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#it makes survival easy but living and thriving so so hard

headspace-hotel · 11 months

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I have an essay brewing in my head constantly about lawns. Which, well, unsurprising, since I post about how I hate lawns all the time, but I think the "lawn" and "landscaping" centered way of thinking about Places Outside is a Bigger Thing that Connects to Other Things

(What isn't? Having ideas about concepts is always like this.)

I will introduce my ideas by a situation where they apply: Sometimes life-forms mimic other life forms. One form of mimicry is called Vavilovian mimicry, where weed species in crops grown by humans evolve over time to be more similar to the crops.

Vavilovian mimicry basically helps weeds survive because the weeds are adapted to the care-taking regimen of the crops, and because the human caretakers of the crop can have a hard time telling them apart, which means they might say "Ehh...I'll wait until it grows up so I can be sure I'm not pulling up my crop."

I think there's something similar at work among flower gardens and landscaping...but it's different.

Regular people don't know the name of every plant that might possibly grow in their flower beds, and they often pull up plants they don't know just because they don't know them. They sometimes say they pull up a plant that "looks weedy" or "looks like a weed."

I think to myself...what does "weedy" look like?

This question collided unexpectedly in my brain with an insight I had about invasive species that I could not explain.

I have to get rid of a lot of Callery pear, wintercreeper, honeysuckle, burningbush, privet, English ivy, and other plants that are invasive where I live. And strangely- many invasive plants look similar in ways they don't share with very many native species. They tend to have small, round or squat, glossy leaves, and they tend to have a very dense growth habit.

I can think of several possible explanations: Maybe these species thrive in North America today because of the loss of controlled burning, but their characteristics look so distinct next to native species because they relate to things that would make a species fire-intolerant? This doesn't seem quite right, since it doesn't predict level of fire-adaptedness in native species.

Another explanation is better: they were selected for these traits by humans for their usefulness in landscaping. Dense growth habit would be useful for creating hedges or ground covers. This is why many invasives were originally planted, right? And small leaves might feel or be perceived as less "messy" when they fall.

But I think this is a clue to something else going on. What does "weedy" look like?

Some plants go on one side of "weeds vs. flowers" and some on the other, and it's almost totally arbitrary...so how do gardeners make the call so decisively?

I think about the commonest "landscaping" plants- Knock Out roses, hostas, petunias, begonias, boxwoods and so on- they share a lot of the characteristics mentioned above. Shiny or at least smooth, typically small and squat leaves, dense and compact growth habit.

Then I think about some of the commonest and most important "weedy" native wildflowers, such as goldenrods, asters, milkweeds, Joe-Pye weed, ironweed, sunflower. They all differ from the above in at least one striking way. Mostly, they have hairy leaves and stems, long and thin leaves, and a tendency to grow up tall before blooming. Milkweed has smooth leaves, but its leaves are long and very big. Hmm...

And I think I can guess where this is coming from.

Landscaping and garden designs often look like this

See how the plants are drawn and arranged to cover a space in two dimensions, mostly not overlapping with each other? This is very easy to plan and design. And those common landscaping plants I mentioned—hostas, Knock Out roses, boxwoods, and so on—are very good at acting just like a two-dimensional representation of them does. Just look, you can see them:

Now look at those important native wildflowers I mentioned:

Goldenrod

Ironweed

Milkweed

These guys don't fill much space in a horizontal plane, they go straight up. They don't exclude other plants from very much space either. Plants could grow under them and among them. So they're not very good for "filling up" space, and their opener, lankier, less dense shape doesn't do a good job at blocking other plants from growing.

In a garden of North American prairie- or meadow-adapted plants, the plants wouldn't exclude each other and stay within their designated spots because they're evolved to intermix with a great variety of plants.

"Separateness" is a big part of the typical "landscape" aesthetic. These plants are very neatly separate from each other. This is what looks "neat" and well-kept to us...the opposite of "weedy."

This could mean our garden and flower beds are affected by a selective pressure a lot like the Vavilovian mimicry situation. But instead of weeds being selected to look like intentionally grown plants, the intentionally grown plants are being selected to look different from weeds.

The subtle difference makes perfect sense. In a field, the rule is "leave the plant there if you're unsure" because that's your food. In a flower bed, the rule is "get rid of the plant if you're unsure" because having weeds is more aesthetically unacceptable than having blank space.

The point is: Ecology needs to be a big part of gardening and landscaping, because you are DOING ecology. Even if you don't know the evolutionary principles, you're acting them out.

Just like the ineffable preferences of female birds give the males weird elaborate display structures, ineffable aesthetic "senses" that govern our "built" world slowly turn it into something weird.

#ecology #landscaping #gardening #plants #native plant gardening

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partypuppynastja · 2 years

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Transgender Day of Remembrance

This year’s official list has 327 names:

Those murdered were disproportionately women, usually around my age, more often women of colour. Many more will have gone unreported, and/or misgendered in their deaths.

One of those murders is from my native UK—there was also an attempted murder not far from here though, a trans woman stabbed on her doorstep. Fortunately, she survived. I wonder how many other non-fatal attacks were made in the same year.

51 were in the US; that’s more than one per state. Brazil was worst, with 96 (with a similar population size).

9 were tortured to death; another 3 burned alive; another 3 dismembered.

It can be hard to understand why people hate us so much. We’re mostly just trying to live our lives. I guess we’re an easy target, and dehumanised enough in popular media that our deaths elicit little care. I remember the first time I read in a newspaper about a trans woman being killed, the headline was written as a punchline, “transvestite beaten to death with hoe”, and the article was worse.

Fast-forward and today the jokes normalising such violence get Netflix specials, and the more serious hate-mongers get #IStandWith— hashtags in their support, as they go on their “I’ve been cancelled” tour and given every platform available. Politicians debate, and “sensible centrists” call for understanding from both sides, which tends to amount to “well we must understand that trans people can’t help being trans, and trans people must understand that we have Legitimate Concerns™ that if we don’t take seriously enough will just result in violence against trans people”. And so the microphone gets passed to the transphobe-du-jour.

Eventually, the world will get better. Education improves, community (and thus a little safety) is easier to find, transphobes start to realise history will judge their crimes like every other bigotry and ‘phobia and ‘ism. Those who are “not transphobic but” will learn to put aside their biases; those who are openly transphobic will become “not transphobic but”. It may never die out, just like racism hasn’t, just like homophobia hasn’t, and so forth, but it will get better. We just have to live to see it.

And that gives me strength sometimes, gives me an extra reason to survive when I don’t always want to. Transphobes want to see me die, and I will do my level best to thrive instead. It’s not easy and sometimes I feel like a flower growing through concrete.

But like a flower growing through concrete, I know where I’ve come from and I know where I’m going. I can’t know whether I’ll make it, but I know I must keep trying, and the further I get, the easier it will get along the way. It doesn’t mean there won’t be the occasional storm, or freeze. But, there’s sunshine too. There is love in the world; there is hope.

We owe it to the fallen to live, to thrive, and to strive to make things better in this world.

#Transgender Day of Remembrance #TDoR #Transgender #Trans

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bluehourbucky · 1 year

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Ooo I'm a different anon but could u do a part 2 for the vampire oje. Doesn't have to be smutty. Just love their interactions

Bite me

pairing: vampire!bucky x innocent!reader

warnings: blood / bj / sucking blood / face fucking

a/n: sorry it took so long hope you like it

18+ ONLY

minors do not interact

strawberry juice (part 1)

________________________________________

Bucky was surprised how quickly you've accepted that you'll be his for the time being, he didn't even have to hypnotise you.

"My new home? Why? "

"Oh my darling you're just so precious, you see I need you to survive and you want to help me right?"

you looked confused so Bucky continued.

"So as you can tell already I'm a vampire doll, and I need blood to survive and you just happen to have the tastiest blood that keeps me fed for a long time. We can do this the easy way or the hard way the choice is yours."

You sat there on the bed trying to put your brain to work and figure out what to do but your brain just wouldn't cooperate. It's like there was fog clouding it.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

Bucky had smiled flashing his fangs at you which made you avert your gaze.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If you're a good girl or not."

And so far you've been so good and Bucky was thriving, he'd never been so well fed he didn't even have to slumber to get energy.

Steve had been extremely kind and helpful to you, he didn't treat you like a prisoner.

As of recently you've started going on walks with both Bucky and Steve, never alone though.

"But I won't run away." you tried to argue and you really hadn't planned on going anywhere, you were well fed Steve had cooked well balanced meals every day, you had a room and everything at your disposal.

You even wanted to help around the house but Steve wouldn't let you it was his job and his job only.

It wasn't that bad at all.

Paid food, housing and you didn't even have to work except when Bucky was taking the blood from you but that wasn't even that bad since Steve was taking little amounts of blood putting it in blood bags for Bucky, like donating blood but to a vampire.

All in all not bad.

However your sleep schedule was messed up.

Most of the times you didn't know if it was day or night because of the blinds and dark curtains covering all of the windows most of the time.

It has been around 2 months since you've started living with them and you still didn't understand what made your blood special, Bucky wouldn't tell you.

"Good morning doll, when will you start wearing pants around the house, you're tempting anyways."

Since the first night Bucky hadn't touched you like he did the first night. Bucky was sure if he did something like that again he wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking you.

You turned quickly almost dropping your midnight snack on the floor.

"I was just-"

"No need to explain yourself doll, just heard you thought I should keep you company, maybe even get a breakfast while I'm at it."

For some reason, your legs shiver and the need to close your thighs overwhelmed you so you just do that. Since you'd "moved in" he'd kept a distance and you'd be lying if you said it didn't hurt you. You missed talking to him, he didn't even tell you about the books he'd read.

"You never keep me company you're just hungry."

Bucky was taken aback by your words. You're his sweet girl you've never talked like that to him. But maybe you're right he hasn't been keeping you company he avoids you like the plague, it's been weeks since he drank from you physically.

If he was being honest he liked you way more than he'd like to admit. Yes your blood was good but he started feeling guilty.

"Do you want my company, pretty girl?" He'd come close to you, and you sucked in a breath, Bucky had taken the bowl from your hands.

He caressed you cheek softly, his finger barely touching you, but making your body temperature rise nonetheless.

"Why don't you look at me huh?" Bucky lifts your chin and your eyes meet his, oh and they are so pretty and your pretty pink lips that would look even better around his cock.

"Please." you don't even know what you're begging for, his attention, his touch?

"Please, what darling? Use your words pretty girl."

"Pay attention to me. You've been ignoring me I don't like being ignored. I wore so many pretty clothes and you won't notice me."

His pretty girl is an attention whore.

"Oh don't you worry, I noticed you, I heard your little whimpers when you tried to take care of the ache between your legs and you just couldn't. The little shorts and dresses you've been wearing were the only thing I paid attention to."

As if the weight has been lifted off your shoulders you smiled exhaling, blood was what Bucky lived off, but you lived for attention.

"Really? Why didn't you talk to me then! You didn't even tell me if you liked the book you were reading."

Bucky chuckled, damn you were adorable.

"Well I'll tell you if you do something for me."

You nodded eagerly.

"You don't even know what I want you to do."

"But I want to know."

"Have you ever heard of "curiosity killed the cat?""

"Pff that's not real. Tell me."

He'd taken your hand and let you to his bedroom , he didn't need Steve coming in and ruining the fun.

"Where's your bed? Do you not have a bed?"

Bucky laughs, it's been a while since he laughed so much.

"I don't need a bed."

His bedroom was more like a formal lounge room the long couch a fireplace and a lounge chair and of course a coffin standing against the wall. Bucky let's you scan the room before talking again.

"Okay that's enough looking come here." you obey instantly.

Bucky stands between the fire place and the couch in the middle of the room and picks up a pillow behind him, throwing it down on the carpet in front of him. Your eyes follow him.

"Go on." he points to the pillow and you just stand not sure what you should do. Seeing you need guidance Bucky grabs the back of your head and lowers you to your knees. He didn't use any force.

"Wil you tell me now?" your doe eyes look up at him innocently.

"Nope, we haven't even started, doll."

"But-"

You are cut off by Bucky pushing your face into his clothed buldge. He's been wanting you like this for a while and who says dreams don't come true.

"See what you do to me? Need you to take care of this before I tell you about the books I've read."

"But I don't know how." you want to do whatever he needs you to but you've never done anything like that before.

"Don't worry precious I'll help you, why don't you help me take these off first." Bucky takes your hands and leads you to the waistband of his sweatpants. You pull it down and Bucky instantly feels better, his hard on is still trapped in his underwear but much better with one layer taken off.

"Good girl." you sit not knowing what to do next so you take the waistband of his underwear releasing his painfully hard cock.

You forget to breathe, and don't know where to look and right as you were about to turn your head Bucky holds it in place.

"You need to see what you've done pretty." With one hand in your hair and the other on his length gathering the precum.

"Open up" and you do, he slips two fingers into your mouth loving the way you look tasting him.

"Give me your hands put them here." Bucky places your hands at the base of his cock, your hands are warm and soft and he thinks he's about to cum with just one touch.

"That's it." he praises you when you start moving your hands, your movements are a bit sloppy but enjoyable.

He groans when you squeeze him a bit harder.

"Sorry!" you think you've hurt him so you stop.

"Oh don't you dare stop now." Bucky says looking down at you, and what a sight to see. Your little hands hugging his thickness, he needs your mouth immediately.

"Open up for me." Bucky says, taking his cock and slapping it on your mouth.

"More." he says sternly and you open as wide as you can.

"There you go." Bucky smiles when you close around him, he's only half way in but it's already too big for you. He starts using your mouth, his thrusts are gentle not pushing you further into him. Your hands are on his thighs holding on but not for long.

"What you can't fit in you hold in your hands understand?" you nodd and immediately take the rest of his length, you use one hand to pump him and the other gets a hold of his balls. Bucky moans the moment he feels your hands on his balls playing with them.

"Doing so good pretty girl" he groans and feels his self control slipping, he needs you to take all of him. Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of you tears rolling down your red face. You suddenly pull away panting.

"Can't breathe." Bucky chuckles and brings you to his cock again.

"Breathe through your nose honey." Once you've gotten used to it Buckys thrusts became more frantic and unforgiving. He didn't stop when hit the back of your throat and you gagged saliva falling down your neck right between your breasts.

"Fuck me." Bucky breathes out, and with every thurst he groans and moans absolutely using your throat for his pleasure. Eyes rolling to the back of his head when your throat contracts squeezing him just right.

"So good, right there." you're holding tightly onto his thighs your nails digging into them which just sends Bucky into euphoria.

"Don't you dare spit out." Bucky says through gripped teeth just seconds before he finishes into your mouth sending cum down your throat. He rides out his orgasm his cock finally softening as he shoots the last drop of his cum.

Bucky pulls out and shuts your mouth closed like you're a dog.

"Swallow." not knowing what else to do you swallow the salty substance.

"Such a good girl for me." he says when you open your mouth to show him that you've swallowed every last drop. Some of it managed to escape and dripped down on your shirt but that's okay.

"Can you tell me now?" you manage to say despite it hurting of your throat.

"Of course darling. Just clean me up first and I'll tell you everything."

___________________________________________

[THE END]

please I know this was bad smut but I'm trying! I'm not used to writing it and I hope I did a decent job!

I would appreciate tips or constructive criticism what I could do better <3

likes comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #vampire!bucky x innocent!reader #vampire!bucky #vampire!bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky masterlist #sebastian stan characters #bluehourbuckyask #bucky smut

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readbycrow · 3 months

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How can I be more honest with myself?

2-23-2024 - Pick A Card

The images are in order of the cards below. The images just help pick which card is your answer. Pick an image, find the card, receive your answer. Hope to give some senses of reassurance and direction.

Candy Heart - You've been struggling financially, and it's starting to come to an end. These are immense and hard-hitting problems that can leave you dazed and unsure for years, especially without giving yourself time to recover. You can take a more honest evaluation of what you need to feel safe, secure, and grounded in the present following all of this turmoil. Taking time for yourself to recover and heal is never a bad thing, and the card pulled for this urges you to make sure you're doing exactly that. People may expect you to just pick yourself up and keep moving, but you know yourself best. Trying to move on without properly healing will never help in the long run.

Jelly Spiral - Are you living the life you want to? There's a difference between survival and living. There's a difference between stability and thriving. You can stagnate while seeming like you have it all. It's time to ask yourself if you're living your dream or someone else's. Society pressures us to be a lot of things that we might not actually want to ourselves. The pressure from family and loved ones is even greater. If you were raised with high expectations, deviating from them can feel like failing life and the people who love you. The people who truly have your best interest in heart will love you no matter what road you go down. You deserve a fulfilling life, even if it doesn't look like what you thought it would.

Chocolate Egg - Your life may feel easy, but it might be time to stop and check how well you're really balancing it. Appearances may tell you that you're doing fantastic, but you need to make sure you aren't accidentally slowly chipping away at yourself. It's very easy to neglect ourselves in little ways to get things done in the short term, but this long-term neglect can have huge detrimental impacts on our lives. The cards believe this is a thing to get ahead of rather than damage control. With that in mind, what have you dropped in your careful balancing act? How can you reshuffle things so that nothing important gets left behind again? You can be honest with yourself by putting everything on the table and taking a clear stock of it.

Hello! Welcome to the bottom of the post. This crow just wants to let you know that it will pull a free card for you if you send an ask to its blog! It does trades of unwanted things for a card. If you don’t specify a question, the card will be about what you’ve given up. Feel free to check the pinned post for more information.

Also! This crow is considering starting a new little series on the blog. Keep an eye out for the first post later today or over the weekend. :V

#tarotblr #tarot readings #pick a card #pick a pile #witchblr #caws #readings

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codfanficedits · 3 months

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Before the mask - Part fourteen

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Because Simon wasn’t born as Ghost.

Wordcount: 2160 | Rating: E! (18+ only!)

Warnings: Simon discovers a sexual side of himself, but it is just mentioned briefly

A/N: Survived my surgery, still in a lot of pain, but I lived, bitches.

Feel.

How is one supposed to just feel, to just experience these feelings? Simon didn’t know how, but he decided to just roll with it. His face gets buried into your abdomen, his tears staining your shirt.

“I.. I..” His voice dies down for a second. “God it feels so silly.” Simon said, trying to ease the tension he was feeling, yet he didn’t let go off you for a single second.

A safe haven, an anchor, the light that guided him in the darkness. God he loved you more than anything.

A few deep breaths and he wipes away his tears. “So, how long does this stuff needs to dry for?” He asks, trying to change the subject.

“Around a day.” You answer and Simon has to think for a little.

“But tomorrow we’re both on duty.” He said. “And once we’re both done, it’s only one more night until Halloween.”

“Seems like you can still count, Riley.” You chuckle, wiping the last of his tears away with your thumb. “I’m scheduled for training the upcoming days, and it’s supposed to be a tough one, so you might have to start painting without me.”

“But what if I fuck up?” In his stomach an uneasy feeling begins to grow, what if he messed up your hard work?

“What if you don’t fuck up?” You counter. “We made three masks, the world won’t decay if one doesn’t turn out the way we wanted. Hell, the world will even keep spinning if all three don’t end up the way we want them to. They’re masks, for Halloween, they don’t have to be perfect.”

His brows knit together, and it feels like silly words, because everything he does needs to be perfect, and it goes against his nature to not deliver perfect work.

Being as close to perfect as he could had provided him with praise of his teacher, and later on his superiors, what would he be without that kind of praise?

It was almost funny to see, a big, burly soldier, who could be arrogant at times, was secretly so insecure of who he was. Pretending to not care, only to thrive of the praise of others.

Your hand grips his chin and you force him to look up at you again.

“It doesn’t matter if it is perfect, it matters if you’re happy with it.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Simon protests softly. “But it isn’t easy.”

“I know, I know.” Your hand goes through his hair again. “But I’m there with you, every step of the way.”

Simon has to swallow a lump in his throat, the uneasy feeling in his stomach takes over his lungs, his heart, his brain. “Why do you do this?” He asks

“Why do I do what?” You ask, unsure what is going through his mind.

“You know I am broken, yet you still stay with me, trying to fix me.” He said, not understanding why you would put up with someone like him.

“That is where you’re wrong.” You chuckle, and Simon can feel his stomach drop fully. “I’m not with you, to fix you.” You add. “I fell in love with you while you were broken, and I didn’t fall in love with you to fix you.”

His head feels like it is spinning while he tries to listen to you. You loved him, even while he was broken? Of course he had heard you say it before, of course he believed you, but hearing you say it like this? Well, that made his heart beat even faster.

“I can be alongside you, I can be there while you try to figure it out yourself, but I love you, just the way you are.” You add.

“Even when I am like this?” He asks.

“Even when you’re like this.” You confirm.

God, how he loved you. How he would only ever love you.

It was okay to be him. No matter how hard life would be, no matter how difficult it could be.

Simon tightens his grip around you and his face gets buried against you again, he needs to feel your touch, worried that you aren’t real, and he can’t stand the idea of ever losing you.

Your fingers weave through his hair again, and Simon groans content. “You know.” He said with a chuckle. “I could easily get used to this, and never let you go.”

You laugh at his words. “That is not very soldierlike of you.”

“The army can suck my ass.” He mutters.

And it’s funny, the army had been his escape from life, his ticket out. But right now? Right now the thought of putting you in danger, of putting himself in danger felt like the worst thing that could happen and Simon didn’t want to risk it, because losing you would feel like he would have nothing left. Nothing more to give.

“Bollocks.” You chuckle. “You’re a good soldier, Simon, you can get really far if you want to.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t want to?” Simon counters while he looks up at him, his arms still firmly wrapped around your waist.

“Then I would suggest to stop giving it your all and to be just as mediocre as the rest of us.” You said as your answer.

“Hmpf.” Simon is a little torn, he wanted nothing more than to succeed, to become the very best, but on the other hand.. He knew he was being too forward, that he was thinking about the future too much, but domestic life was starting to call out to him too. Just with you though, he couldn’t see himself do this with anyone else.

“What about you?” He asks, eyes locking with yours.

You have to think about it for a little bit, your fingertips tapping on his scalp while you try to think of what you really want. Usually you would just go with the flow, not trying to think too much ahead, but even you had some dreams you wanted to fulfil in the army.

“I think I would eventually like to become a lieutenant.” You answer. “I feel as if that would be the perfect balance between having ownership and responsibility and still having to report to people.”

Now that was something Simon had not expected, you seemed to have put some thought into this. A smirk tugs around his lips and finally releases you from his hold, giving you a quick peck on your lips. “My, my.” He chuckled. “Who knows, I might even have to start to obey you.”

“Who knows,” you counter. “I might even have to start to punish naughty soldiers.”

Fuck.

Oh fuck.

That was trouble.

Simon never knew about this side of him. The sudden jolt of heat that started to course through his veins. He clears his throat, unable to look you in your eyes. “Who knows.” He mumbles.

Of course you pick up his cues, they’re not even that subtle. You use your pointer and middle finger to lift his chin up. “What’s the matter? Use your words, pretty boy.”

Simon has to swallow hard, his throat feeling dry. Pretty boy. He was a soldier for crying out loud.

Well, it turned out he was a soldier with a preference to be called a pretty boy.

He hated how he could feel his cheeks starting to get hot, and he knew he was starting to blush like crazy. This would’ve been the perfect time to shut down again. He was a soldier, he was a man, he was rough, though. He was supposed to be dominant, he was supposed to be in charge. But here he was, mere seconds away from begging you on his knees. It made him feel vulnerable, and he hated that, but at the same time, it did make him feel safe that it was with you. You were the only person who wouldn’t judge him for this, at least, that is what he hoped.

“Maybe.” He whispered. “Maybe I would like to be your naughty soldier.”

A grin formed on your face, as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. “Is that so?”

And Simon nods before you’re done speaking. God, yes.

“Maybe.” You whisper, as you push your thumb between his lips. “Maybe we can arrange that.”

Simon knows what to do, and his tongue moves almost on instinct, swirling around your thumb.

“But not now.” You add. “I want to talk about it first. I want to get us a safe word, I want to do it when we’re both feeling good. Not right before our duty.”

He nods, your thumbs still in his mouth, this tongue still twirling around your digit. He is just really relieved you’re open to this, than you don’t find this weird, and by the way you’re looking at him, you’re into this too.

A soft whimper leaves his lips when you pull your thumb back, and he clears his throat immediately. “Yeah, no.” He said, trying to sound gruff. “We definitely need to talk about this first.”

Simon gets up from his seat, and he presses a kiss on your forehead. “I’m really lucky to have you.” He whispers, right before his lips gets pressed against your forehead again.

“I’m really lucky to have you too.” You murmur, closing your eyes for a brief second, savouring the sweet kiss.

A part of you was a little worried about your upcoming duty, you knew it would take a lot of your energy, and part of you wanted some alone time to prepare for duty, but at the same time, you wanted to stay with him. Spend as much time as you could together, before you would go back to being ‘just friends’ for the outside world.

“C’me on.” His voice reaches your ear. “Tell me what is going on in that pretty, little head of yours.”

“Well.” You said, with a sigh. “I have two things on my mind.”

Simon places a hand on the small of your back, holding you close to him. “Tell me, lovie. I can’t guess what’s going on.”

“When do you want us to become a public couple?” The words leave your lips before you can stop it.

Simon sighs, before you were his, he wanted to see you in his hoodie, he wanted other men to know that you were his. But now that he had you, he realized that there was some.. weakness to that. He didn’t want you to be considered leverage, he didn’t want any of you to get into trouble.

“I don’t know.” He muttered truthfully. “I.. Maybe I would like to wait a little longer.”

You nod, agreeing with his words, your love was still young, still fragile, it would be better to wait a little longer before going public. “Let’s just wait until people start to notice.” You propose, and Simon smiles at those words.

“Yeah, let’s wait until then.” He agrees, kissing your forehead again. “Don’t think I don’t want people to know about us.” He clarifies. “I just want to wait a little longer. That is all.”

It’s funny how it didn’t even cross your mind that he didn’t want to be seen with you, and for a brief second you could feel a new fear unlocking. “Yeah, no, sure.”” You agree, but your voice is a little unsteady.

Simon, however, does not pick up on your little hint, and you don’t have it in you to tell him straight away.

“What’s the other thing on your mind?” He asks.

Well, all you wanted now was to be left alone, to let your own thoughts linger in your head a little, maybe you were just overthinking this, maybe you just needed a nap and some food in order to sort yourself out.

“Well.” You say, forcing a smile on your face. “We’re both on duty tomorrow, and I usually spend some time alone, so I can get some rest, so I can prepare, you know.”

Simon pushes away any sort of insecurity, he remembers the fight the two of you had because of this, and he doesn’t want to do that again. “I did nothing wrong?” He blurts out, and it does sound more desperate than he wants it to sound.

You shake your head. “Of course not. It is just my own little ritual, you did nothing wrong. I just want to prevent getting overwhelmed during duty.”

He could live with that, and he releases the tension in his shoulders. “Promise me you’ll find me if something happens, okay? If you have a nightmare or what not. I’m here.”

“I promise.”

Simon’s lips find yours after your little promise, and a very small part of him hopes he can keep you for a little longer, but he knows you need the time for yourself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks, after the kiss.

“See you tomorrow.”

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icyblogs · 2 months

Text

flesh and bone

Winter represents many things. The start of a new season. The beginnings to an end. Or the beginnings of a new start. Years finally caught up to you, finally knowing enough to summon a creature able to fulfill things beyond your wildest imagination. So why is it that you're now finding out that everything was orchestrated from the very start? Or: A DND au where a human falls into the clutches of a fiend and his guard dog. Patron!Ghost x Fem!Reader x Warlock!Soap WC: 6.8K Based off of this thought ! [AO3] -> Next Chapter Warnings: Start of a dark fic!! Mentions of death, depression, dubcon touching, semi-graphic description of violence, paranoia, manipulation, reader has a backstory to make sense for plot! A/N: i've never written for cod before so i'm sorry if characterizations are wonky okay ty

Winter represents many things. The start of a new season. The beginnings to an end. Or the beginnings of a new start. Most often in literature they can be associated with the circle of life- many animals lay dormant in this time of year. But even still, it goes to show the fragility of life; some creatures thriving in the atmosphere while others retreat back to their homes and really remember just what they’re living for- waiting it out until the leaves sprout anew. Just as the waters of puddles and lakes crystalize into ice or the roads start to slowly become less traveled– many things come into association with this time of year.

Death, mourning, skiing- sledding. The dichotomy of moseying along something in nature that could so easily kill you. Just for a bit of adrenaline. For some thrill or interesting experiences to tell at the next person you see at a tavern, drinking and chortling over a tankard of ale. Albeit most races aren’t built to survive freezing temperatures, they sure act like they are. But some actually are of course. Goliaths with their adeptness of surviving in the mountains- up to twenty thousand feet in altitude. Some dragonborn depending on their ancestry, hailing from ancient beings that simply thrive in some of the most subzero of places in the lands. But of course.. most are not. Putting on layer upon layer to just merely survive in these conditions- unable to even thrive unless the circumstances deem worthy enough.

It is seldom worth the consequences.

The winters were frigid as always, sharp pin pricks of frost seeping into through your stagecoach’s insulation even though the artificer claimed they infused the interior with a heating cantrip. Damn swindler- “100 gold for a safe and warm journey!” It unfortunately was the price of discreteness.. but maybe if you wished hard enough the air coming through would be enough to keep you from turning into an icicle- but it provided almost an almost numbing sensation to temporarily soothe the anxiety pricking at the recesses of your mind.

Just a few more hours, just a bit more time, and everything will be perfect.

Regardless, it was a fitting evening, all things considered. The mountainous path was characteristically barren- as to be expected being so close to Midwinter. Dense fog drifts further obscuring your vision as you stare out the semi-opaque glass into the no man’s land. Trembling fingers smooth out your cloak as you straighten in your seat, the temperatures seeping through and nipping at your skin despite the warm wool gloves that cover the appendages. Your breath was a foggy mist as you breathe, leaning back as the air swirls around and encapsulates the interior of the.. Let’s call it a cozy vehicle.

It was easy to notice the slow pace that the coach was going: after all you can only be lost in your thoughts for so long. Going out of the city during this time of year was always a toss up on how navigable things would be.. But given the surge in technology with these infused machines and .. these wizards and such- theoretically it should be a breeze.

A gilded bag sits beside you on the worn leather seats, the contents packed with purpose- containing the bare essentials, among other things. It was silent besides your ragged breath, gripping the fabric of your cloak in a white-knuckled grip, lips pursed as you glanced through the fogged glass once more as if something would change in the scenery. The engrained tick made it a habit hard to shake off; eyes flickering back and forth repetitively either side of dark path on the left of you to the dark path to the right of you, almost compulsively like it was an itch needed to be scratched despite there being no one there the last ten times you checked. It was a simple inkling that needed to be constantly taken care of- as if the moment your head was turned, you could almost swear that something was looking back at you.

A face? Ah, it was just some branches-

The stagecoach swerves and it makes you jolt out of your thoughts, eyes glancing behind you towards the front of the carriage, absentmindedly chewing on your tongue and a grimace immediately crosses your features, not even registering the pinprick of pain in your mouth.

Seeing the horses rearing their hooves, stopping in their tracks, the horse’s squeals were loud even over the sound of the biting wind. All of it felt too familiar; it’s been years and yet.. It’s almost too easy to fall into the abyss of your mind, your breathing slowing. The slow and steady stream coming to a halt as if the crimson in your veins were mere molasses- stopping the flow to what allowed you to properly breathe, feeling as though your chest was being crushed. Pressing down, ripping the air out of my lungs– peine forte et dure.

It was almost mocking in a sense, the stagecoach seems to disappear and you’re planted firmly back in the painful memories that dance around your skull like a rattle, the taunts and phantom pains drifting over the side of your face. Remembering the curve of a dagger sinking into your skin and through tissue, choking on blood- a sense of blind panic seeping its way into the air that your lungs struggle to remember how to be of use. You recall smoke- thick and permeating down your trachea, choking- gagging for some sort of reprieve, your hands outreached to grab their hand if only you could stretch just a little further-

A bang startles you out of your stupor as you gasp, head whipping to the side- cold sweat dripping down your temples. Your left hand feels unnaturally heavy as you take a deep breath to steady your haggard breathing, trembling as you stare at the coachman- a harengon- you hadn’t recalled his name. He hops into the interior, shooting you a look of concern. You gulp a few times to soothe your dry throat, the taste of iron bittersweet, coating your tongue as if a rich cabernet- thick and heavy. Familiar.

“Ma’am- I’m so sorry. The path is too treacherous I can only take you this far-”

It takes you longer than you would have liked to collect yourself-, licking your dry lips, the cracks from the dry weather causing the simple motion to sting. “And- And I do believe I paid you for a full express ride through the Surykyk Range and to the top of Mt. Akka. Did I not?” Your voice is firm, albeit a little shaky as you cock your head looking at the rabbit with pursed lips.

He looks apologetic, wringing his hat between his two paws, his ears drooping. “Ma’am, really, you have to understand-”

“Understand?”

“Yes, I know you prepaid but the road after this gets too perilous and..” His voice becomes a sort of background noise, an ugly feeling festering as you blink slowly. There was that sensation again you’ve felt a few times over the past few years; a little tingle on the hairs of your neck as they raised, along with the incessant buzz that completely sounds out the haregon’s voice. His lips move- words that seem to go in one ear and out the other, as if making fun of you. His droopy ears, his expression of sympathy- no pity. Looking at you like you’re some sort of wounded animal– no- he was mocking you. Of course he was.

Your hands tremble as they tighten into fists, mouth opening and then closing and you let out a heavy sigh. It was irritating- how could a simple job such as this could not be? Pay some gold to get to the top of a mountain- why was everyone around you acting so completely incompetent? Why are they acting as if you were asking them to do the impossible? In this day and age a small trip of this magnitude should be nothing. A walk in a park. If they weren’t going to be of any use then.. Why are they even in front of you at all? Do they seriously not know how long you’ve waited for this and they’re just denying you access? Over a petty blizzard? No.

Beneath your gloves the skin was taut as you tighten your hands into fists as if it would help ground yourself but to no avail. The low buzzing grows louder; like bees humming around your brain like the ridges and valleys were honey- drowning out the pounding of your heartbeat. Louder and louder, reaching deep into the grooves and making their place known, feeding on your festering distress. On your negative emotions. The sense of trepidation melds back into being wound up like a tight spring as you continue to stare hard at the rabbit; your body acting as if on auto-pilot. His whiskers twitch. And you? Well you just go through the movements and zone out once more, falling into a welcoming void of darkness, surrounding you- comforting you.

The blood rushes to your head as your heart pounds, the buzzing ceasing to a low hum. When you come back to, you are still in the stagecoach, however, you are the only living being in it. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise really, these recent bursts of blackouts are more common as of late, happening more often than not. They happen at the most random of times and always seem to exemplify death- oddly enough it only started happening after the incident. Only after you found out you could summon a greater being to give you power.

Your eyes flicker down to the white boots you were wearing and click your tongue, seeing the sprinkle of red bleed into them as if the blood were a brush and the leather it’s canvas. You try to rub out the stain but to no avail, only smearing it into a sort of pinkish hue. Your eyes then move upwards towards the wooden ceiling and then fall unceremoniously towards the corpse, wiping your forehead with the back of your glove, face losing color. Your hands felt almost achy, the muscles strained and well.. Seeing the way his neck was bent ninety degrees, it was understandable. The aftermath of these blackouts were never easy. Fighting down the growing nausea, you stumble out of the stagecoach, clutching your bag firmly to your chest as you pass the horses- trudging through the rough terrain.

—

The hours feel longer now, the evening turning into twilight, as you take the trek by foot. Sheer cliffs drop sharply into the abyss below as you continue to climb further and further from mass-population; rising steadily in elevation as you take in the sights all around as far as the eye can see. The thick blanket of fog really did make it hard to see everything clearly but what of the forest around you that you could see was big. It was vast, the barren trees with a light coat of fresh snow brushing along their branches. Grand normally in nature, but even more so as they seem to tower over the road: the branches sticking out like gnarled fingers, hanging over the cliffside as if trying to beckon you off the beaten path. The snow covered ground is uneven, the shadows cast by the moon creating disfigured shadows and shapes that play tricks on your eyes.

It honestly didn’t help the anxiety whatsoever; the fog, the falling snow— the overall just sensation of being watched. You blame the paranoia and lack of sleep at the time, but it was impossible to resist the urge to look behind you to see if something appeared in the last two seconds you weren’t looking.

Maybe the Haregon was.. right. It was, for lack of a better term, hell. Auril’s reach was deep- as to be expected being so deep into her territory, but it was terrible. The snow piled up to be knee deep, having to pay close attention and really watch where there was the slightest indentation in the snow- if only to figure out where the fissures were so you don’t fall to an unseemly death. It was nearly impossible to do this with just the moonlight to light your way: wishing that you didn’t care so much in case something went wrong. You should’ve just gone through with all this in the comforts of your home.

After all.. It would surely be a shame if you got so close to your goal and yet never reached it. Would truly be such a pity.

The area was honestly reminiscent of what you might conjure up Stygia being like; how you might imagine that part of the hells being in terms of barely being traversable- snow as far as the eye could see. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you saw a gaggle of frost giants or the start of the Styx the next time you turned a corner as you continued to steadily rise in elevation.

The snow crunches beneath your feet, creating a rhythmic cadence. Every step is a genuine, calculated effort to not slip and fall on the surface- gripping the mountain side tightly as to not fall. And well, in addition to yet everything else the frigid and occasional gusts of wind that sends plumes of snow swirling around you, only adding to the overwhelming sense of sheer isolation in this desolate landscape. The further in elevation you get the more that feeling grows on you. It doesn’t help that you can barely see ten feet in front of you either. However.. At some point you realize you may or may not be lost. It was.. Well, it was hard not to get lost.

Yeah, you were definitely lost.

It was easy to look up at the sky and huff, taking a few deep breaths to calm your nerves, but it was certainly a difficult task. Back in the city when you initially planned out this whole grand scheme, it was theoretically supposed to be an easy trip. Go out to Mt. Akka- far away from civilization in case you mess up the ritual, and then summon the all knowing being and make a pact. It was supposed to be easy. Three easy steps. After all that’s what he said all those years ago. The man that started all this.

—

Days after the incident had time crawling to a standstill- the hours feeling like weeks. Funeral arrangements made and gone through with. Sympathies and gifts sent to your temporary place of residence as if they were truly sorry for you. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ ‘She was a wonderful mother, a great friend.’ If they truly felt that way, then why was it just you looking down at the casket as it got covered with soil? Why were you the only person who seemed to be grieving for this loss? Why did nobody else come to pay their respects as you stayed for days, finding solace in the overturned soil? As if you could claw your way through the ground and climb inside with her, hugging the charred corpse and burrowing between her ribs. Aching for the sensation of a hug, of an embrace.

It really was no surprise when you’re found spending your nights in a shady tavern. Tucked away deep in the city- in alleyways, far away from the upper levels. It really was the best place to drink away your sorrows. It was the perfect place to become a nobody.

Huddled into a corner of a grimey back alley place, the wood sticky and stained with what, you weren’t sure. It was loud that night; and yet there you were: alone with nothing but a tankard of ale to drown out anything else. Just wanting to get numb. Just wanting to .. stop everything. Patrons come in and out, and yet there you stay even as dawn begins to rise. Sticking out like a sore thumb despite the best efforts to blend in. Too rigid to count as a regular, too downtrodden to appear lighthearted enough to familiarize yourself with the other joyous people. Just a meager human in a hodgepodge of species.

That’s where he found you. Sitting on a stool on the end of the bar; staring down at the amber liquid, gently nursing the liquid- too many drinks in to necessarily turn your nose up at the far too bitter and pungent cheap ale. It was now a more comforting taste, dulling the senses, muffling the loud noise, turning it into a vice.

A hand brushes along the curve of your ass- quickly making its way up and settles over the nape of your neck- squeezing absentmindedly, and you’re brought back to the present. Head lolling to the side slightly as your gaze travels upwards. Bright blue eyes stare back at you, resembling a kaleidoscope of precious gems- sapphire, larimar, kyanite- swirling and sparkling with mischief, his gaze adorned with an impish grin. His dark hair was ruffled up in a sort of weird style, long on the top, short on the sides. He was a peasant, it was easy to assume but if you were more coherent, it was easy to tell that he was anything but, despite how he presented himself to you. Back a little too straight, nails clipped and short, no signs of dirt underneath them. The stranger’s fingers dig into your flesh and you frown, squinting up at his sheer audacity.

It was then you noticed his ears- ah. That’s why he looked so .. ethereal. His skin was perfect. But he had facial hair.. A half elf? Regardless, you stick your nose up at him as you scowl, perfectly content to wallow in grief in peace. Trying to twist your head out of his gentle, but firm grip. Mouth opening to tell him off- to leave you the hell alone–

“Ah’ll buy ye a drink bonnie.” His low purr cuts off your starting protests, hovering over you, blocking your view from the rest of the tavern- hand squeezing you once more before falling and taking their place across your lower back as if it belonged there. The warmth of his skin follows your movements as you press against the bar in a sluggish attempt to get some space. The man tilts his head down at you, giving a toothy smile when your frown deepens, looking at him with clear apprehension- “Dinnae ken, i’ll buy ye something strong. You look like ye need it, hm?”

It was easy to squirm under his insistent gaze, nodding. Eyes half-lidded as you blink slowly, the pads of his fingers absentmindedly tapping into your back when you didn’t answer verbally. “Yeah.. I guess so.”

Never realizing that you never had a choice; it truly was never an offer.

Regardless, this stranger- Johnny you later found out his name was- listened to your tales and woes as you blubber over the ‘top’ shelf liquor. Slurring your words incomprehensibly as he sat on the stool next to you, large hand now finding its home in holding the flesh of your thigh far too high up to be considered respectable. It was easy to take the information given to you at heart as he even gave such great life advice. Describing wonderful tales of protection- of something to work for- a goal to try and get to. It was hard to remember at the time why his words seemed to cut through the fog of the alcohol, and why it stuck with you.

“And he’d make sure ye’d never have te worry about nothin’ again. Set up for life, able to get easy protection for yerself. Sounds like a dream, and it’d only be a few small things tae do.” Poisonous words seeping into your ears paired a saccharine sweet smile hiding the maws of a dog ready to bite down at a moment’s notice. Holding himself back, playing nice for you. For him. “I mean yer a wee bonnie thing, drinkin’ your life away. Shh.. shh I ken, I ken- I know it’s hard.” Wiping your tears away as they start to overflow again, hiccuping as you take another large swig of your drink.

John was just one of those people that it was easy to talk to- maybe it was how long you’ve been in this place, or maybe it was the fact that he was buying your drinks, who knows. Just a charming gentleman, knowing all the right things to say, and so what if he was a little touchy? Maybe he just needed a little bit of comfort too, surely you could understand that, right? He was so nice in fact that he walked you back to your temporary residence- silly, you must’ve forgotten you told him where you were staying- and when you woke up the next morning there was a concisely written note with everything you needed to do. The smell of sulfur stuck to the parchment as if burned into the grooves of it.

What a nice guy.

—

Yeah, looking back though it certainly wasn’t the brightest idea to go this far away from civilization. But you heard it was a scary ritual! That there might be a lot of consequences to it! But as you looked around the snowy scene with a huff it was clear that you were more than likely not going to make it any further than this without just flat out dying. So.. you pause in your steps. The situation was just so absurd, that you were risking your life for something that might not even happen. But what else is there for you to do at this point? It sparks a bubble of bittersweet laughter in your chest as you wipe away some flurries on your nose- maybe you can just wish to make it out of here alive and well instead.

You crouch down, awkwardly trying to clear away the snow to reveal the hard ground- your hands freezing wet by this point- the wool gloves feeling as though it was becoming brittle and stiff. It takes a few minutes but you were able to eventually clear a decently sized space around you. The ritual should’ve been performed at a higher elevation, for your sake of mind over anything else- but at this point it was quite literally probably either do or die. So might as well try to give it a last ditch effort, right? And with how the snow continued to descend thick and fast, like a relentless onslaught with no regards towards your personal quest, it was only a matter of time. So you continue to awkwardly carve out a space around you, grimacing at how your hard work was by the minute getting covered up by the steadily growing blizzard around you. The line of sight diminished drastically as the snowstorm swept through the landscape like a ghostly specter, cloaking the world in a shroud of swirling white and obscuring all signs of life or landscape.

Clutching the bag so the contents don’t get blown away, you procure a small glass jar of a fiend’s blood- trembling hands starting to pour it on the ground in an attempt to recreate the shape you recall tracing so many times before. It certainly felt different using blood as paint rather than graphite; practically speeding through the process as by the second, snow was landing on your now coagulating hard work. The symbol was lopsided, the intricate circles and lines definitely asymmetrical and not fully correct- A gust of wind shoots through the gorge, the force nearly strong enough to make you crash into the ground. You stumble as the sound of glass shattering resonates, the sound echoing even above the roaring sound of the wind rushing past you. You gulp hard, shaking like a leaf in a raging storm- when another gust, almost like a predator sinking its claws into your skin; forcing you down into the ground, as if you didn’t have permission to stand. Your body hoists itself up for but a brief moment and then unceremoniously falls, and you scowl as your body is forced into a makeshift kneeling position, the cold tendrils blowing past you as if in the imitation of a bone chilling hug.

Well.. a pact summoning could be done standing or sitting down, you suppose.

Somewhere along the way your demands and wishes for this pact- for this all giving wish might have gotten a little.. skewed. It had been a whole process to get to this point after the accident- years dedicated to sneaking about the forbidden areas of libraries- going from nation to nation, paying hefty amounts of gold for mere names that might aid you on your quest for the power to protect yourself. The power to protect what once had long been past, like a memory fleeting in the wind. Faceless people crying out for you to run, for you to stay- for you to save them– for you to save yourself. The power to reach your hands further out and save your loved ones.

So .. when did that start to twist into the wish to live. To simply survive the circumstances you’ve thrust yourself into?

The blizzard seems to rain even worse as you sort of tussle down a gem in the ground of one of the circles- some emerald pendant your family has had in their lineage for centuries. It was an attachment that felt sort of poignant, one of the only few things that’s survived that is of their memory– blinking away the forming tears as you watch the snow slowly fall over the item. You then proceed to pull out a singed book of spells- one you’ve tried to use a countless number of times, but the weave never seemed to allow you to tap into the energy; and you’ve had to hold onto it for the ritual as it was a magical item, no matter how much it was just a blatant form of mockery. As if saying ‘wizards and sorcerers can use me and yield results, so why can’t you?’ You set the heavy leather book on the other circle.

You crawl against the force of the wind awkwardly to the middle of the practically ruined ritual circle, trying not to ruin your already stained clothing- but at this point did it even matter anymore? A small vial is procured- this blood visibly lighter than the fiend’s- this being one of a fellow human; the blood of a friend. You haul yourself to your feet, digging into the hard dirt to keep yourself stabilized, despite how badly the world was trying to send you crashing down to the floor. Clearly unable to keep yourself steady, you hastily drip the liquid beneath you, already starting the incantations that you know oh so well, spreading the liquid in a smear with your heel, praying and hoping this would work. Watching as each drop sinks into the sleet, the macabre tapestry that spirals out– as if the very land itself was painting a picture; weeping for the fallen, mourning their passing in silent reverence. It was for a good cause- you told yourself.

Years of letting your feelings fester, dedicating years of studying and researching towards this moment, your palms becoming doused in red and the darkening of your soul- all towards changing your fate- though you had hoped this moment would end up being done in a well.. more covered environment, however it was no matter. This was the better alternative- getting power for free. Not having to train and be proficient in magic and study all those years. Your mind sort of just latched onto the idea of working smarter- not harder. To get a shortcut in the way of life.

Infernal spills from your tongue- accented and choppy despite your best recreation of it- clearly not of your mother tongue despite the fact you could practically recite it in your sleep by this point. The incantation was slowly spoken, like a low rumble- reaching the far back of your throat, the cadence deliberate and guttural as that small hum of a buzz begins to slowly begin in the deep recess of your mind. A small pocket knife is procured from your bag, flipping it open as you urge your voice to be louder than the howling wind as the snow swirls around you like a vortex. The blade presses against the palm of your hand.

The pain lasted for but a brief moment, small bubbles of blood starting to dribble out of the wound, falling at a faster rate as it dripped onto the circle beneath you, combining with the scarlet already split. The cold wind continues to swish around you, your clothing providing little to no protection as the incantation becomes louder, the words becoming choppy– more frantic. The shadows grow longer, the trees groan as if bearing the weight of something heavy. And then your voice comes to a stop, panting as you wait for something to happen, smiling as you look around with wide eyes, a numbness starting to make its way through your limbs.

Silence.

And more silence.

It was painstakingly easy to panic, hastily repeating the incantation as loud as you can- something setting in. A realization of what you were doing? Yeah that wasn't working.

“No- Nono.” Tears make it harder to see, blinking them away as another cut was made, adding more blood to the middle of the circle as if that would solve all the problems in the world- “Why- Why isn’t it working? I did everything right-” The pitch rises in your growing hysteria, looking around at the partially covered symbol to see if something went wrong. An exasperated sigh leaves your lips and it turns into a chuckle and then into a full on fit of laughter, your cracked lips forming a larger grin. There’s no way right? That this was actually happening. Years of your time- nearly five god forsaken years. If you ever saw that blue eyed elf you’d kill him. Fucking hell-

“Please-” Your head tilts back as you glance up at the stormy sky, pinpricks of fear running down your spine as the expression simmers into a more somber one. It all comes crashing down as a jarring realization that all this time- you didn’t even know exactly who it was you were trying to summon. That elf and all those people telling the stories of tales across the land, talking of a being to grant power. To grant wealth. To provide enough strength to save the people around you. To take a nobody and turn them into a somebody. To give reason to actually keep living instead of joining your mother six feet under. Buried back under the burnt down remains of your estate.

It was described as simple. Summoning the being in a circle of a fiend’s blood- establishing a connection to the outer realms. That part was simple enough, though it took trading with some shady people but eventually you got what you needed; some mercenary you had to pay off to look the other way as you essentially go through the process of bloodletting an imp. Then draw out the symbol- provide the items of a precious gem and a magical artifact. Easy enough. Provide the blood of a friend- showing how willing you are to cut ties your former life to just to establish the connection, and finish it with a drop of your own blood to finish the connection, all while chanting some very specific incantations.

You did all that. So.. why wasn’t it working?

You performed it perfectly.

The hard ground felt like nothing to your numb body as you sank into the snow once more. Glass glitters in the snow as it presses into the side of your face, but you barely register the pain. It was supposed to work. All those scrolls- all those people, all that time. And for what? A useless invocation. Something that didn’t even work. Taking the time and energy, going out of the way of civilization in case something went wrong and.. Yet. And yet- It was silly. It was so freezing out here, the air thin and hard to breathe, but for some reason it felt warm.

You weren’t anything special, a mere human in the world of dragons. In a world of krakens and beholders and all these amazing things. And yet at the end of the day.. you were just a regular old nobody. Sure, you were of a sort of nobility status- though not anymore– but you were trying to change your past; trying to make yourself better. To change what has already been predetermined- to reach up and touch the stars, not realizing that you were tethered to the realm. Trying to rewrite predetermined fate, as if you actually had a chance at being anything more than being completely useless-

It was easy to lose your train of thought, head swimming as an unsettling terror seizes your chest- everything begins to fracture and break. The sounds around you start to become distant echoes, muffled and indistinct, as if you’re listening from the bottom of a deep well. There's a strange detachment, as if you’re floating on the edge of reality, holding on only by the thinnest of threads. The cliffs around you seem like they’re combining overtop, as if you’re looking through a fishbowl lens: the shadows seem darker, twisting and turning under the moonlight’s glow. Your thoughts slow to a crawl, each one a struggle to grasp onto before slipping away like sand through an hourglass, fighting a losing bottle to have any idea be coherent enough to pass through the filter. Accompanied by a tingling sensation that spreads from the tips of your fingers to the crown of your head, as if your body is disconnecting from itself, each limb growing heavier and more distant with every passing moment.

Why did this happen? Why.. did it not work?

Why did you even try? You just wanted to be more. You just wanted to survive. To live.

Black dots fly in your field of view; dancing around like fairies in the wind, mocking as they flutter across your vision with no rhyme or reason. Your vision blurs- the unsaturated colors of the snowscape soften into monochromatic tones of gray; the moonlight seems to go further and further away as your head sinks into the snow; the dots growing larger as if obscuring your vision.

You’d do anything.

You blink slowly as the buzzing creeps up louder, wrapping around your brain and clinging to the nerves. And then all at once dissipates, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The feeling of being watched seeps into your conscious state of mind but at this point it was a mere afterthought, feeling hollow as your eyes fall half lidded.

“Anything?” A low timbre resonates around you, emanating from no discernable source. The disembodied voice seems to drift around your fallen form, as if hovering- waiting.

The realization has a little chuckle ripping its way out of your throat. Oh, you were hearing things now. Lovely. You were discombobulated clearly, eyes closing as you breathe slowly, your heart seeming to calm down. The voice- you weren’t exactly sure if there was someone around you or if you were genuinely going crazy, like it was some angel above speaking to you on death’s door.

Right. Keep your eyes open- it’s not time to sleep yet. Right? But honestly it wasn’t even that cold anymore. Rather warm actually- like you were being coddled in an embrace- why would you want to move? Your eyes squint open against the snowstorm, looking around blearily at your limited scope of sight. Your limbs feel not only heavy but numb, and you knew moving them would be a chore and so you simply stay put laying down. There was a brief moment of nothing and then- Ah, right. There was someone speaking to you.

“Uh huh.” That sufficed right? There was an unnecessarily long pause, prompting you to continue talking- after all, what harm would it do? “Wanna live.” Your tongue felt heavy, as if speaking required some sort of insurmountable effort. You shift- pressing your face further against the dirt, lacking the energy to try and do anything else, little pricks of blood starting to stain the fresh snow.

“You’d do anything?” The gruff voice rings out once more and you almost groan, eyes fluttering around uselessly, vision blurring and becoming unfocused. Why was it–he?- asking you that? Aren’t your last moments supposed to be in peace, not filled with conversation?

“Anythin’.” You slur, gasping for breath as soon as the last sound finishes your chest suddenly tightens, constricting your breath, as if the air around you stills. You don’t notice the change in atmosphere, the magic sprinkling around your body- floating and pulling at unseen chains tethered deep in your heart- too hyper focused on the sudden searing pain on the back of your neck; akin to a branding iron.

“Silly girl.”

You writhe at the sensation, whining, feeling the individual lines of runes being carved deep into your skin. The pain was unlike you’d felt before, even from the pain all those years ago. No- this– this was agony. This was being trapped in a whirlpool, dragged under the depths by the relentless force of pain, unable to find solid ground. This was thousands of needles piercing your skin, pulsing through you like a constant drumbeat- each throb, each line being carved only sending waves of agony. Like a black hole, taking you deep into the Shadowfell, into the Nine Hells- being torn apart- each limb being torn. No- not torn. This was more precise, being carved like a butcher- no like a surgeon, meticulously taking their time to dissect you. To pull back your skin and peer at everything that makes you, you. Each individual nerve and muscle laid bare as they are probed and examined, delving into the very essence of your being. Seeing what makes you tick, what makes you smile- your worst thoughts- your deepest desires.

This feeling wasn’t.. unfamiliar oddly enough- in fact the opposite, as if you’ve felt it before, except this time it was a more obvious invasion, a violation of your innermost sanction as it digs deep into your body and pushing past your ribs and settling into its new home, wrapping an icy claw around your heart and constricting–

Then all at once the torment ceases, the pain being replaced with almost a sense of reprieve. You feel the phantom of a hand brushing over the now raised skin, causing your sweat-ridden body to jerk away frivolously, before settling, letting out a soft sigh. The sudden relief was like stepping into a new realm of freedom and tranquility; as if all the burdens you previously had were released. Like gentle relief that calmed the raging of your mind- calming the storm of anguish and bringing a moment of clarity and peace. The fear that once consumed you, the sense of hopelessness that weighed heavy on your heart, the loneliness that haunted you for years—all of it now seemed fleeting, like passing thoughts. As transient as the wind sweeping through the sky, soon forgotten. Those years of all that struggle; all those years of searching and praying for some sort of help. Like a weight lifted off your chest. You could reach above; no longer being bound to the realm: you could do anything. Be anything- Your eyes had closed, when did they close? You open them- seeing nothing but the darkness of the mountains, but it was so weird, as you could feel it- him- hovering around your form like a lingering shadow. A man? A monster- you weren’t sure. It was hard to tell.

And so, when your eyelids inevitably fell closed once more, it only made sense you were too far gone to even notice the skull-faced monstrosity standing over you, his head tilted as he looked down at his newly anointed warlock with an inscrutable expression. Rich amber eyes looking down at you and then- a pleased hum resonates through the air.

Mere minutes later the spot where you once laid was coated with a fresh coat of snow, looking like a pristine blank page, as if nothing had even transpired there in the first place. As though you never existed in that space to begin with.

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ragingbookdragon · 1 year

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Price dies in a way they always knew he would. In battle, defending the team of people he loved.

He dies in Simon’s arms—not Ghost’s, he’s never Ghost to Price—and makes him promise to take care of his family in his stead.

So Simon does.

He brings Price’s body back, hold’s Price’s wife when she breaks down in the living room of their home, JJ watching from the hallway.

JJ doesn’t cry when they go to Price’s funeral, doesn’t cry when the soldiers salute his mom and him, doesn’t cry when his mom gives him the flag.

He doesn’t cry where his mom can see.

He has to be the man for her now.

He cries in secret. In his bedroom, in Simon’s arms when Simon is awakened from his slumber on the couch to find JJ rubbing at his eyes, “I miss daddy, Uncle Simon.”

Simon remembers his promise to Price.

He makes the decision then and there when JJ tells him why he won’t cry in front of his mother, when he sees his godson bite his lip so hard it bleeds so he won’t cry.

Simon finishes his last contract and gets out of the military.

Moves the family back to Herefordshire and gets a job bartending. It’s easy money, and with the benefits from the government (not to count the amassed amount Price has saved for his family in case of his death), the family lives more than comfortably.

Simon is there, he steps up and becomes the father figure that JJ needs. Teaches him how to be a man, how to live, how to survive.

But he keeps Price alive in the home. Makes sure JJ never forgets who his father was.

When JJ, eligible for enlistment, mentions he wants to be SAS, Simon agrees under one condition, he only serves ten years and gets his degree to do something other than being a soldier. Price’s wife has lost too much to lose her only child too.

JJ agrees, enlists and manages to get under Captain John MacTavish. He thrives under Soap’s leaderships, rises ranks, and when it’s past the ten-year mark, he leaves.

He gets his degree in military history, teaches at the local university for decades until he gets the call from his mother than Simon isn’t long for the night.

So JJ goes home, talks with his mother and is left in the bedroom his mother and Simon share. He remembers how the two had come together in later years. They were never open, but JJ wouldn’t’ve have minded. He knew his father would’ve been okay with them.

He sits, an older man, beside Simon, old and withered, and holds his hand, talks with him. Recounts the old days growing up. Simon teaching him how to drive, how to shave, how to ask a girl out and not look like a weirdo. They laugh and cry and share heart to heart. They mostly laugh at how white their hair is and how their backs hurt.

When Simon feels the long night calling him, he starts to tell JJ about all his regrets in life, how he failed his family, how so many missions failed and he lost soldiers, how sometimes he felt like he failed Price but then he looks at JJ and says, “All the wrong I did, you were the only thing I ever did right.”

JJ takes his hand, squeezes it and tells Simon, “My father was the greatest man I ever knew. Even if he didn’t live to see me grow up, I remember him. But you, Simon, were the best dad a boy could’ve ever asked for. And I wouldn’t trade being your son for anything in the world.”

Simon passes in his sleep.

He’s buried next to his mom and brother’s family.

His mom follows after.

She’s buried beside Price.

And JJ lives the rest of his life teaching his students at university about the greatest men he ever knew until he passes on too.

He wakes up in a field color. Warm spring air and the scent of a million flowers greets him. Then he sees his mom and his father, young, like they were when he was a kid, and he looks at himself, sees him at his best, then JJ sees the others behind them.

Waiting for him.

He hugs his parents, tells them how much he missed them.

Price tells JJ how proud he was of the man he gave life to.

Then he walks up to Simon and stands before the man.

“Hey dad.”

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ddalgibuns · 9 months

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violent delights with destructive ends

attack on titan ⊹ levi x afab!reader ⊹ 3.5k

mature content ( MDNI! ), sub!levi, reader is erwin's sister, you're gonna feel bad for levi in the end. mention of canon deaths

dark content warnings: gaslighting, manipulation, brief dub-con, fleeting breeding thoughts

author’s note: sub!levi isn't going to be a frequent theme on my blog, but i hope you enjoy :)

being humanity's strongest soldier isn't an easy feat. the burden on levi's shoulders often outweighs his small frame and he's left to mourn for each of his lost cadets and comrades in the privacy of his room, away from any watching eyes. if one were to ask around the base if captain levi even cares about losing any soldiers, they would all say that lives are just numbers to the captain and that he's the one that often has to tell them to leave the corpses when there's no more room in wagons. levi couldn't care less about his image or what anyone else says about him, just as long as he had you.

it was a brutal battle and you only heard of the news from hange a few minutes before the rest of the survey corps arrived, almost halved in number and all cadets looking rather grim. your eyes immediately search for a pair of onyx ones and once the tired pair lock with yours, you breathe a sigh of relief before seeking a pair of icy blue next. once your older brother's life is also secured, you make your way upstairs to levi's bedroom where you expect he'd come first.

you joined the survey corps to follow in your brother's footsteps as a skilled cadet and eventual captain or commander, but you're much more uncoordinated and served to be quite a disappointment. rather than make you a liability on the field, you were crowned the title of base maintenance worker where you thrived in cleaning and... that was about it. the only good thing to come out of your new line of work was the approval you'd receive from captain levi every time you cleaned his sleeping quarters; it started with a curt nod of his head, then a polite smile, then to him helping you out so you have less work to do, and during your time together, you would shoot questions back and forth to get to know each other, even the hard hitting ones like those about parents, life before committing to the survey corps. finding out you were erwin's little sister was a fact that had him avoiding you for a full week as he tried to balance out the pros and cons of getting involved with someone so dear to the commander. in the end, the urge to kiss you when you giggled about the silliest things took over and he decided that none of the negative reasons he listed even mattered, as long as you two were able to keep it a secret from the broad blond.

the doorknob turns slowly and levi's heavy heart takes a moment before he can push the door open to greet you. at first, his smile is faint and ingenuine, but seeing you, standing in his room and alive... he all but runs to you and wraps his arms suffocatingly tight around your waist, face nuzzled into your neck.

"hard day?" you whisper, already knowing the answer. levi's head bobs in confirmation against your skin and you hold him just as hard, squeezing him against you. "but you're okay, sweetheart — we're okay."

such a selfish way to think and if the other cadets or the family of the deceased heard, they would riot, but it was the hard truth. without levi, what chance did humanity have in surviving? and without you, what would levi live for? he's admitted out loud that he wouldn't want to continue on if you were to die, and the first time he said that was when you had stopped asking erwin to put you in battle.

as years dragged on, there was less and less reason for levi ( or any other captain for that matter ) to learn the names of new recruits when they would most likely be gone within a few months, and as much as the stoic captain would like to deny, it's taken a big toll on his morale. losing his friends in groups, one by one, all at once until only erwin and hange remained... he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. but then he sees you and he thinks, "maybe one more battle..."

"maybe this is it for humankind... we should just run away and live where the government and titans can't reach us... even if they do, i'll kill them all," levi's words are muffled against your neck, but you get most of them.

"i never knew you were the type to abandon your post like that, captain. isn't that treason?" your voice has a playful lilt to it, but when levi pulls back to meet your gaze, you see the sadness and grief that pours out of them, yet with no tears to accompany those feelings. "baby," you whisper, quickly leading him to the bed before you turn to close and lock the door — the last thing he needs is to get caught alone with you.

levi's gaze with you is always warm and full of adoration, but he seems... lifeless, even his arms just limp at his sides and his shoulders slumped into horrible posture — a red flag if you've ever seen one.

"i don't want to do this anymore," he finally chokes out. "petra... eld, oluo.. how many more do i have to lose? if erwin dies, how can i ever face you again?" shaky hands lift to hold his hanging head and his chest heaves to release a dry sob.

your heart aches at the sight of the man that's held himself together for the sake of his subordinates and watching him unravel only for you makes guilt wring at your chest.

"you come back and tell me because i'll always be here, even if erwin isn't. when you go out to each expedition, you're going to protect everyone, yes, but you're protecting me the most, and isn't that what you want? if you give up, i'd have to go in your place and i'd lose my life before i even get to the titans. i wanna elope with you, just build a farm in the middle of nowhere... but you know i can't when erwin is the commander here..." you climb on the bed and lean your back against the headboard, patting the empty seat beside you. levi follows suit and you're quick to sit in his lap so his hands can only hold you, which they do, his arms constricting around your waist to keep your as close as he can. "the best you can do is put on a brave face and continue what you're doing, sweetheart."

his gaze is forlorn and he knows that you're right, that his dream of running away with you is just that — a fantasy that can never become reality. even when he want to pretend, you tether him to the real world and make sure he doesn't get too lost and drift away. as he holds you in his embrace and feels the warmth of your skin seep through your thin clothes, he thinks that maybe it isn't a bad thing to be right here with you.

"you're right," he admits, a smile starting to twitch at the corners of his lips. you're quick to reach and give him a kiss, a set of fingers carding through his charcoal locks to pull him in deeper. he's missed you and your wet lips bring him more comfort than he could have asked for, his mouth greedily parting to shove his tongue against yours as he begins to undress you. he knows what he's allowed to do and makes sure he only takes off your shirt, leaving your bra and tight pants where they are — those are for you to decide if he deserves to see them off. "i'm sorry for saying such stupid things." he seems to find solace on your chest, his cheek smushed on your tits so your plush flesh can bring him to comfort it usually does. his lungs breathe in your scent and it's as if his mind forgets the image of broken bodies and his friends' lifeless faces; instead, he's in a warm field with your hands stroking his blood-matted hair ( none of it being his own, thank god ), and he's happy.

"not stupid, baby... just untimely. perhaps the day comes when it can come true." you hate lying to him. doesn't humanity's only hope deserve much better than broken promises and to be strung along with little crumbs of an impossible future? "let me help you feel better and clear your head."

when your warmth is peeled away from him, his frown returns ( he's feeling needier than usual, understandably ) and he leans his head back against the wood board, unsure if he has the strength to keep himself upright. "you don't have to today. i kind of just want to sleep," he mutters, eyes averting from yours, and for good reason. levi had never refused pleasure before.

but you know that he needs this, you know him better than he knows himself.

"levi," you only say his name during intimacy when he's done something wrong or you need him to answer you honestly. "are you sure?" your hands unclasp your bra and toss it to the floor, your pants and underwear dropped all at once with one hook and pull of your thumbs. you're sprawled out bare for him, a special treat, and you know that his body won't be able to stop itself from responding. the whimper he lets out is so sweet and your eyes have the pleasure of watching his cock twitch and fill up until it's pressed against the zipper of his slacks. "i think you might not have been telling me the truth."

your skilled hands undo the button and zipper to his bottoms and you pull them down and off his feet to join yours somewhere around the room. thin, long fingers unclasp each of the knobs to levi's own shirt and you watch him fold the fabric neatly before setting it down by the bed. his briefs are next to go and once he's just as exposed as you are, both of you take this chance to drink the sight of each other in. you admire each of his scars, some fresh and some dull with the completed recovery process, every single one a reminder that he's still alive and here for you. levi's eyes see an angel that decided to live on earth with curves just where he loves them, soft skin, and a smile that blows away any reason to feel anything but content — you are his everything, the only reason he's still fighting to wake up every morning.

"i love you," he whispers and you grin like he just gave you the whole world, making his heartbeat erratic.

"love you too, my dear." the hesitance he felt was nowhere to be found now and his length is weeping, though it was untouched, and he's no longer embarrassed to admit that just looking at you would be enough to bring him to completion — and if that isn't pure love, what is?

you have a ritual, a specific order you like to do things, and only on the rarest of occasions do you allow for any divergence, like today. rather than torture him with your nails scraping his nipples and your hand tight around his leaking head to edge him, you lean in and take his thick tip in your mouth. the instant warmth and wetness has levi confused and his pathetic whimpers, the scrambling of his hands to grab onto anything but your head lest he be left alone instantly, has your voice moaning around him. it was cute to see his icy demeanour melt in front of you and if anyone outside the door knew what a submissive puppy he was, perhaps he wouldn't be so feared by all.

your lips slide down to try and take all of him in, but making the stretch is a difficult feat. not only is he blessed with girth, but with length as well, and you aren't sure if you can even reach the base with his mouth, not that it stops you from trying. as levi's toes curl into the sheets, you lower yourself more and more, swallowing around the inches that are lodged in your throat and constricting around him similarly to when he knows you're about to cum, and the stimulation makes his mouth go slack, his hips rutting towards you all on their own. while you appreciate the enthusiasm, your hands firmly hold his hips down so you can go at your own pace, and finally, your nose nestles into the array of thick hair at his base and you smile up at him triumphantly, enjoying the sight of his blissful expression.

you take a few shaky and careful breaths through your nose before you do your best to swallow again and this time, he growls and you see him lift his hand towards your head, only to back away just before he actually touches you. god, what a good boy.

slowly, you begin to pull back, much to levi's dismay, and you release the coughs that were gathering in your chest, his calloused, rough hand running across your back to help. "thank you," he murmurs, and the glistening bead that drips out of the slit of his cock also shows his gratitude. he knows you don't particularly enjoy giving oral when is size is what it is, but you've never complained when you're greeted with his flushed cheeks and shy smile.

"we're not done, don't worry." with a gentle push of your hands off of the bed, you have him flush against the headboard once more and you carefully climb onto his lap, and it's only now that levi's desperation become more noticeable. his toned arms and tight grip of his hands could overpower you easily, he never has to play along with your rules, nor the edging that you inflict on him so often, and you notice more often now that he's holding back from doing whatever he wants to, like with his hand reaching for your hair earlier. he wouldn't want to jeopardise what you two have, and the thought of you leaving him is what keeps the little puppy obedient.

strong arms wrap around your waist and levi whimpers as he brings you closer, his mouth an inch away from your tits whilst your hand reaches down to position the tip of his cock in between your slick folds. "p-please... can i? i want to suck you in my mouth..."

you nod in approval and his zealous lips grab onto your nipple, sucking as if it was his last ever chance. the scraping of his teeth bring a sensation of pain and pleasure, one that's intensified as you sink down on top of his length, each dip lower and lower making your back arch and bring you closer to him. having his cock sucked feels damn nice, but when he slides into your sweet pussy and watches you become undone for him... nothing can beat out your expression, your lewd moans, and the feeling of your walls clench around him as if it was your first time, every time.

even from the beginning of your physical relationship, you've always teased levi, left him to have dry orgasms while edging him because you didn't want him to finish so early, but over time, you realised that the real reason was because you finish too quickly. his endless stamina comes from his physical ability to hunt titans for hours on end, but you do nothing other than lift brooms and buckets here, and added to the direct path that levi's cock has to the bundle of nerves buried inside of you is a dangerous equation.

too easily, his length is fully sheathed inside of you and levi moans out a mantra of your name as he tries his best to stay still, to keep from thrusting inside of you like he wants to, and as endearing as it is, as much as your curiosity seems to get to you from time to time, you make sure that he knows who's in charge. with each of your hands landing on his shoulders, you dig your nails into a few healing wounds, reopening the scars as you bounce on his length and make sure that you slam back down each time until you're sure that his weeping tip pushes harshly against that sweet bundle of nerves inside of you and all the way to your cervix. he fills you up perfectly, like two puzzle pieces created for each other the way his tip hits the end of your cavern just as you sink all the way down to his base.

how many bounces does it take for you to unravel today? levi counts every time and he loves when the number is less than ten, not because he's tired, but because he loves knowing that your body is so eager to finish for him, just as he is for you.

"levi," his name coming off your tongue sounds like the trumpets of heaven, "promise me," you breathe out. his chin tilts up to watch you and his eyes are wide as he listens intently.

"i swear," he says immediately, not even having to hear your request. "for you, anything." his eyes are glossed over and you know that he's close.

"promise you'll keep fighting, for me. don't give up, levi," your gaze locks onto his and your hips are unrelenting as your brows furrow and pressure starts to build inside your tummy.

calloused palms hold onto your waist and he leans in to capture your mouth for a hot kiss as he gives you the extra push you need to spill over the edge and onto him and onto the sheets. beads of sweat dripping down both of your foreheads and into the mess of your juices tainting his lap now, he follows right after you, spilling into you without any caution or worry — his biggest hope is to come back home from expeditions to see the swell of your belly full of his child.

"i promise, my love," is all he can say as he pulls back from the kiss, the smile of a man in pure bliss stretching from one side of his face to the other. "every battle is won for you," he mutters as the you climb off of his exhausted body, helping him lay in bed comfortably ( on the side untainted by the remnants of your sweet orgasm ) before he dozes off with a hand held tightly in yours.

once his tired snoring begin to reach your ears, you carefully pry your fingers away from his to get dressed and with a quick kiss to his sweaty forehead, you leave his quarters to find erwin next door. as if he was awaiting your arrival, he swings the entrance open before you knock, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

"you were right: he wanted to abandon the survey corps. i shut the idea down right away and he said he'll keep fighting from now on." watching erwin's smug grin makes your stomach feel uneasy and you sigh, chest feeling heavy. "i don't want to do this anymore, erwin... what if he finds out that you were controlling him this whole time?"

"come now, little sister. don't tell me you actually started loving him?" his voice is mocking, but you have no rebuttal — your cleaning schedule being manipulated to coincide with his free time would only be considered fate if fate took the form of a broad, blond man with crystal blue eyes. your own brother sold you to the survey corps to keep an eye out on their most important asset. "it's funny how you say that i'm the one manipulating him when, in fact, i gave you many chances to return to the safety of the walls. you're just as deep in this as i am, so i suggest keeping your act together. i doubt levi would be above slaughtering everyone in this base if he were to find out."

the door slams in your face and you scowl at just how right the big buffoon is about it all. you return to levi's room and undress once more to join him in bed, relinking your fingers together. his chest heaves evenly and rhythmically for once, finally feeling peace in his sleep, and your free digits trace the side of his face, unperturbed by the stresses and worries of being conscious. the fate of humanity rests in between your hands and it's your job to keep him happy, to keep him wanting to fight. no matter how much your heart tugs and pulls every time he proposes a plan to keep just the two of you safe, no matter how many times he whispers that he loves you whilst kissing each of your fingertips. if the truth were to ever come out, you would be crucified just like your brother and it was a risk you didn't want to take, but what choice do you have? you're a smith. manipulation is in your blood.

#levi x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #aot smut #sub levi #bun writes #tw.dubcon

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gofancyninjaworld · 19 days

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Started watching Mob Psycho 100. About 5 episodes in and yeah, I get why this show is so popular. It's good, even real good, so far. Mob is a good protagonist and the animation has been really impressive.

I also recently started reading One Punch Man and it's fine. I like the art and every now and again it gives me a chuckle. But ultimately I think OPM has a fairly conservative world view that makes me hard to enjoy it as anything more than easy fluff. It's all about the power of the individual and has some really questionable class politics in places. I know it's not intended for a deep read, but I can't help it. I'm glad I'm reading it through the library instead of buying individual volumes. I think I'm like 21 volumes into it.

Back to MP100, I'm still early so I can't say for sure yet, but I feel like it is the better written and realized of the two. I'm a sucker for the monster-of-the-week style format and so far it has been nailing while also developing the characters pretty well.

I gotta say, I'm impressed. I'm usually pretty cautious around checking out popular things since I tend to not enjoy them. So far that's not the case here.

First, I'm glad that your library has a lot of the OPM volumes: it's great for the series and a very wise way to read. If I didn't have my library cards, I'd be perma-broke and out of space in my home. :D

Second, I hope by now that you've finished reading Mob Psycho 100. I think it's a fantastic work and while there's a part of me that hankers for ONE to find something more he wants to say in that world and tell another story, a bigger part of me really respects that he's known how to tell 'a big story of a small step' and end there. It is one of the best coming-of-age stories I've read or watched. If you haven't checked out the anime, DO! It is incredibly well-realised, imaginative, and every season builds better on the previous.

Yes, now that you mention it, One-Punch Man does feel more conservative than Mob Psycho 100 in *some* ways. Whereas the latter is about middle schoolers exploring how to shape themselves, OPM is about the challenge of having a sense of purpose as an adult and balancing act of being an individual and being part of society. And no one quite knows what they're doing...

The various kids in MP100 may have challenges as small as getting someone to sign up for a school club or as big as stopping a would-be megalomaniac from taking over Japan, but they're free to focus on those problems. Their parents keep a roof over their heads, cook dinner, draw up budgets, pay bills, and prompt them to do homework. Their schools give them a ready-made social context in which to interact repeatedly and shape their goals. They're free to be children and it's precious.

OPM, almost everyone is an adult, and adult life is both less and more structured than that of childhood. There's a lot more to balance, you don't have infinite energy, time, or resources, and if you get it wrong, life gets super hard. We get Saitama: he's become the strongest man in the world thanks to his singular focus on being so strong that he can send any enemy flying with a single punch -- and he's also homeless (he's squatting in an abandoned apartment), with no post-secondary qualifications, no steady job (he's held lots of menial jobs, keeping them only long enough to quit and live off them so he can be a hero). The idealism of being a hero may get you thanked, but thanks don't pay the rent: that's why the Hero Association came to exist, in order to enable people motivated to be heroes to actually focus on it. It'd be a short story if Genos hadn't introduced Saitama to the HA.

Those checks and compromises necessary to survive and thrive in society do give OPM a more conservative feel. However, on the other side, there's no one telling you how far you can go. Difficult as it is, there's more scope for self-actualisation for the characters in OPM than there is for those in MP100. And there's no one way to do it. Swings and roundabouts.

Not sure how OPM will end yet, but so far, I'm still finding it compelling.

Given how long this has been in my inbox, I have no idea if you will read this. If you do (and I hope you do), thank you. Thank you for an awesome ask.

#One Punch Man #Mob Psycho 100 #asks #two great works looking at challenges of different life stages #a vital part of being a teenager is exploring who you want to become #part of being an adult is making peace with the world around you #also part of being one is working out how to be true to yourself and push to do things that actualise you #there's no perfect state: only a balancing act #better late than never

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talesfrommedinastation · 8 months

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Redneck Neighbor Doug: Why Belters are Space Cajuns

If Mandalorians are space rednecks, then Belters from The Expanse are space Cajuns. This is not up for debate, according to the nerdiest Southern man of all time, my neighbor Doug, who, it turns out, loves this show too. I'm 99% sure he's also a TNG and Battlestar fan, but that would just kill me with exhaustion if we went into full deets about it.

Onto our friends in the Belt and why they have so much in common with the French-Americans who reside in the wilder parts of the deep American south of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.

I will elucidate now, via Doug, on what Belters and Cajuns do that make them…them:

They make do: First thing we see in the entire series is how much the Belters are royally crapped on by life. They live in space, which permanently alters their bodies, to the point where they can not survive on a planet. To quote, “Belters work the docks, loading and unloading precious cargo…never meant for us”. They don’t have the wealth of Earth or the incredible military drive of Mars, but they’re scrappy, innovative, and do what they can to survive, whether it’s by smuggling, pirating, or allying themselves with powerful folks. Like the French folks in Acadia who got flung from their homes to the bayous of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, who scrape a living by fishing, boatmaking, bartending, and/or serving as a member of the X-Men. Cajuns and Belters do what they can to survive, giving them an edge that others do not have.

They party hard: Belters love drinking, having parties on their ships and in port, banging everyone on the crew, and overall just being wild. After all, you never know when you’re going to get your air or water cut off by the Inners, might as well live it up. And Cajuns, well, they invented Mardi Gras and their saying is ‘Laissez les bons temps rouler’ or ‘let the good times roll’. Life isn’t easy on a swamp that is constantly wacked by floods or hurricanes, but they party as much as they can. Just like the Belters.

Their women: Some of the best damn characters in the series are the angry ladies of the Belt (Camina Drummer and Naomi Nagata). Man, they something else. They’re loving, fierce, smart, crazy, and can go from Bambi to Banshee in five seconds. Cajun women love to host parties, help with church, and cook and make an amazing roux from dirt and crayfish, but God help you if you piss one off. Those pot carrying arms can snap a neck quicker than a blue crab shell.

They speak in patois: Ever heard Cajun French? It ain’t from Paris, that’s for sure. It’s mixed up and raw and beautiful in its own right, and for many generations, it was looked down upon by English-speaking neighbors. Belter creole is similar, a smashed up beauty of a language that has come out of life in space, filled with English, Chinese, Farsi, German, Hindi, and other languages. It even has a similar lilt to the bayou!

They are ungovernable: There’s a reason the Cajuns were never quite able to fully rebel against the various governments that took over their swampy goodtimes. They’re loyal to each other and their land, and that’s about it. Belters are the same–they’ve tried with the OPA, and even then, there’s different factions and squabbling (Anderson Dawes vs Fred Johnson, for example) and it’s only until there’s a genuine, alien threat to they get all united (plus Camina Drummer comes to power, but that’s neither here nor there).

They’re good at figuring out solutions: Cajuns live in gator and snake infested swamps that flood and hurricanes smash through routinely. But they live and thrive regardless, with their pirogues and their bridges and their houses on the water. Same with Belters: their lives are lived in space, with crappy gravity and air. But they’re scrappy and tough and figure out how to survive. A Redditor pointed out that many of the more ambitious, driven Earthers left generations ago to live on the Belt, as the option was staying on Earth and living on an increasingly overcrowded, shitty planet. Not unlike the ancestors of the Cajuns who left France.

The Spice Must Flow: Belters have to pack their shitty food full of peppers and spices to make it palatable, to the point one of the nicknames for their most famous dishes is called ‘red kibble’. And have you ever had proper Cajun food? Crawfish, alligator, boudin, and frogs are freaking amazing when done properly, although my fancy British friends were horrified that I enjoyed them. Pass me them mudbugs with some Cachere’s seasoning, collards, and corn, I wanna feel the pain.

They work in weird and hard places: See above for both Belters and Cajuns. Jobs Cajuns have had range from oil fields to swamps to cities filled with yellow fever. But they take it and have a good sense of humor about it. Same with Belters–they work on rough ships, in radiation filled places in space, and don’t bitch about it. To quote the gaunt Belter, ‘They built the solar system on our backs’.

Everything and anything can be used as a weapon: A gun? Peshang! Guns are for fancy Inners. Belters will use guns, AND pipes, chairs, each other, elevators, fists, a toothbrush, shives, you name it, they’ve killed with it. They’re tough and scrappy, and so are the Cajuns, whose fights are notorious in the bayou and beyond. Don’t mess with them.

So yeah, Space Cajuns.

#the expanse #belter #theexpanse #james sa corey #cajun #space cajuns #beltalowda #for beltalowda #redneck doug #neighbor doug #fan theories

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mjalti · 8 months

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Ana, how can I start to reinvent myself? I need to find a way to break the cycle, I live with abusive family which caused me to be really depressed, I dropped out of college and have been working as a waitress, I was fired from my last two jobs because I was too shy and weird (and believe me I've worked hard and managed to improve a little). I'm desperate to find a way to afford to leave this house since things are getting worse, I'm incredibly addicted to music and my phone to escape reality (the only time I feel good) and can't afford therapy so I really don't know where to even start. I have so much anger in me it scares me and paralyzes me.

right now, you have a lot going on.

i would recommend channeling your frustrations into songwriting since music is so powerful for you and you have a connection to it already. you cannot change your family but you can be different from them. i dont know what you are or aren’t allowed to do, but consider starting to go for walks in nature if you can and then write songs in a journal/app there. Next, look up people who have been in similar circumstances as you; see what they did to get out/how they were able to move forward in life. Understand that an abuser always fears your power and will never make it easy for you to be a version of yourself that succeeds. So what can you do to make yourself indigestible? I know you dropped out of college, but consider the idea of taking one class at a time, reaching out to guidance counselors/financial office for aid.

Right now, therapy may not be a tangible goal for you. That’s ok; we have to survive before we thrive. think of something short-term you can do. I always advocate for getting any type of job in a hospital bc a hospital will often pay 100% tuition for school after a year of employment, but even if you decide you don’t want to go to school, you have a solid career. I wish you the best!

#qnotqueue #anonymous

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gggoldfinch · 1 year

Text

Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway— upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day— always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

#second time ever writing smut and I think it melted my brain #this is way too long to read on tumblr just go to ao3 lmao #pitch black 2000 #chronicles of riddick #richard b riddick #richard b riddick x oc #richard b riddick x reader #goldfinch writes

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lewis-winters · 1 year

Note

If Easy Company is in a Zombie Apocalypse, what would be their choice of weapon and how will they fight?

1. Dick Winters

2. Lewis Nixon

3. Harry Welsh

4. Ronald Speirs

5. Carwood Lipton

6. Buck Compton

7. Don Malarkey

8. Joe Toye

9. Joe Liebgott

10. David Webster

Uhhhhhh last zombie media I consumed was Last of Us and there wasn't really much? zombie fighting in it (bc the focus was on the human condition)? so I am... gonna valiantly try.

1) Dick Winters - I mean. The man wants to be in control at all times. He has multiple weapons for sure. Rifle, of course, classic. But he has multiple knives hidden on his person and an emergency pistol in his belt. He probably prefers the knives + stealth, though, especially if zombies are attracted to sound. If he can kill quietly and quickly, he will. But he just strikes me as the kinda person who just. Would avoid places like cities or crowded towns in the first place and be very strategic about where they'd go? Sure, it's inevitable that you'd run into some festering, shambling corpse somewhere while hunting for supplies but if he has a choice, he will look for the road of least resistance. Even if it'll take twice as long.

2) Lewis Nixon - man's still alive? Dude, the boy has no will to live as it is. He barely survived the first wave by the skin of his teeth. Probably missing a hand after he got bit and Dick refused to watch him turn or murder him. Lewis did not fire a single bullet during the war what makes you think he'd be the same now? He has a knife. That's it. He barely knows how to use it, doesn't want to use it. When in the thick of an attack with the group, he's always in the middle, surrounded by the others, or at the back, where he's most protected. It's a group choice, because he's better at logistics and keeping everyone together. His whole mind is a map, he knows where they'd be safest for a time. Really good at sweet talking and trading with other groups too. He spends half the apocalypse drunk as all hell, but he's otherwise useful. When alone vs. zombies, he'd rather take his chances running.

3) Harry Welsh - something you can find in a gardening shed, probably. A machete? Or a pair of gardening sheers? something that, when you look at it, reminds you of home and is in great juxtaposition to all the gore dripping from it. maybe even a kitchen knife. or, if you want something really fun, a fireplace poker? or the body of a lamp. those long thin iron ones with a strong metal base? sans bulb and shade, dripping gore everywhere. he swings things around aimlessly, whatever gets caught in his path is an unlucky son of a bitch. there's a method to the madness, of course, but... well. even he doesn't know what it is just yet.

4) Ronald Speirs - my dude was in a military base when shit went down, buddy's in a TANK. ok, I kid, but yeah. Rifle. and various pistols........ lowkey? could see him as one of those. end-of-the-world conspiracy theorists pre-apocalypse, who was very much vindicated when the dead started to rise. man is THRIVING in this apocalypse, because he's a weirdo like that.

5) Carwood Lipton - huh. probably a repurposed javelin or something? i hesitate to say sword, because he's doesn't strike me as the sword type, but he definitely strikes me as a 'hit something very hard until the head caves in' kinda guy? or tbh just something boring and reliable, like a sawed off shot gun. he has only a limited number of bullets, so he's not gonna be using it a lot. I imagine when it's manageable, he's using the OH I KNOW. HE HAS AN AXE. YES. boy's from virginia he's a lumberjack for SURE. and that was the first thing he picked up the second the hordes started advancing. he uses the axe when it's manageable, but when the going gets tough, he gets everyone behind him and goes to take out as many as he can with his shotgun. but he works best with a team who has multiple other weapons, for sure. i could imagine him taking the forefront, whacking some zombies, and trusting explicitly those behind him who're offering support thru gun power, not to accidentally shoot him with a stray bullet while he's taking down zombies close range. it takes a lot of trust to do this, I feel. and he has a lot of it. maybe too much.

6) Buck Compton - BASEBALL BAT WRAPPED IN BARBED WIRE. NEED I SAY MORE. probably has a few grenades on him as well that he scrounged up. he's got a wicked aim.

7) Don Malarkey - man's still alive? he's barely holding on. he had a gun, but they took it away because they feared he was getting suicidal. he gets something back later on, maybe a revolver, but only a limited amount of bullets. he has a small k-bar knife. but that's about it. sometimes, a very primal rage takes over him, and he can do some damage with just his bare hands, but those moments grow fewer and farther between the more they go on. ya know? life's hard in the apocalypse. before all that of course, he used to be real good at mixing gunpowders and making home made pipe bombs. but ever since skip died. well.

8) Joe Toye - mans has a SWORD and you fucking KNOW IT. it can be anything your heart wants. a katana? sure! a broad sword? whatever you say goes babey! a fucking... claymore? YES!! ALRIGHT!!!! I'm too enthusiastic about this bc I am not above admitting I find Joe's arms hot. all I'm saying is those arms? made to swing around a sword. yes they are. and he's a fucking pro at it too, you just know he is. i dunno if he has his amputation before, or during the end of the world, but both paths have many implications to them, and they'd be interesting to explore.

9) Joe Liebgott - SO FUN FACT ROSS MCCALL WAS ACTUALLY IN FEAR THE WALKING DEAD his character gets shot and killed by Marines and then he turns into a zombie. poor guy got his throat slit. he just wanted to help :((( anyway. Lieb's designated get away driver of the group. his car is the weapon. he's run over HORDES of zombies before, and he'll do it again! he prolly keeps like a small handgun as protection when he's waiting outside for the rest of the group, keeping the engine going in case they need to make a quick getaway.

10) David Webster - a MIRACLE this boy is still alive. he took archery as an extra curicular while he was in Harvard, and he liked it enough to keep up with it until his 3rd year, when it all started. man is constantly picking up arrows after himself. scrounging for new ones. I say... in formation he's definitely at the back, with Nix and Don and they cover for him a lot since he's long distance. but in a pinch he can whack somebody good with his bow. one of those heavy duty hunting ones, too. on his own... well. he probably sticks to high places, or hidden spots where he can get a jump on zombies or anyone else, before they can get a jump on him.

#ask #dick winters #lewis nixon #harry welsh #ronald speirs #carwood lipton #buck compton #don malarkey #joe toye #joe liebgott #david webster #bob aus #bob hcs #zombie apocalypse au #DID I SAY I WAS GOING TO SLEEP I MEANT I'M GONNA STAY UP THINKING ABOUT THIS UNTIL I CAN'T NO MORE

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spirit-small · 1 year

Text

From a young age, borrowers are encouraged to do as much for themselves as they can. They're social creatures by nature, and thrive in larger community settings, but their continued existence depends on not being detected. This means that small family groups and, often, solo individuals, are the norm. Not by nature, but by necessity. To that end, borrower children are taught the necessary skills for survival as early as they're able. It's not to get them out on their own quickly, but more because of how fragile and volatile a borrower's life can be. Orphans are remarkably common. They're taught to fend for themselves, because soon enough they may have to.

This is Phoenix Wright's first solo borrowing.

He is 9 years old.

The risk is low. Only two beans live here, and they're both rather preoccupied at the moment. All he has to do is get a couple of things. It'll be over before he knows it.

He silently makes his way across a countertop, and climbs into a cupboard. He knows where his target is. This borrowing stuff is easy, he didn't even SEE a bean.

Too bad he didn't hear one either.

The cupboard he's in is opened and light floods his eyes. He squints and finds himself face to face with the younger bean, caught red handed, quite literally, on account of the Cheeto dust. Flamin' Hot, naturally.

They stare at each other for a minute.

And another.

It almost seems like the bean is having trouble processing what he's seeing, as if he can't figure out what the appropriate response is.

"Um, hello. My name is Miles Edgeworth. What's yours?" He finally settles on.

"Uh.. Ph-Phoenix... Wright?"

The bean- the Miles- laughs. "I'm not sure, you tell me. Is it Phoenix or not?"

Phoenix is baffled. "Y-yes. That's right, Phoenix."

"Right." Miles nods.

"Yes."

"What?"

"That's right. I'm Wright."

"You're right? Then we're both right. Right?"

"I thought you were Edgeworth? Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right."

"That's right."

The two of them just look at each other for a moment, and simultaneously laugh. Laughing! With a bean! Phoenix is starting to suspect everything about his worldview might be a lie. Either that, or he found a rare One Of The Good Ones.

"So, um... May I ask what you're doing in my cupboard?" Miles asks. Phoenix has to think for a moment. What if he only gets mad when he realizes he's being borrowed from? Beans don't tend to take kindly to learning that.

But then again. What other explanation could there be?

"I... I was inspecting them. See, sometimes little bugs can get into these things, through even the tiniest of cracks in the wall. How would you feel if you started putting on the Ritz, only to find your crackers crawling with ants? I'm really doing you beans a service, here." Phoenix lies through his little teeth.

"...Ah... yes. Of... of course. That... makes sense. You know, if you're hungry, you can just help yourself. I don't mind. I'm sure you don't eat much. You can even take a little extra for later, if you want."

Phoenix bites into a Cheeto. He doesn't even hesitate.

"Mmmrf... Shank you... Mrrnff..."

Miles laughs, not necessarily at Phoenix's shameless display of his lack of table manners, but just... At the absurdity of the whole situation. Phoenix double checks the contents of his bag, and prepares to leave.

"W-wait! Are you... Leaving?" Miles looks at him like a sad, lost puppy.

"I have to. If I don't return soon, I'll never hear the end of it. I mean it, though... Thank you. For letting me take that stuff, and... For keeping me a secret."

"I don't recall promising to keep you a secret." Miles raises an eyebrow.

"Well, you did now." Phoenix winks. Miles gets a determined look on his face and nods.

"I understand..." He watches him as he disappears through a crack in the wall he'd never even put a second thought into. "Wait! Will I... Ever see you again...?"

Phoenix steps back out into the light for a moment. He looks down, thinking hard, considering all of the angles. Turning his thinking around- If beans are so dangerous, then the best way to survive a world full of them is to have one on your side, right? He looks up at Miles, and smiles.

"I think we can arrange that."

#ratattorney

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stp-au-wthnig · 5 months

Text

Well, This Happens Next, I Guess

Chapter 2: A Car Full Of Noise

Note: This was supposed to be fully silly but I kind of wrote an intro and ended up making it actually pretty heartfelt at times. It's still very slice-of-life though. Plus I wrote this with a headache so it might be a bit scuffed.

---

Hero was sitting by the window in his apartment while the Narrator was watching TV. The two had mutually decided it would be for the good of everyone in the apartment complex if they ended up as roommates.

The Narrator had spent much of His time reading or watching TV since arriving here. Hero suspected He was a bit bitter about the whole 'Wing leaving with Princess' thing...

Hero checked the fridge. There was barely anything left in there. Figures as much, the Narrator hadn't gotten any work done yet so they haven't earned any money.

The other apartments were better off because they had more stable careers going for them, at least. The Narrator decided to live up to His name and become a writer, but due to His current state of mind, He hasn't gotten any writing done yet. And now they've run out of food.

"Um... there's no food left. Don't you think you should, uh... do something about that?"

The Narrator didn't respond. Hero was about to head right over to Him when he heard knocking on the apartment door.

Hero opened the door. It was Stubborn, along with Hunted behind him.

"Hey. Uh... what do you want?" Hero asked.

"Hunted ate all the food in our fridge. Again. So we're going to WcDonald's. Figured we may as well invite everyone." Stubborn explained.

Hero didn't hesitate to accept. Things were pretty bad right now, so he was desperate. He offered for the Narrator to come along, but He refused.

---

Cold ended up as the driver. The rest of the Voices were seated in the conveniently spacious car.

"Are we there yet?" Contrarian would ask every now and then. There was no doubt he was deliberately doing it to try and annoy Cold.

"Is there any tape in this car? I think a certain someone's mouth could use some right now." Cheated grumbled.

"Ugh... thank god I'm sitting in here on an empty stomach..." Hero groaned as he started to feel queasy. He keeps forgetting he's prone to motion sickness.

"Being on an empty stomach is a bad thing. We need food to survive and thrive." Hunted notably looked uneasy about the whole situation.

"That reminds me. What are we going to do about him anyway? Aren't you not allowed to enter a restaurant without shoes?" Skeptic pointed out.

"Knowing him, he'll probably order a bunch to put in the freezer, so we actually just planned on going to the drive-thru and then heading over to the park to eat." Stubborn explained.

"How is he so small if he eats so much?" Opportunist asked, causing Hunted to lower his head in embarrassment.

"I'm not much bigger..." Broken whined as usual.

The conversation in the car continued until they reached the WcDonald's drive-thru. Now came the really chaotic part: ordering the food.

---

Everyone squeezed their heads against the windows to read the menu. Well, almost everyone. Smitten remained seated where he was.

"I don't really care much for fast food, but the milkshakes they do here are good, so order me one of those. Preferably chocolate."

Another easy order was Cheated, who just wanted a simple cheeseburger meal with cola.

Just as Stubborn predicted, Hunted ordered a LOT of food, as he wanted to store some of it in the freezer for later.

Opportunist decided to order something light. He wanted to be liked so he needed to watch his weight.

Paranoid also ordered something light because he didn't trust what the food could potentially do to his body.

Everyone else had comparatively simple orders, but Contrarian could not make up his mind and Skeptic took an infuriatingly long time to order anything.

"You, make up your mind. And you, just order something already!" Cheated snapped at Contrarian and Skeptic.

"I'm just trying to see which meal would be best for the situation. It's hard to determine when I've only been eating for a short time." Skeptic snapped back.

"Honestly, I just wanted to see how long it'd take for you guys to notice I've been unbuckling your seat belts as I ordered." Contrarian chuckled.

"You little shit..." Cheated grumbled, which ended up escalating into a loud and chaotic argument between all the voices, before they finally settled on their orders.

They ordered their food and pulled up to the window. After a while, they were given their food, and they all froze when they realised who was at the drive-thru window.

"You guys are assholes, you know that?" Princess snarked at them before bringing their orders in one by one.

---

After that awkward moment, Cold drove to the park and parked the car outside. They made it to a bench and put their food on the table.

Broken looked at his meal with sadness. They'd gotten his order wrong. Cheated's order was also wrong, but he was more angry about it.

After they ate their meals, Contrarian stood up.

"Last one to the lake has to throw the trash out!"

Naturally, Hunted won the race. The others forgot how fast he was. Broken made it there last but Skeptic and Hero offered to help with the trash.

After doing so, Hero eyed the convenience store. He wished he could buy some more food there. Skeptic sighed and dragged him in there with him.

---

"So He's been struggling to get writing done, huh?" Skeptic said after Hero explained.

"Yeah... all He's really felt up to doing is watching TV lately. It's... been worse ever since Wing and Princess arrived."

"Why do you even put up with Him? Especially after all He put us and them through..." Skeptic questioned.

"Well... He doesn't really have anyone." Hero explained. "And if anyone was to stay with Him, it should be someone who's been there alongside Him since the beginning. It just... feels like the right thing to do."

The previously bored-looking cashier looks at the two with intrigue, as if she feels something familiar in them, before being called out to let someone else take over for her.

---

"Thanks for helping me out." Hero said as they left the store and rejoined the others.

"Don't mention it. But you should really start taking care of yourself more." Skeptic warned him.

Cold directed them back to the car and they headed off.

As the rest of the car descended into chaos once again, Hero just stared out the window, reflecting on his conversation with Skeptic.

"Hero? It's unlike you to not get involved in their arguments." Cold pointed out from the driver's seat. "You're not getting carsick again, are you? I'd rather you open the window if you're going to..."

Hero snapped out of it and started speaking again. "No, no. I'm fine. I'm fine."

---

He made it back to his apartment and put the groceries in the fridge.

"Good news. We have food, thanks to Skeptic and..."

He then saw the Narrator asleep at His desk, having finally gotten some writing done.

Hero looked at the scene in front of him... and then he smiled. He put a blanket over Narrator's shoulders and closed the door.

This was the right thing to do. He just knew it. Eventually the others would understand.

Hero turned on the TV and watched mindlessly until he fell asleep.

#slay the princess #well this happens next i guess #also i wonder who that convenience store cashier could be hmmm #slay the princess spoilers

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