perverse delight, the sound resounding in the room. “Most excellent, indeed! Then you will find no trouble seeing it to completion and Alpha testing in no time. Your mentor shall ensure you will have everything you need.”

She strides past you and falls beside the mentor in question, patting his shoulder with her gloved palm.

“I expect great things from you. From both of you.”

With a final glance between you two, she steps out of the room, taking the air of terror with her.

“They should be here any minute,” Coriolanus says.

Half of it, anyway.

“Who would they be?”

“Your uncle’s team of computer engineers.”

A male and a female, both in their late thirties, enter the room and greet both of you formally before introducing themselves as Filibert and Faustine Finley. They both wear the same white lab coats as Dr Kay.

“Around here, they call me F1,” says Filibert, “And my sister, F2.”

“Pleasure to meet you both. And please call me Nellie. Are you twins?” you ask as you shake both their hands.

F2 beams proudly as she adjusts her glasses. “Triplets, actually. Our brother, Felicien, works the night shift and, you guessed it, he’s called F3.”

Cute. If they had another sibling, they’d be calling them F4, then maybe you could Alt+F4 the fuck out of here.

They seem nice, though, and they recount their days working for Acacius Innis, whom they say they admire tremendously for his genius.

“We built this thing under his close supervision,” F1 explains, waving a hand in the air to indicate the supercomputers. “Anything even remotely hardware-related we take care of.”

F2 places a palm over her chest as she gushes in praise of Uncle Cas. “But the software? It’s all him. He never lets us touch it, and for good reason. He’s protective of his work and I can’t blame him, it’s his little baby. Promoting him as head of Cybersecurity was just a matter of time. The only shame here is we don’t get to see him around, anymore.”

F1 just rolls his eyes and smirks at you. “Translation: she has a crush on your uncle.”

“I do not!” F2 exclaims, adjusting her frames to presumably hide the blush creeping to her cheeks. “Anyway, we’re honoured to be working with you, Nellie. We were wondering when we’d see you. Apparently, all it took was Mr Snow.”

Coriolanus acknowledges this with a small dip of his head and inquires if the office is ready. They tell him that F3 finished the inspection last night and it should be good to go. You bid the siblings farewell, then saunter to another, much smaller room two doors down. It’s equipped with four identical computer stations fitted with four monitors each, placed side by side. Your mentor leads you to the one located at the end of the room, partially separated from the other four with a thick, translucent glass barrier. The station is fitted with six larger screens, and what you thought initially was a file cabinet is actually a cluster of processors connected to the workstation. You could easily tell by the bouquet of red roses on the keyboard that the station is yours.

“This is you, Nellie,” Coriolanus faces you with a fond smile. “They built me a station right beside the triplets, but unfortunately, I can’t be here the entire time.”

You try not to show relief on your face when he reveals that.

He opens a drawer on the desk and hands you a proximity card. He explains that the card works for all rooms on this floor. He also gives you an electronic device the size of your palm. You’ve seen this device in one of your uncle’s sketches before.

“I take it you’re familiar with this,” he says. “They call it the Communicuff 2. Everyone working in the Citadel has one. We can send each other voice messages using this whenever we’re away from our stations. You leave it here before you go home.”

“Was this my uncle’s?” you ask as you approach the cluster. You flip a switch and the entire thing turns on, along with the rest of the monitors.

He nods once. “This is where the great Acacius Innis did his groundbreaking work. And now, it’s yours.” He lets out a suppressed chuckle as he observes your expression. “No pressure, Nellie. I’m always here if you need me.”

Before he steps out of the office – your office, now – he says he’ll be dropping by anytime to check your progress.

Yeah. No fucking pressure, indeed.

Your initial suspicion of your uncle trying to stall the project was correct.

In only the first three days of working on the same station your uncle has worked on for years, you discover exactly why.

You were scrambling to finish what was left of the program to code, while simultaneously running automated unit testing in the background on the finished code to save time. The first and second unit testing results looked as intended and everything seemed working just fine. It even detailed significant improvements to the facial recognition software on the drones that will be used to send the tributes food, water, weapons, and other valuables. The third result was the one that baffled you.

You’ve seen the functions your uncle demonstrated in that simulation of his, but an entirely new addition to the list deeply disturbs you to the core. The program seems to have been built with an unsupervised machine-learning algorithm that has been programmed to learn, track, and store tribute movement using motion-tracking capabilities installed in the cameras’ software. It also indicates the need for tribute input – information obtained through retina-scanning, available footage captured from within the tribute enclosure, anything that could be uploaded into the supercomputer – which the algorithm analyses with frightening speeds. This means the program, if continuously fed with enough tribute data, has the added skill of calculating and projecting the winning odds in percentage with almost ninety-six percent accuracy. Even the mentors’ consoles get a preview of how the numbers would change before they hit ‘send’ on any item.

Your mentor arrives on time to get his progress report just as you make this discovery. You try not to show just how freaked out you are, and conceal the fact that Acacius Innis may have neglected his tasks to the Citadel on purpose, which would likely get him in trouble.

“That is excellent news, Nellie,” Coriolanus exclaims in delight. All he sends on your way are words of praise. He invades your personal space you stare at the results on your screens, his face merely inches away from yours.

The pungent smell of roses on him doesn’t help the mounting dread you’re feeling.

“This is going to revolutionise audience betting in the Games. It’s brilliant!”

It also portrays the tributes as mere pawns in a high-stakes betting game, which defeats Acacius Innis’s purpose of building the program in the first place.

Your uncle would never willingly allow such a dehumanising algorithm added to his creation, which makes you conclude he was pressured, maybe even coerced, to add it in. All traces of your uncle’s soul, sucked out of his brainchild with a single added feature.

You almost recoil as a kiss is planted on your temple courtesy of the man beside you.

“I’m so proud of you, sugarplum,” he whispers in your ear.

Your heart rate goes on overdrive as flashes of the events at the greenhouse invade your thoughts.

Surely, he isn’t foolish enough to try anything within the Citadel, given that each crevice in this hellish place is being monitored by cameras?

Coriolanus draws back, perhaps distracted from the sound of the printer churning out his copy of the results summary. He dons on a professional smile. “What’s the next stage to this?”

“Uh, hang on…” You’re still flustered by his previous closeness and your recent discovery of the new feature. “Assuming I get the rest of the code done, and perform the needed unit testing on said code, the next level should be integration testing.” He tilts his head at the term curiously, so you add to clarify, “It’s a stage where we combine all the components of the program – the camera system and motion-tracking, the drones’ system and facial recognition, the software we use for vital signs, the environment control system – to run and test them as a single organism. We’ll obtain detailed performance reports on how each of these systems interact and grade them based on the seamlessness and the speed of information exchange.”

“That means we will need to set up a testing ground pretty soon,” he concludes. “Give me an estimate. How soon?”

“Six days, maybe a week, tops.”

You’re mentor’s jaw tenses. Obviously, he’s unsatisfied with your approximation. He grabs the nearest computer chair to sit right beside you.

“I heard your uncle built this in just a week,” he says with a controlled smile. You know that smile: it’s the one he uses when things don’t quite go his way.

“Well, he left it unfinished,” you can’t help but talk back.

“That may be true, and it did take him over a year to make any progress after, but you know what I think, Nellie?”

That mirthless smirk of his widens, indicating impending danger.

“I think he was stalling.”

You hold his gaze to avoid confirming his suspicion. “I don’t think he was; he probably just lost motivation. This is a creative process, after all.”

A humourless chortle escapes your mentor’s lips. “Four days. Finish this by Tuesday next week. We’re targeting to test this as soon as the day after.”

A resounding beep is heard, and Coriolanus fishes his communicuff from his pocket. He doesn’t play the voice and instead gets to his feet, adjusting his coat as he adds to your list of tasks. “Also, have the triplets prepare a list of the equipment we’re going to need for the test. I’ll need it this Friday. Everything on that list will be provided for, you have my word. I must go, Dr Gaul will be needing these.” He takes the papers from the printer and tucks them neatly inside a brown envelope branded ‘top secret.’

Uncle Cas could be a slavedriver, but Coriolanus Snow is a full-blown tyrant.

Before he treads past your cubicle to leave, he makes one more addition:

“Come with me for dinner tonight at seven. I made the reservations.”

It’s almost the weekend, and for Coriolanus Snow, that just means more work – catching up on some of the reading material his boss had suggested he peruse, visiting the Plinths for their weekly Sunday dinner, making connections with important people by way of drinking – so he’s looking forward to a night of restful sleep before his duties call on him once more.

If only you shared the same sentiment.

He finds you slumped on your desk, your chin resting on clasped hands as you watch your multiple screens with bleary eyes, struggling to keep them open. On your desk are two empty mugs, their contents long gone leaving nothing but coffee bean dregs at the bottom.

You look up at him with a weary smile, but he sees right through your attempt at masking just how exhausted this project is making you.

“It’s nearly ten, sugarplum. Why don’t we grab a late-night dinner and call it a day?” He asks. He feels a pang of guilt while observing the dullness in your gaze and the circles around your eyes. Bone-tired, and still pretty.

“Can I take a rain check? My boss gave me a tight deadline.” Your usual jesting tone is half-hearted but still brings out a light chuckle from him.

You’re the only one who can make him laugh without even trying.

He decides right then and there to grab a chair and keep you company.

“What are you doing?” you ask with that adorable, confused look. That face you make with your eyebrows slightly drawn together, your lips puckered a little.

Coriolanus shrugs. “I’m your mentor. I refuse to leave my apprentice’s side when she’s working so hard to impress me.”

A notification pops up on your screen, which you move to address with a few taps on your keyboard.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He purses his lips in disapproval when you shake your head.

“When was the last time you ate something? Coffee doesn’t count,” he rapidly adds, anticipating your response. He raises an eyebrow when you tell him of that croissant you had for lunch.

“That hardly counts, sugarplum,” he chastises. “I’ll get you something from the cafeteria. You stay here.”

He doesn’t wait for your response and steps out of the office at once. A few minutes later, he makes his way back with a Reuben sandwich in a paper bag and a bottle of juice, a meagre fare compared to what he knows you deserve.

He cares because any lapse in your health may reflect on his leadership, and because it’s his duty as your husband-to-be.

But then, he finds his heart melting again with the sight of you that greets him: fast asleep on your desk, using your arm as a makeshift pillow. He sheds his coat and places it on you, careful not to rouse you. The program can wait. You’re more important.

He sits on the empty computer chair beside you, watching you breathe steadily. He feels this intense...thing in his chest that doesn't seem to let up even when he takes a lock of your hair and strokes it. In fact, the feeling just amplifies when his fingers land on your cheek.

You stir a little at the contact and let out a tiny, humming noise.

He couldn’t be...could he?

“Mr Snow.”

Coriolanus takes his hand off you with a start. He glances at you in a panic, afraid he’s woken you up, but you’re still thankfully in slumber. He addresses the woman who managed to enter the office without him even hearing the door beep.

“Dr Gaul.”

She looks even more menacing with the office’s dim lighting. She places a finger to her lips and makes a shushing sound. “Careful you don’t wake your precious little pet,” she whispers toothily. “I’m calling it a night. I will see you this Monday.” She disappears through the door with a high-pitched giggle.

Coriolanus releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He is absolutely sure involving personal matters in a professional setting isn’t doing him any favours (he’s practically made himself vulnerable by not paying attention to his surroundings), but at this moment, staring at your peaceful, sleeping figure swathed in his coat, he can’t bring himself to care.

Enter Level 8

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Please note that I am no software developer, so despite my postponing writing due to research, there may be errors in my use of the terms. More Citadel work next chapter, and things are just about to get worse for dear reader!! Also please bear with me a little more, this is getting more slowburn-ish that I thought 😅😅

Also, what could this intense thing Snowball is feeling possibly be?? Hmmm...

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 1 month

Text

I Cherish You, Halcyon Days: v.

“You’re gonna die, kid. In the worst way possible.”

tags: afab!reader (she/her), angst, slow burn

pairing: gojou x reader + onesided!getou x reader

summary: You’re 15 years old when you’re told you’re going to die. You’re 17 years old when you realize who your killer will be. And you’re 17 years old when you make peace with the fact you wouldn’t want it any other way.

index | previous chapter | next chapter

"Sister School Exchange?"

"Yeah, it's this thing we do each year with the other of Jujutsu Tech in Kyoto," you lean back against Chinatsu's bed as your non-sorcerer friends look at your curiously.

It's a peaceful Sunday like any other.

Tooru is slouched awkwardly but comfortably at Chinatsu's desk playing Zelda, meanwhile Chinatsu has claimed her bed as her own while she braids her hair. Hard as these days are to come by now that you live in a school remote in some mountains on the countryside-esque outskirts of Tokyo, you relish when you have them. It's a touch of comfort and familiarity. "It's like a sports thing. Loser goes to the winner's school the following year. Last year we won so those suckers are coming to Tokyo."

"Who went where last year?" Chinatsu continues braiding her bright brown hair.

"We went to Kyoto," you expertly leave out the fact you didn't actually get to go. Nor the fact that you wouldn't be participating once again. Your friends don't need to know all that. Stupid special grade technicalities, you want to complain. There's no point, however, with the company you've surrounded yourself with. You're still more than a bit miffed at your inability to attend last year's Exchange.

"Is it an open event where anyone can go?" At your sympathetic grimace, Tooru scowls. "Damn rich people," he swears, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. His blue-black bangs are pulled back by a hairclip, fully displaying his newfound grumpiness. The idea of sports always kicks Tooru's competitive spirit into overdrive being a member of Tsubame High's rock climbing club. He tried getting you to join your middle school's team once. As it turns out, your grip strength was ass. And it still is if I'm being honest with myself. "Well kick their asses and send those losers back to Kyoto in shambles," Tooru demands as he returns to the visuals of Majora's Mask.

Oh if only. Well, you're certain that victory will be spelled out for your school once again if Gojou and Suguru have anything to say about it. You just know you won't actually play any role in it.

"I'll be sure to let you guys know how it goes."

ー

It's a toss up for you on which days you prefer at Jujutsu Tech. Some days it's Monday, Wednesday, Friday and other times you really appreciate a good Tuesday, Thursday Saturday schedule. It depends on how tired your are... and how much procrastinating you've done on your assignments.

After watching X-Men back in '01, maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise that Jujutsu Tech had regular classes but you still remember your surprise during your first week of first year. Apparently, you actually need to at least know the essential basics society deemed important. As such, Jujutsu Tech operated on a block schedule where certain days detailed which day you'd be learning standard course work or anything related to jujutsu.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday were dedicated to normalcy with classes like Math, Japanese, English and Japanese History. Those were handled by the assistants who actually had teaching licenses. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday were all jujutsu-based. History of Jujutsu, Application of Cursed Techniques and Exorcism and Physical Education. (Physical Education being a Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday class was the most surprising for you. But once you found out PE included sparring and mock battles against curses, you understood the picture.) These classes were handled by the sorcerers that did the heavier curse-exorcising work in this field with four teachers assigned a specific grade of students to handle.

With Nanami Kento and Haibara Yuu joining as first years, Fujioka still had her hands full with preparing the first years for the rest of their jujutsu careers.

Being in charge of the second years, Yaga didn't have much to do in terms of teaching late last year after Okita died. So the muscle head seemed pretty excited to go from 0 students to 4.

Yamada's graduated but with Utahime and Mei Mei being the new fourth years, Koizumi still has work to do.

The only teacher doing nothing now until next year rolled around at the Tokyo branch of Jujutsu Tech is Matsuno. If none of you are dead by the time third year rolls around, she'll have 4 students bothering her then.

This particular Saturday, classes have been halved for the day. Thanks again, irregular scheduling. And thanks again, Kyoto Tech. It's not the first day of it, that won't be until Monday. Still, today is the day the Kyoto Tech students are arriving and that is important enough that you don't need a full day of schooling.

You recall the names of the people of interest Utahime mentioned during spring break and try imagining faces to the names while Gojou loudly groans at Shoko's newest terrible attempt at explaining how reversed curse technique works. It doesn't help that it looks like smoke is exiting Haibara's brain in his own confusion.

"I think Shoko's right, Gojou," you grin widely at the snow-haired boy's head swivel in your direction. Even with the sunglasses, you can tell he's irritated. "You just don't have the common sense for it."

"Oh like you're able to understand her gibberish," Gojou's tongue clicks.

You're absolutely not. "Hyoo hyoi, right, Shoko?"

"Hyoo hyoi!" Shoko chirps back deviously. "[First] is getting it."

"See?" You gesture at the girl. A crumpled, empty soda can gets tossed your way and your hands fly out immediately to create a peach-colored shield of energy. "Sore loser!"

"Walking copyright infringement," you hate how that comment actually gets a choked laugh of you while you tell him your technique is called Rejection based on the Phoenix Wright franchise. So what if your abilities are reminiscent of a certain manga character with burnt orange hair and a pair of blue flower pins, Gojou should leave you be. You don't control the way in which jujutsu techniques are passed out.

"Why do I have to be stuck with the generation of teachers that don't know how to do reversed curse technique," he grumbles. "Why does the one person I know who can do it have the explanation abilities of a 5 year old? Who the hell did I piss off in a past life for this?"

Shoko tries to pull out a cigarette but it's snatched out of her hands by Suguru in equal parts concern and his own frustration at her less-than-stellar explanations. "I'm sure the list is long so thanks for spreading your bad luck to me too, Satoru," Gojou sticks out his tongue and brandishes his middle finger brazenly, Suguru flips him the bird right back. Yours and Haibara's giggles fill the air while Nanami, arguably the most sane of the six of you, sighs in annoyance.

It really is unfortunate for everyone that Shoko's pure instincts surrounding her abilities can't be translated into comprehensible words.

You learned the year prior in Application of Cursed Techniques and Exorcism I that it was really only relatively recently the jujutsu schools were established and passing down general knowledge outside of family became a thing. Unfortunately, the time in which these schools were created, information on reversed cursed technique was unable to be secured. So until Shoko is able to explain in full how she does it ー or the rest of you are able to start using it on your own ー Jujutsu Tech won't be receiving any updates to the cursed technique application curriculum.

"Nanami," Gojou points at the blond who already looks like he regrets even stepping one foot out of his dorm today. "Learn how to use RCT and explain it to me like a good underclassman!"

"I'd prefer to have a responsible upperclassman who learns on his own and teaches me instead," came the instant rebuttal from the practical sorcerer-in-training.

"Where's the fun in tradition?"

One last sigh of amusement later, you look at your hands thoughtfully. Rejection. A tiny shield stands tall in front your palm. But if we're talking about missing a few puzzle pieces, I'm assed out too. You sigh as Rejection dissipates. Why can't you have six little faerie creatures to help you create a variety of shields too? When it comes to you second years, it's easy explaining the roles you have based on ability alone.

You're the tank, Shoko's the healer and Getou and Gojou are both different flavors of DPS. That's not necessarily a problem, you know. Even the basics of cursed energy usage can exorcise a curse, but when it comes down to it ー you are your partner are both supports and having a bit of an offensive kick would come in handy at some point in the future.

So you decided at the beginning of second year that if you already were teetering the line of coincidentally ripping off Inoue Orihime's technique, why not go for the full thing and try mimicking the rest too? Your first assignment, creating a shield that sends back the damage and finally start stepping in the direction of acquiring an offensive move set.

It's just been a bit of a work-in-progress developing the technique in secret mostly because you have no idea what you're doing beyond the general principle of what you want to do. Dissonance and Disconnect will be your masterpieces ー whenever you manage to them figure out.

There's a tap on your shoulder, "[First]," Shoko taps you once again. "Help me carry back drinks from the vending machine?"

"Yeah, I got you," you'll figure out your masterpieces later then.

Together the two of you made your way to the nearest vending machine to the training grounds. It's not terribly far but it isn't particularly close either. You grumbled over this fact more than enough during your first year. You understand the lack of students means a lack of vending machines, but it would still be nice if this particular vending machine was close enough you didn't have to walk twenty minutes to get to it. "Do you think we could move it ourselves, actually?"

"Do you really feel like carrying that thing down a flight of stairs?"

"Never mind," you groan.

It's part way through your quest to quench everyone else's thirst when you see him. A boy donned in navy blue and gray traditional clothes and dirty blond hair with dark tips. He's certainly no student of Tokyo Tech, you perk up in realization. The boy is cute, you think. "You're one of the Kyoto students, right?" You wave politely as he glances at you. "We can help you if you're lost."

Amber eyes look you up and down before the boy turns to Shoko alone, "When I heard you were enrolling I was surprised, Ieiri," you can't stop your head from tilting, wide eyes blinking in surprise. "Considering all you're good for is healing your peers, you'd think your family wouldn't invest in your education. Especially considering

"Hey," you glare, sticking a friend out in front of your friend. "The only ones who gets to mess with one of us, is us." It's a privilege, not a right. "And all things considered, since Shoko's able to do shit you clearly can't, you shouldn't be running your mouth."

Amber eyes point your way again as the boy actually addresses you, "you must be the foreigner, your accent is very apparent." You have an accent, what of it? You learned Japanese from the ground and you were proud of the progress. No one can take away from you, least of all this guy. "If anyone shouldn't be speaking here, it's the one from a country so backwater you had to come to a foreign land to learn anything about sorcery."

"Naoya," Shoko finally speaks, mouth pulled into a frown. So this is the face you can put with the name Zenin Naoya. "How horrible to see you too. If you're looking to talk to Gojou and Getou, they're in that direction." The brunette thumbs behind herself in the direction you both came from. "Otherwise, you're a long ways off from the rooms the Kyoto students are supposed to be staying in."

You aren't sure what the boy has to be smirking about and you wonder how much trouble you'd get in if you tried punching him. "I know where I'm heading," the first year states, crossing his arms. "I wanted to see the Six Eyes of the Gojou Clan myself. But it'll be something to see the other special-grade as well."

"Yeah well get a good look at the dudes who are going to kick your-"

"Naoya," a deep voice interjects growing tensions. For once, something akin to a scowl dons Naoya's face as his expression shifts to annoyance. "You said you wouldn't antagonize the Tokyo students if I let you off on your own."

"That wasn't antagonizing, that was small talk," his upperclassman's face tells you he doesn't believe that one bit.

He's tall, albeit not as tall as Gojou or Suguru, with black hair with a dyed streak of green in his bangs."Sorry about our first year," the Kyoto senior bows with an exasperated sigh. You don't envy what he has to deal with. If Naoya had been included in the batch of first years Tokyo Tech received, you're sure you would have transferred schools. Or maybe you would have stayed out of spite. "I'll deal with him."

"Please see that you do," your cheek muscles ache from how forcefully you are smiling. What the actual hell is wrong with that guy? You side-eye your partner as the Kyoto first year skulks off, likely ignoring the scolding his upperclassman is giving him. "Why doesn't he have a hate club?"

"Believe it or not, that's not even as bad as he gets. That was actually Naoya at his best," Shoko has to be joking. This is another one of her dry humor jokes. Unfortunately, there's not even a wink of playfulness in her eyes. If that's this guy's best, I don't want to see what his worst is. "The rest of us were in a secret Hope Naoya Gets Homeschooled Alliance. Sadly all our efforts have clearly been for naught."

"Yeah, you guys really should have tried harder," you aren't sure there is any word in any language that could best describe him besides 'worst' and 'brat. And you know what? He isn't even that cute! The culmination of terrible traits in asshole shoujosei love interests created a terrible creature. I'll never say Gojou's a waste of a pretty face ever again.

Even at Gojou's absolute worse, he's never held a candle to the display of disrespect you bore witness to. "I really need us to win this year. I am so serious if we lose to that pompous asshole, I'll quit being a sorcerer because I refuse to accept defeat from him. Matter of fact," you cross your arms obstinately. "I know we're winning this year and I can't wait to see his walk of shame out of Tokyo. It isn't enough for him to lose, he has to be utterly humiliated."

"I hope he fights Getou," your rant certainly appeals to the brunette who nods in agreement. "It would have been better if Getou was a girl," despite the disappointment that is your reality, Shoko's eyes dance with mischief. "But either way, he'll hate losing to someone who comes from a non-sorcerer family the most." At your look, Shoko blinks in realization. "Right, you wouldn't know. The Zenin's have a saying that basically boils down to the only sorcerer's worth their salt are from the Zenin family, but a non-sorcerer is basically less than human."

Every time you learn something new about the Amazing Sexists, the less you like what you hear. "Geez that family sounds like a real piece of work," you stick out your tongue in annoyance. "I want him to fight Gojou," you nod to yourself in satisfaction. "Their families hate each other, right? So if he loses to him I just know his parents will be pissed. 'How dare you lose to the son of the Gojou family! You're no son of ours! Leave this house!' or something like that."

Shoko's bob dances as she shakes her head, "doubt it. When you're that strong, winning is guaranteed. They'd be disappointed but not surprised, if anything."

"Why 'cause Gojou's a special-grade?" You purse your lips in your prodding. "Because if that's what we're going off of Suguru's got the win in the bag too. Or is it the Gojou comes from sorcerer family thing?"

"Partly the latter," Shoko admits. "But I told you before already. Gojou's pretty much a legend to sorcerers," yes, it is hard to forget when everyone talked about it. "They'd expect a loss if Naoya had to fight him. Maybe if he had the Ten Shadows they'd think he had a fighting chance, but I doubt he does because it would be talked about all over if he inherited it."

Has Gojou always been so... Your mind struggles for the right word. It dawns on you then that Naoya had referred to him as the Six Eyes instead of Gojou's family or given name. Objectified? It's an unpleasant feeling to admit to yourself that he is. Even slightly more so as you try to recall if you've done so yourself and how much you may if you did. You're sure you have. You must have. What else were the bulk of your rants with Utahime were about if Gojou ever organically came up in conversation?

"He's still just some guy," you wonder if your words are more meant to self-soothe than a solid argument. "He thinks eating pancakes is substantial for dinner. I don't know how he's never had a cavity."

"A guy who'll be in the future Jujutsu Tech textbooks and we won't even be footnotes," Shoko sighs at her joke of self-deprecation. "But yeah, it's too bad they won't have anything in there about how he eats his weight in junk food." She pulls out a piece of paper where she has everyone else's desired drinks scrawled on. "Anyway, let's finish getting the drinks."

ー

This isn't the first time you've come out to the training grounds past curfew, but you would have head in by now.

Perhaps it's your irritation at Naoya that has you practicing longer than usual. Or perhaps it's your own inability to advance your technique and the frustration beginning to boil over. It's likely a mixture of both. It's well-past dinner and the sun has set for the evening, your only light source being a lantern you took out of the storage shed.

If there's another thing this school needs, it is stadium lights for the training grounds.

"Uwah," You look behind you, noticing the approaching footsteps and you spot a familiar head of messy white hair. "I would have thought you were sneaking off somewhere more exciting."

"How'd you know I was sneaking out?"

"Was up playing Momotetsu a few times and I saw your cursed energy moving around," Gojou shrugs. It truly is hard to hide anything from those eyes. You wondered in the past if his ocular abilities were passive or something that needed to be activated. When you saw his eyes glowing in the past, you came to the conclusion it's a mixture of both depending on what he needed to see. His sunglasses are on but in your dark surroundings, you don't see any signs of azure glow. Seeing cursed energy must be one of the passives. "Finally got curious to see where you heading off the past couple weeks. Didn't expect it to be here."

"Well now you know," you rest a hand on your hip. "Go back to playing Momotetsu."

Gojou dropped a hand above his hidden eyes as if blocking out the sun, "Nah, I'm looking for Orihime's faeries now, they're out here somewhere," haha very funny, Gojou hasn't said that one before. Ever. His grin widens as he takes in the unamused roll of your eyes. "What are you doing back out here? I could hear your big feet clunking around even with my walkman on."

"If you must know," you ignore his last jab petulantly as he comes closer. "I'm trying to evolve how Rejection works by ripping off Orihime's moves. Sadly these faeries aren't worth shit, they're stingy and only work for her." That earns a snicker from your new audience and that manages to make you perk up. "Jokes aside though, I'm pretty sure I can make Rejection be a return-to-sender and even get it to cut things in half if I try hard enough. So I've been trying it out."

"Must suck not having a users manual," Gojou whistles.

You huff in agreement, kicking a nearby pebble. "Who are you telling?" That's the trial-and-error of coming from non-sorcerer families. Everything you learn about your cursed technique is through figuring it out on your own. Weird glowing orb thing? It's was just Suguru doing as dumb kids do when he decided to swallow it and see what would happen. You didn't even start using Rejection until you were 10, well past the usual date of ability manifestation, all because of an accident. "But if I look at it from a different angle, this just means there's no pre-existing guide to tell me Rejection can't do this or that. I test out those limits myself and be the one who makes the guide."

And if you ever had kids, they'd be the beneficiaries. If you ever lived long enough to get to the point you'd start considering them. You shake head, physically tossing the thoughts out of your brain. "Anyways, like I said, I'm going all in on the copyright infringement. What Kubo doesn't know won't hurt him," you chuckle to yourself. "So I'm starting out with trying to get Rejection to return attack energy back at specific triggers."

Gojou looks between you and the noticeably empty space in front of you. You can already tell what your classmate is thinking ー must be pretty difficult when there's literally nothing to shoot anything at what you put up. "... and you're doing that how?"

You puff your cheeks sheepishly, glancing pointedly in a different direction, "Casper's been a great assistant to me lately."

"So all you've been doing is wasting cursed energy and hoping something happens?"

"On the bright side, I've gotten really good at putting my technique up with various poses over the past couple weeks," you offer weakly with a cough. So far you've mastered the Jotaro Kujo point, the Okuyasu The Hand swipe and the Kakyoin Emerald Splash.

That comment gets you a light swat to the back of your head and you move to elbow him back, but you only meet the infinity between you both. "Just get to posing out your shields and I'll blast cursed energy at it," Gojou flicks his fingers back in a shooing motion as he walks a couple meters away from you. Before you can even attempt to dissuade him, he's already in position. "Tell Casper to take a hike for a while. You don't pay him enough to do overtime."

"You'll help me?" You've never trained personally with Gojou. Likely because neither of you felt the need. You didn't like him and you likely weren't someone worth training with from his perspective. You'd sooner expect Hell to freeze over. It must have frozen over then.

"I don't know how you're planning on making a shield that shoots back attacks without actually having something shot at it," he shrugs in the dim light of the lantern. "And I'm already out here."

"You know what," you rest your hands on your hips. "Dinner's on me tonight, what do you want? This is gonna work up an appetite for me and you eat like a horse anyway."

"Seriously?"

"Just don't say pancakes. Or waffles," you rack your brain for different loopholes. "Actually, I'm putting in stipulations ー there needs to be a protein and a vegetable, bare minimum. I'm making sure you eat actual food tonight." You're pretty sure there's salmon leftover from the other night from when Nanami cooked. And I could sauté the spinach so he doesn't complain much. "Salmon, sauteed spinach and something else. I don't want this to take forever so I guess I'll just go with rice since it's already late." Rice it'll be then. "This is your reward for helping me!"

There's a decent-sized blast of energy that hurls in your direction. "Um, excuse me, I thought I was supposed to pick what we eat?"

"Rejection!" True to your word, you point as if you're the JoJo of Stardust Crusaders. There's no energy that shoots back in Gojou's direction, but you'll figure out a pattern before the night is over. Maybe I should try something where Rejection can pocket that energy and then it gets shot back? "I changed my mind," you snort. "You're eating what I make and you'll like it. I don't need you dying of a sugar coma before the Exchange Event properly begins."

"Oh come on, it's a treat for helping you out, shouldn't I call the shots here?" The pouting begins much to your lack of surprise. "What sort of reward dinner is this? If this is how you treat them, I can see why the faeries didn't want to help you out!"

"Do you want a free dinner?" When there's no slick comment shot your way, you consider this a victory. "Beat Zenin Naoya's ass to kingdom come and maybe I'll consider making something you want without any sort of fine print. Do we got ourselves a deal?"

There's a smile in Gojou's voice. A smug smile, but it is in his tone nonetheless while he speaks, "I'd do that even if there wasn't a free meal on the line, you know."

index | previous chapter | next chapter

Extra

And we're back to our usually scheduled programming. I update once per week for four weeks, two week hiatus, then back to consistent updates. At least, that's what I decided on other platforms to give myself a break here and there.

Admittedly the Orihime copyright infringement joke is one of the few jokes I've been waiting to make. Glad this moment is finally here.

You also finally get to meet your buddies from middle school, Tooru and Chinatsu. There's another buddy too but he's a special case who won't be showing up for some chapters. I honestly have an entire mini TV series worth of shenanigans concerning this friend group but y'all will just have the tip of the iceberg. Hopefully when that gets touched on in a future chapter, you guys will find it as amusing as I do. Like I made it a point to mention, the Reader really wants to hold onto what she can of her non-sorcerer life. She's "*Miles Morales voice* I can do both" about it

Anyways, you and Gojou are bonding some more and it doesn't relate to food. This is growth. Reblogs and Likes appreciated.

#look she's writing #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto x reader #getou x reader #geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #i cherish you halcyon days

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