#“easy data visualization” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moluvies · 1 month ago

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celestial alignment ꔛ armin arlert x reader (pt. 2)

a/n: the banners just get weirder.... part two to in your orbit but idk if u need to read that one to understand this one lmao 😝🙏 #idk why this one is so much longer than part one but yolo

words: 9.6k

cw: nerd!armin, college au, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy for reader, fwb (kinda) to lovers, confessions, smut, blowjobs, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v sex, MDNI !!

ꔛ

The morning after the party, Armin woke with a pounding headache and fragments of memories that made his face burn crimson against his pillow. But even through the haze of his first-ever hangover, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single moment of what had happened between you.

Three weeks had passed since that night, and your astronomy project had become both the most productive and least efficient academic endeavor of Armin's college career. What should have been straightforward work sessions frequently dissolved into lingering touches, stolen kisses, and eventually, hurried excuses to abandon the library study room for somewhere more private.

Armin frequently worked shifts at his part-time job at the cinema on top of being the project leader. It was confusing to you how he had time to do anything besides work and school, but he managed to play an unhealthy amount of games and watch an embarassing amount of anime whenever he got the chance.

That was, unless you were around. After your hookup at the frat party in Jean's room (something Armin would never allow him to know), you and him had spent a considerable amount of time together.

You continued working on the project together, the other members eventually showing up to the meetings Armin hosted, but things were obviously different than they had been—and no, Armin did not regret anything.

In fact, he'd shown you how little he regretted the encounter many times since then. He'd act as though he wanted your special input on the project when he invited you over, only to not keep his hands to himself the entire time you'd be at his place.

You'd sat beside him at the desk in his room, looking at his PC where you were looking over the slides and ideas from your groupmates.

"This one's just ridiculous," he said, his chin rested in his hand. "I suppose graphic design doesn't come easy to everyone."

"I don't know," you teased, "that neon green and purple combo really makes the statistical analysis pop, don't you think?"

Armin groaned, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "It's physically painful to look at. I'm going to have to redo this entire section before submission."

"Always the perfectionist," you said, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Someone has to be." He clicked through a few more slides, his knee occasionally brushing against yours under the desk. "Otherwise we'd be presenting with clip art and Comic Sans."

You reached for the mouse, your hand briefly covering his. "Let me show you mine."

Armin leaned back in his chair, watching you navigate through the shared folder. You could feel his eyes on you rather than the screen, that subtle attention he'd been giving you since the party. It made concentrating on the project increasingly difficult.

"Here," you said, opening a new file. "This is what I was working on last night."

Armin's casual expression shifted as he leaned forward, eyes widening slightly as he reviewed your slides. The casual criticism vanished as he scrolled through your work.

"(Y/N), this is..." he paused, scanning the detailed analysis you'd prepared. "This is really good. The way you've visualized the data is exactly what we needed."

You felt a flush of pride at his genuine appreciation. "Yeah? I spent way too long on it, honestly."

"It shows." He turned to face you, his expression softened. "You didn't have to go this in-depth."

"Well, you're not the only perfectionist around here."

The corner of his mouth twitched up into that half-smile you'd grown increasingly fond of. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

"I think we deserve a break," he said quietly.

Without waiting for your response, he leaned in and kissed you softly, his hand coming up to rest against your cheek. Unlike the urgent, heated kisses you'd shared before, this one was gentle, appreciative—sweet in a way that made your heart flutter unexpectedly.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced your cheekbone lightly. "Sorry," he murmured, not looking sorry at all. "I've been wanting to do that since you walked in."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "You don't have to say sorry anymore, Armin. Not for that."

His smile widened, and he leaned in again, this time catching your lips with more confidence. The kiss deepened slowly, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he pulled you closer. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the way his lips curved against yours when you smiled into the kiss.

One of your hands found its way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further. His other hand slid down to your waist, thumb brushing against the exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. The touch sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you let out a quiet hum against his lips.

Armin pulled back just enough to look at you, his cheeks slightly flushed, eyes bright with affection—and something else, something warmer. "You're distracting," he murmured, his voice low.

"Me?" you teased, nipping lightly at his lower lip. "You're the one who started this."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it. His fingers traced idle patterns along your side, his touch feather-light but enough to make your breath hitch.

Just as you were about to shift closer, a loud bang rattled the door, followed by an exasperated shout.

"ARMIN!" Connie's, Armin's roommate and friend you had met a few times and who was always nice if not a little wild, voice carried through the wood, sharp and impatient. "I swear to god, if you don't get your ass out here and deal with the dishes, I'm throwing them all in your bed!"

Armin groaned, dropping his forehead against yours with a defeated sigh. "I told Sasha to clean them last night."

You bit back a laugh, watching as he reluctantly pulled away, his expression torn between irritation and lingering amusement.

"I'm not kidding, man!" Connie banged on the door again. "Sasha refuses to touch them, and I'm not doing it! You live here too!"

Armin exhaled sharply through his nose, casting you an apologetic glance. "I should probably... handle this before he actually follows through."

You grinned, giving his hand a quick squeeze. "Go. Save your bed from dishware."

Armin sighed dramatically but pushed back from the desk, giving you one last lingering glance before heading toward the door. "I'll be right back," he muttered, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

You turned back to the slides, clicking through them with half-hearted focus, but without Armin beside you, the work suddenly felt dull. The silence of the room—now free of his quiet murmurs and occasional frustrated sighs—made the minutes drag.

Bored.

After a few more lackluster attempts at editing, you finally gave up, pushing the chair back and stretching before wandering out of the room. The sound of running water led you to the kitchen, where Armin stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, scrubbing at a stubborn plate with a sponge. His hair was pushed messily behind his ears, slightly damp at the temples from the steam rising from the hot water.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy muttering under his breath about "Sasha’s stupid cereal bowl crusted like cement." The sight was unfairly endearing—his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his forearms flexed slightly as he scrubbed, the way his lips pursed when he was annoyed but trying not to complain too loudly.

Leaning against the doorframe, you crossed your arms and just watched for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"You know," you finally said, making him jump slightly, "I didn’t take you for the domestic type."

Armin turned, blinking at you in surprise before his expression softened into something playful. "And yet here I am, saving our apartment from a dish-based apocalypse." He flicked soapy water in your direction, grinning when you yelped and dodged.

"You’re terrible," you laughed, stepping closer.

He smirked, rinsing off the last plate before setting it in the drying rack. "But you’re still here, so I must be doing something right."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, moving to stand beside him. Without thinking, you reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Armin's cheeks flushed a soft pink as he dried his hands on a dish towel, hesitating for a moment before clearing his throat.

"Uh—so," he started, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to meet your gaze. "I was thinking... I have free tickets to the movies. Since I work there. And—well—I was wondering if you'd... maybe... want to go? Sometime?"

The words tumbled out in a rush, and he cringed slightly at how awkward it sounded.

"But—!" He held up a hand, suddenly looking panicked. "Not just because it's free. I mean, it is free, but that's not—that's not the point." He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before trying again.

"What I'm trying to say is... I'd like to take you. On a date. If you want."

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the towel, his expression caught somewhere between hopeful and terrified.

You grinned, stepping closer and nudging his shoulder with yours. "Armin Arlert," you said, voice teasing but warm, "are you asking me out on a proper date?"

He swallowed hard, then nodded, a shy smile finally breaking through. "Yeah. I am."

You pretended to think about it for a dramatic second, tapping your chin—just long enough to watch his shoulders tense in anticipation—before grinning.

"Obviously, yes."

The relief that washed over his face was instant, his whole posture relaxing as he let out a breathy laugh. "Really?"

You rolled your eyes, reaching out to tug lightly at his sleeve. "Yes, really. I'd love to go on a date with you."

His smile was brighter than you'd ever seen it, boyish and genuine. "Good. Great. I—uh—I'll figure out the details. Make it... nice."

You couldn't resist. Leaning in, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling back before he could react.

"Looking forward to it."

Armin blinked, momentarily stunned, before his grin turned lopsided, a playful glint in his eye.

"Me too."

ꔛ

The theater’s neon lights flickered against the pavement as you spotted Armin waiting near the entrance, hands shoved awkwardly into his jean pockets. The second he saw you, he straightened up, eyes widening slightly before a warm, nervous smile took over.

"You—" He cleared his throat, stepping forward. "You look pretty... cute. I mean pretty and cute. Like. Both. At the same time."

You bit back a laugh, watching as his ears turned pink the second the words left his mouth. It was ridiculous—considering the things you’d done together, the way he’d whispered filthy praise against your skin just last week—yet here he was, stumbling over his words like this was his first-ever date.

God, he’s adorable.

"You clean up nice too," you teased, nodding at his slightly-too-big button-up and the way his hair was trying to be neatly styled but already falling out of place.

Armin exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath, before hesitantly reaching for your hand. His fingers laced with yours, warm and slightly shaky, and when you squeezed, he squeezed back like he was afraid you’d disappear.

"You nervous?" you asked, bumping his shoulder as you walked toward the ticket line.

"No," he lied immediately, then groaned. "Okay, yes. But only because I—I don’t know. This feels different."

You knew exactly what he meant. Hooking up was one thing, but this? The deliberate choice of each other, the quiet intimacy of a date—it was terrifyingly sweet.

Armin led you past the concessions stand, waving casually at his coworker who shot him a knowing grin and a thumbs up. He'd insisted on paying for popcorn despite the fact that most of his perks came free with his job—"It's a proper date," he'd said firmly, handing over actual money when you tried to protest.

The theater was nearly empty for the late showing, just a couple of pairs scattered throughout the front rows. Armin guided you toward the back row, his fingers still intertwined with yours.

"I hope you like horror," he said, settling into the cushy seat beside you. "Jean and Eren said this one was supposed to be good."

What Armin wasn't telling you was the entire embarrassing conversation that had led to this choice.

"Dude, horror movie. No question," Jean had said, sprawled across Armin's couch while Eren nodded enthusiastically from the floor.

"I don't know..." Armin hesitated. "What if she doesn't like being scared?"

Eren rolled his eyes. "That's the point. She gets scared, you comfort her, she feels safe with you—boom, instant connection."

"We've already connected," Armin muttered, his cheeks warming. "Multiple times."

"Yeah, but this is different," Jean insisted, sitting up to look more serious. "This is you being the strong, protective one. Plus, dark theater, back row..." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Eren threw a pillow at Jean before turning to Armin. "Look, trust us. It's the perfect first date movie. You can protect her if it gets too scary."

As the lights dimmed and the previews began to play, Armin lifted the armrest between your seats, allowing you to slide closer. The warmth of your body against his side made him acutely aware of his heartbeat—too fast, too loud—as the movie title splashed across the screen in dripping red letters.

Twenty minutes in, it became abundantly clear that Jean and Eren's advice had been... flawed.

A jump-scare sent Armin practically out of his seat, his hand clutching yours so tightly it almost hurt. You bit back a laugh as he quickly tried to play it off, clearing his throat and settling back down. Another ten minutes passed before a second scare had him actually yelping—a small, startled sound that he immediately tried to cover with a cough.

"You good?" you whispered, leaning closer to his ear, amused by the way he'd tensed up.

"Totally fine," he whispered back unconvincingly, his eyes still fixed on the screen where a shadowy figure lurked behind the protagonist. When the inevitable jumpscare came, he flinched again, harder this time.

You couldn't help it—you laughed softly, squeezing his hand. "It's gonna be okay, Armin."

His face burned in the darkness, visible even in the dim light from the screen. "I don't usually watch this stuff."

"It's fine, really." You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling him gradually relax against you. "It's cute, though, how scared you're getting."

Armin turned slightly, his breath warm against your temple. "Cute wasn't exactly what I was going for, but I'll take it."

The movie continued, a predictable parade of creaky doors and bloody apparitions, but you found yourself paying less attention to the plot and more to the way Armin's thumb absently stroked the back of your hand. How his breath would catch before each scare, how he'd release it slowly afterward, trying to play it cool.

Halfway through, during a particularly tense scene, you glanced up at him—his profile illuminated by the flickering blue light, his features etched in concentration despite his obvious discomfort. Without thinking, you pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw, just a light brush of contact.

Armin stilled, his attention immediately diverted from the screen to you. His eyes, wide and questioning, found yours in the darkness.

You smiled innocently, but when his gaze dropped to your lips, the air between you shifted. The movie faded to background noise as he leaned closer, hesitating just a breath away. His eyes met yours in question.

In answer, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a soft, testing kiss. He responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding you there as the kiss deepened. The taste of buttered popcorn lingered on his tongue as it slipped past your lips, exploring with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

A particularly loud noise from the movie made him jump again, breaking the kiss with a startled gasp before he laughed softly against your mouth.

"Sorry," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"Don't be," you whispered back, shifting to get a better angle.

This time when you kissed him, it was less cautious. Your hand slid up his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles as he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. The armrest dug into your side but you hardly noticed, too lost in the way he kissed you—deepening from sweet to something hungrier, something that made heat pool in your stomach.

The protagonist's screams provided a bizarre soundtrack as Armin's hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive spot beneath your ear that he'd discovered weeks ago. You shivered, and he smiled against your lips, clearly pleased with himself.

"Thought you were scared," you teased quietly, nipping at his lower lip.

"Distracted now," he breathed, kissing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw.

You glanced around quickly—the nearest couple was rows away, focused on the movie—before sliding your hand to his thigh, feeling him tense beneath your touch. His own hand moved to your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to brush warm skin.

The kiss turned deeper, messier, as his tongue slid against yours. You could feel him getting bolder, his grip on your waist tightening as you shifted closer, your hand inching higher on his thigh. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat that sent a pulse of want straight through you.

His teeth grazed your lower lip, and you gasped quietly, feeling his smile against your mouth. This was a different Armin than the one who'd stumbled through asking you out—this was the Armin who knew exactly what you liked, who'd mapped your body with his hands and mouth, who'd made you come undone with just his fingers on multiple occasions.

"We should—" he started, pulling back slightly, his breath warm against your lips. "We should probably watch the movie."

"Yeah. I don't want your coworkers making fun of you," you whispered with a smile.

A woman on screen shrieked as something lunged at her, and Armin tensed again, his grip on you tightening reflexively. You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Maybe we should have gone with a comedy," he admitted, his voice low with embarrassment. "Eren and Jean said horror would be—" He cut himself off, realizing he'd said too much.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What exactly did they say?"

Armin's hand fell from your waist as he ran it through his hair, messing up the careful styling even further. "Something about, uh... you getting scared and me comforting you." His ears were burning again. "Which obviously backfired because I'm the one jumping at every shadow."

"I don't know," you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. "I think I like comforting you just fine."

He shivered, his hand finding yours again in the darkness. For the remainder of the movie, you stayed close, your head on his shoulder, occasionally stealing kisses during the less intense scenes. Whenever a jumpscare hit, you'd squeeze his hand, feeling him relax against you as the moment passed.

By the time the credits rolled, Armin had practically forgotten his embarrassment, too content with your warmth against him, the smell of your shampoo as you rested against his shoulder. As the lights slowly brightened, he turned to look at you properly, taking in your slightly disheveled appearance—lips a little swollen from his kisses, hair mussed where his fingers had tangled in it.

He looked just as affected—cheeks flushed, blonde hair falling messily across his forehead, lips pink and just a touch raw. The sight made your heart flutter.

"So," he said, voice hoarse as he helped you gather your things, "on a scale of one to ten, how bad was my movie choice?"

You laughed, standing to stretch your legs. "Well, I didn't really see much of it, so I can't judge fairly."

His smile was slow, a little smug as he stood beside you. "Me neither."

You both lingered in the theater as others filed out, neither quite ready to end the night.

"We could..." Armin started, then stopped, suddenly looking shy again. "We could go back to my place? Connie and Sasha are out tonight, so..."

The implication hung between you, charged with possibility.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. "Let's go."

His smile was bright enough to rival the theater's exit signs as he pulled you gently toward the door, the forgotten horror movie already a distant memory.

ꔛ

The door to Armin's apartment swung open, his hand fumbling slightly with the key as he stepped aside to let you in. The familiar space greeted you—Sasha's mismatched throw pillows scattered across the couch, Connie's gaming setup in the corner, and the subtle scent of Armin's sandalwood candle that he always lit when studying late.

"They're definitely out?" you asked, slipping off your shoes by the door.

Armin nodded, his eyes never leaving yours as he set his keys on the counter. "Until late. Frat party, I guess."

There was a beat of silence—a moment of shared understanding—before you both moved at once. Armin's hands found your waist as he backed you toward his bedroom, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that made it clear he'd been restraining himself at the theater. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly in the way you'd discovered made him groan.

He navigated the hallway without breaking the kiss, blindly pushing open his bedroom door. The familiar space—desk cluttered with textbooks and astronomy notes, walls adorned with star charts and anime posters he'd shyly explained on your first visit—welcomed you like an old friend.

Armin walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed, his hands steady at your waist. He broke the kiss, looking down at you with eyes darkened by desire, a question in them that you answered by sitting down at the edge of the mattress.

Before he could make another move, you reached for the button of his jeans, watching his breath hitch as your fingers worked the metal through the hole. His hands moved to your shoulders, gentle but trembling slightly.

"You don't have to—" he started, his voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes with a small smile. "I already told you, I want to."

The flush on his cheeks deepened, but he nodded, swallowing hard as you slowly lowered his zipper. His fingers twitched against your shoulders, anticipation building in the way he shifted his weight.

The contrast between drunk Armin and sober Armin had fascinated you from the start.

Drunk Armin was all impulse and confidence—hands everywhere, whispered confessions against your skin, boldly telling you exactly what he wanted with none of his usual hesitation. The first night at the party, he'd been liquid courage and hungry eyes, pulling you into Jean's room without a second thought.

Sober Armin was a slow burn—starting tentative and sweet, checking in with gentle touches and questioning looks, always making sure you were comfortable. But what made him so intoxicating was the transformation that happened when pleasure built—how his careful control would gradually unravel, revealing the intensity he usually kept hidden beneath his quiet exterior.

As you tugged his jeans down his thighs, you could see that transformation beginning. His fingers flexed against your shoulders, his breathing already uneven despite how little you'd done.

"Is this okay?" you asked, looking up at him through your lashes, your hands resting on his hips.

He nodded rapidly, then cleared his throat. "Yeah—yes, it's... it's more than okay."

You smiled, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, enjoying the way his abdominal muscles tensed in anticipation. Slowly, you pulled the fabric down, revealing him inch by inch until he sprang free, already hard and straining.

Armin's breath caught audibly, his hands moving from your shoulders to card gently through your hair. The touch was reverent, careful—so typically Armin at the start.

You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him pulse against your palm as you stroked slowly from base to tip. His eyes fell shut momentarily, lips parting on a shaky exhale.

"You're already so hard," you murmured, thumb circling the sensitive head.

"Been thinking about this all night," he admitted, voice strained but still controlled. "Since the theater."

You leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as you pressed a soft kiss to the tip, watching his pupils dilate at the contact. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair, not pushing, just holding on like he needed an anchor.

When you finally took him into your mouth, Armin's quiet gasp filled the room. You started slow, taking just the head between your lips, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before dipping into the slit. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, restraint evident in every tense muscle.

"That feels—" he broke off as you took him deeper, his voice cracking again. "So good, God."

You hollowed your cheeks, establishing a rhythm as you worked him with your mouth and hand together. Sweet, shy Armin was still present in the gentle way his fingers stroked your hair, in the soft, appreciative sounds he made with each movement of your tongue.

But as the minutes passed, you felt the shift.

His breathing grew heavier, his normally precise vocabulary reduced to fragments and your name. When you took him particularly deep, letting him hit the back of your throat, his hips jerked forward involuntarily causing you to gag slightly.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped immediately, trying to pull back.

You responded by gripping his hips, encouraging him to stay where he was, looking up to meet his gaze. The message was clear: It's okay. I can take it.

The careful restraint in his expression began to crack. His hand tightened in your hair, not painful but definitely more commanding than before, guiding your movements as you continued.

"You look so—" he swallowed hard, jaw clenching as you swirled your tongue around him. "So perfect like this."

This was where drunk and sober Armin began to converge—where pleasure stripped away his inhibitions, leaving raw need in their place. His hips started to move in shallow, careful thrusts that grew more confident when you moaned encouragingly around him.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice rough with desire, his hand now firmly guiding your head. When you nodded, he exhaled sharply. "Good, because I—fuck—I need to—"

The proper, articulate Armin was gone now, replaced by a version of him that chased his pleasure with focused intensity. His fingers tangled more firmly in your hair, his thrusts growing more deliberate as he watched himself disappear between your lips.

"You're so good at this," he praised, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "So perfect with your mouth, taking me so well."

You hummed around him, sending vibrations through his length that made him curse—something rare from his usual vocabulary. His self-consciousness had evaporated, replaced by a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to ask.

"Deeper," he urged, voice strained but commanding. "Please, just like—yes—just like that."

When you felt him start to throb against your tongue, his thighs tensing beneath your hands, you knew he was close. His careful rhythm faltered, growing erratic as his control slipped further.

"I'm going to—" he warned, trying to pull back slightly. "If you don't stop, I'll—"

You dug your fingers into his hips, taking him deeper instead, and the last thread of his restraint snapped. His head fell back, throat working around a groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him as he pulsed against your tongue.

"Fuck," he gasped, the words falling from his lips as he came, his fingers clenching in your hair, his body shuddering with release.

You worked him through it, swallowing around him until he became too sensitive, his hands gently urging you back as he caught his breath. When you finally pulled away, looking up at him with a satisfied smile, his expression was dazed, cheeks flushed dark red.

Armin was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when his gaze dropped to you—eyes dark with hunger, lips kiss-swollen, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or give you a second to recover.

Then, with a suddenness that made your pulse jump, he pushed you back onto the bed.

You let out a surprised laugh as you landed against his pillows, but the sound choked off when he climbed over you, his hands sliding possessively up your thighs. His glasses—already fogged from his heavy breathing—slipped slightly down his nose, and with an impatient noise, he yanked them off and tossed them onto the nightstand.

"Fuck these things," he muttered, before his attention snapped back to you, making you laugh momentarily before your breath hitched.

His fingers hooked into the hem of your skirt, pushing it up your hips in one smooth motion, exposing the damp fabric of your panties. He exhaled sharply at the sight, his thumbs immediately pressing against the soaked material, dragging slowly along the seam.

"Armin," you gasped, arching into the touch.

He smirked—actually smirked—before dipping his head to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips were warm, teasing, moving higher with agonizing slowness.

"You’re so wet," he murmured, fingertips ghosting over the damp fabric of your panties. "Just from sucking me off?"

You bit your lip, nodding, and his expression darkened with satisfaction.

"Then let me return the favor."

Armin’s fingers curled into the sides of your panties, dragging them down your legs with deliberate slowness, his knuckles brushing against your thighs in a way that made you shiver. The moment they were off, tossed carelessly onto the floor, his hands returned—spreading your thighs wider, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your hips, like he was memorizing the way you opened for him.

His breath was warm against your bare skin as he leaned in, pressing a kiss just above the apex of your thighs, teasing.

"You're so cute," he murmured, voice rough with want, lips brushing against your slick folds without giving you what you wanted. "The way you react every time."

You whined, hips lifting desperately toward his mouth, but he chuckled—chuckled, the bastard—and held you down with one firm hand on your stomach.

"I—fuck, Armin—" you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Hm?" he hummed breath fanning over your overheated skin. Then, finally, his tongue dragged through your wetness in one slow, torturous stroke, and you nearly arched clean off the bed.

His grip on your hip tightened, pinning you in place as he repeated the motion, lapping at you like he was savoring the taste. The contrast was maddening—his usual careful precision in everything he did, now applied to unraveling you completely.

Armin's mouth was relentless—hot, wet, and hungry as he devoured you with the same focus he usually reserved for his astronomy charts. His tongue laved broad, slow strokes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure to make your thighs tremble.

"Fuck—yes, like that—" you gasped, fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly as he worked you over with his lips and tongue.

He hummed against you in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Then, without warning, his fingers joined—two of them pressing against your entrance before sliding inside in one smooth thrust.

"You like that?" he asked, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he curled his fingers just right, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

All you could manage was a desperate nod, your voice failing you as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach.

Armin’s lips curved into a smirk—smug bastard—before his mouth descended again, tongue flicking over your clit in quick, relentless circles as his fingers fucked into you with growing insistence.

"You sound so pretty," he muttered against you, the vibrations making you writhe. "Always." His movements were precise, almost scientific, as if he’d studied exactly how to make you fall apart.

"Armin—" you panted, your grip tightening in his hair as his fingers pumped in and out, his thumb brushing your clit in tandem. "Don’t stop—please—"

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down—sucking your clit between his lips, fucking you with his fingers at a steady, maddening pace. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him as he worked you toward the edge with terrifying efficiency.

You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach, your breathing coming in ragged gasps as he pushed you closer and closer.

"Come for me," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with arousal. "Let me feel it."

And just like that, you shattered—your orgasm crashing over you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers as he coaxed every last pulse of pleasure from you.

When you finally slumped back against the bed, boneless and breathless, Armin pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Fuck," was all you could manage.

"Good?" he asked, like he didn’t already know.

You simply whined, lips curling into a grin at his pleased expression. Armin crawled up your body, his lips finding yours in a deep, hungry kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your palms as he settled between your thighs.

His fingers tangled in your hair, cradling your head as he kissed you thoroughly, unhurried now despite the way his arousal pressed insistently against your stomach. Each sweep of his tongue was deliberate, each gentle bite to your lower lip calculated to make you gasp.

He sat back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, revealing the lean, subtle muscle of his chest and stomach. Not bulky like some of his friends, but defined in a way that made your mouth water. You reached up, tracing a finger down the center of his chest, feeling him shiver under your touch.

"Let me grab something," he murmured, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before leaning over to his nightstand.

He pulled open the drawer, retrieving a small box of condoms that still had the plastic wrap on it. You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Recent purchase?" you teased.

Armin's cheeks flushed, but he nodded, tearing open the box with slightly fumbling fingers. "Got them last week. After, uh—" he met your eyes, a small smile playing at his lips. "After I decided I never wanted to use Jean's condoms again. Completely ruined the mood knowing they were his."

You laughed, the sound turning into a soft gasp as he tore open a packet and rolled the condom onto his length with careful precision.

"Plus," he added, his voice dropping lower as he settled back between your legs, "I wanted to be prepared. For you."

His hands slid beneath your knees, gently pushing them back and open, exposing you completely to his gaze. The position left you feeling vulnerable, but the reverent way he looked at you—like you were a particularly fascinating celestial phenomenon he'd just discovered—made heat pool in your stomach.

Armin positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds without pushing in. He guidded his cock with his hand, coating himself in your wetness, watching your face as he teased you.

You whimpered, trying to shift your hips to take him in.

His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he continued the maddening tease. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You didn't answer immediately, distracted by the pleasure building again as he rubbed his dick against your sensitive clit.

"Tell me," he prompted, leaning down to kiss your neck. "I want to hear you say it."

You threw your arm over your face, suddenly embarrassed despite everything you'd already done together. "You know what I want."

"I do," he agreed, nipping lightly at your collarbone. "But I want to hear you ask for it."

Something about his tone—not demanding or smug, but genuinely wanting to hear your desire—made heat pool in your stomach. You peeked at him from beneath your arm, taking in his flushed cheeks, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth, the eager anticipation in his eyes.

"Please," you whispered, the word barely audible.

His smile was gentle, encouraging. "Please what?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

You swallowed, gathering your courage. "Please fuck me, Armin. I want you inside me."

The words sent a visible shudder through him, his breath catching as he lined himself up properly. "Like this?" he asked, pushing just the tip inside, watching your face carefully.

"Yes," you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as he sank deeper, stretching you deliciously. "Just like that—god."

Armin's breath hitched as he pushed in deeper, his hands gripping your thighs with increasing pressure. You watched his face transform—the careful control giving way to raw sensation as he buried himself inside you completely, his hips finally flush against yours.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes falling closed for a moment as he adjusted to the feeling. "You feel—you feel incredible."

He stayed like that for a heartbeat, fully seated inside you, his thumbs drawing small, soothing circles against your skin. Then he opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, pulling back slowly before pushing in again with careful precision.

You shook your head, digging your fingers into his shoulders. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

The praise sent a visible shiver through him, his rhythm faltering briefly before he found it again, setting a deliberate pace that had you arching beneath him. Each thrust was measured and deep, hitting exactly where you needed it.

Armin bent down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as he continued to move within you. His hand slid from your thigh to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your top.

"Take this off," he murmured against your mouth. "Want to see all of you."

You nodded, and he helped you pull the shirt over your head, followed quickly by your bra. The moment you were bare beneath him, his eyes darkened with appreciation, his hands immediately moving to cup your breasts.

"Beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, as he rolled a nipple between his fingers, watching your reaction with fascination.

The dual sensation of his cock inside you and his fingers on your sensitive nipples had you moaning, head thrown back against the pillows. Armin took advantage, his lips finding your exposed throat, sucking and nipping at the tender skin there.

His thrusts grew deeper, more insistent, each one drawing a soft gasp from your lips. You'd almost forgotten how perfectly he filled you—the past few weeks had been rushed encounters between classes, hurried orgasms from his fingers and tongue, but not this. Not since that first drunken night in Jean's room had you felt the delicious stretch of him inside you, and your body was reacquainting itself with the sensation.

"You feel so good," Armin breathed, his voice strained as his hips snapped forward with increasing force. "So fucking tight—god—"

His cursing sent a thrill through you—the contrast between the polite, studious Armin who explained Europa's atmospheric composition with such precision and the Armin currently fucking you into his mattress, hair falling messily across his forehead as sweat beaded on his brow.

"Harder," you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

Something flashed in his eyes—a momentary hesitation, then resolve. "You sure?"

"Yes—please—"

He didn't need to be told twice. His next thrust came with enough force to make the headboard hit the wall, drawing a surprised moan from your lips. His hands found yours, fingers interlacing as he pinned them beside your head, using the leverage to drive into you with newfound intensity.

"Like this?" he asked, voice rough, eyes dark with concentration as he watched your face for every reaction. "This what you need?"

"Yes—fuck—just like that," you gasped, arching beneath him.

A particularly deep thrust had you crying out, and Armin groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hips worked against yours.

"Missed this," he confessed against your skin, the words tumbling out between thrusts. "Thinking about fucking you again—couldn't focus on the project—kept remembering how you felt—"

You whimpered, the admission sending heat spiraling through your core. The idea of him daydreaming about this while working on those meticulous slides, wanting you while discussing celestial phenomena—it was both ridiculously endearing and intoxicating.

"Me too," you admitted, "got wet thinking about you in class, when you were sitting right next to me—"

Armin groaned, his hips stuttering before finding their rhythm again. "Yeah? While I was discussing Titan's atmosphere?" His voice was playful despite the strain, his lips curving against your neck.

"Especially then," you teased back, gasping as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Something about the way you talk about space—ah!—really does it for me."

He laughed, breathless and surprised, before pulling back enough to look at you. His expression shifted to something more serious, more vulnerable, as his pace slowed momentarily.

"I'm falling for you," he admitted quietly, the words hanging between you as his hips rolled in a slow, deliberate grind. "Not just this—though fuck, this is amazing—but all of it. You."

Your heart stuttered, warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure coursing through your veins.

Your heart swelled at his confession, but before you could respond, Armin's hips snapped forward with renewed vigor, stealing the words from your throat.

"But right now," he continued, voice dropping to a husky whisper as he picked up the pace, "right now I just want to make you come around my cock."

The filthy words from his usually proper mouth sent a shock of heat straight to your core. You watched, transfixed, as his lean muscles tensed with each thrust—the subtle definition of his abs contracting, the way his biceps flexed as he held himself above you. His golden hair, usually so neatly combed, now hung in sweaty strands around his flushed face, his blue eyes dark and unfocused with pleasure.

"Fuck," you moaned as he shifted, the angle changing just enough that the head of his cock dragged perfectly against your g-spot with every thrust.

"There it is," he murmured, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice as he noted your reaction. "Found it."

He slammed into you harder, making the bed frame creak beneath you, each thrust precise despite the increasing desperation of his movements. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, obscene and arousing.

"You're so fucking wet," Armin groaned, watching where your bodies connected. "Taking my dick so perfectly—shit—"

You whimpered at his words, clenching around him involuntarily, which made his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment.

Just as the tension was building, coiling tight in your lower belly, a sound from the apartment's entrance made you both freeze.

"Armin? You home?" Connie's voice carried down the hallway, followed by the distinct jingle of keys.

"Shit," Armin whispered, his eyes widening in panic. He glanced at the door—which, you realized with a jolt of adrenaline, neither of you had thought to lock.

Before you could process what was happening, Armin's hand clamped over your mouth, his body still buried deep inside yours.

"Yeah, I'm here!" he called back, voice remarkably steady despite the situation. "Just working on some stuff in my room. Don't—don't come in, I'm changing!"

His eyes met yours, a silent question in them—okay?—as he remained perfectly still, his cock pulsing inside you.

You nodded against his palm, heart racing with the thrill of nearly being caught. To your shock, instead of pulling out, Armin began to move again—slower now, more deliberate, his hips rolling in shallow thrusts that maintained the pressure against your sweet spot without making the bed creak.

"We brought pizza!" Sasha's voice called. "Extra pepperoni! You want some?"

Armin bit his lip, stifling a groan as you clenched around him again, the danger of the situation somehow heightening every sensation.

"Maybe—ah—maybe later!" he called back, his voice hitching slightly as you deliberately tightened around him. He shot you a warning look that only made heat pool lower in your belly.

"Suit yourself," Connie replied, his voice thankfully moving toward the living room. "We're gonna watch that new anime you were talking about. The one with the monsters."

Armin's hips stuttered at the mention, and you couldn't help but smile against his palm, imagining him trying to focus on serious conversation while balls-deep inside you.

"Go ahead!" Armin called, then lowered his voice to a whisper meant only for you. "If you make a sound, I'll stop."

The threat—not truly a threat given how desperately you both wanted this—made you shiver.

The moment he was satisfied his roommates were settled in the living room, Armin's hips snapped forward with renewed force, his hand pressing harder against your mouth. His eyes were wild, a mixture of arousal and danger as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"Gotta be quiet now," he breathed, his voice trembling slightly as he picked up the pace. "Can't let them hear how fucking wet your pussy is for me."

You whimpered against his hand, feeling yourself clench around him at the unexpected dirty talk. This was a side of Armin you'd glimpsed before—the way he'd whisper filthy praise against your ear when you sucked him off, how he'd gotten bolder with his words each time you hooked up—but never quite this raw, this uninhibited. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting seeming obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"Look at you," he continued, watching your breasts bounce with each powerful thrust. "Fuck, you're so perfect."

His free hand moved to cup one breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple before pinching it lightly, causing you to arch beneath him. Your muffled moan was captured by his hand, which pressed more firmly against your lips.

"Shh," he warned, but his eyes were dark with satisfaction at your reaction. "They'll hear you."

The position shifted slightly as he leaned more weight on the hand covering your mouth, his cock driving impossibly deeper. You could feel his heavy balls slap against your ass with each thrust, adding to the obscene symphony of skin against skin.

"You're dripping," he groaned quietly, glancing down at where your bodies joined. "Soaking the sheets, fuck—"

Despite his assertive words, Armin was falling apart above you—his composure cracking with each thrust. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he tried to stifle his own sounds. A whimper escaped him when you deliberately clenched around his length, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment.

"Do that—do that again," he pleaded, voice breaking slightly as you obliged, squeezing your inner muscles around him. "God—feels so good—"

His rhythm faltered briefly before he found it again, driving into you with precision that belied his trembling thighs and stuttered breathing. The head of his cock hit that perfect spot deep inside you with each thrust, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

You tried to say his name, the sound muffled against his palm as your hands clutched at his back, nails digging into the smooth skin. Armin hissed at the sting but didn't slow down—if anything, the pain seemed to spur him on, his hips snapping forward with increased fervor.

"You like this?" he whispered, sweat-dampened hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at you. "Like me keeping you quiet while I fuck you? While my roommates are right outside?"

You nodded frantically, eyes wide as pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with each precise thrust.

"Such a—fuck—such a dirty girl," he continued, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. "Getting off on this—on me—ahh—holding you down and—and fucking you while—"

He couldn't even finish the sentence, too caught up in the sensation. His expression was a beautiful mess—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glazed with pleasure. When you clenched around him again, he let out a whine that he immediately tried to muffle by burying his face in your neck.

"Close," he gasped against your skin, his rhythm growing erratic. "So close—need you to—need you to come with me—"

His hand slipped from your mouth just long enough to slide between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. The sudden stimulation made you gasp, and his palm clamped back over your lips instantly.

"Quiet," he reminded you, but the command lacked authority as his own breath hitched. His fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles as his cock continued to pound into you, the dual sensation rapidly pushing you toward the edge.

"Come on my cock," he urged, words turning desperate as his control slipped further. "Want to feel you—feel you squeeze me—God—squeeze me when you come—"

Your orgasm hit without warning, crashing over you in intense waves as your body clenched rhythmically around his length. Armin's hand barely muffled your cry as pleasure flooded every nerve, your back arching off the bed.

The feeling of your walls pulsing around him was too much. Armin's hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering completely as he buried himself deep inside you with one final thrust. His whole body tensed, a choked whimper escaping his lips as he came, his cock throbbing within you as he spilled into the condom.

For a long moment, he remained frozen above you, trembling with the force of his release. Then, slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips in a gentle, almost apologetic kiss.

"Sorry," he whispered against your lips, still catching his breath. "Got a bit... carried away."

You smiled, reaching up to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "Don't apologize. That was... wow."

A flush that had nothing to do with exertion spread across his cheeks, the shy, sweet Armin returning now that the heat of the moment had passed. The transformation was as endearing as it was fascinating—how quickly he could shift from filthy-mouthed confidence back to soft-spoken tenderness.

"Yeah?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice despite what you'd just shared.

"Yeah," you confirmed, pulling him down for another kiss. "Definitely wow."

Armin carefully pulled out, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before climbing off the bed and padding to the bathroom. You heard water running briefly before he returned, condom disposed of and a warm washcloth in hand.

"Here," he offered softly, gently cleaning between your thighs with a tenderness that made your chest ache. When he was done, he tossed the cloth into his hamper and climbed back onto the bed, immediately pulling you against his chest.

His fingers combed through your tangled hair, pushing sweaty strands away from your face. "You okay?"

You nodded, nestling into his warmth. "Perfect."

Armin reached toward the nightstand, grabbing a half-empty water bottle and offering it to you. "Drink something."

You took a few grateful sips before passing it back, watching as he drank deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. The care in these small gestures was somehow more intimate than what you'd just shared.

After a comfortable silence, you traced a finger along his collarbone. "So..."

His eyes met yours, a hint of vulnerability in them. "So?"

"You said something. During." You bit your lip, suddenly shy despite everything. "About falling for me."

A blush immediately spread across his cheeks, but to his credit, he didn't look away. "I did."

"Did you mean it?"

Armin exhaled, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining. "Yeah. I did. I am." His thumb stroked the back of your hand nervously. "Falling for you, that is."

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you smiled up at him. "Good. Because I'm falling for you too."

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical—like he'd been genuinely worried after everything you'd shared. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Does that mean... I mean, would you want to..." he trailed off, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet your eyes. "Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?"

You couldn't help but laugh—not at him, but at the endearing formality of it all, asking you to be his girlfriend while you were both naked and sweaty in his bed.

"Yes, Armin," you said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "I'll be your girlfriend. Officially."

His answering smile was brilliant, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made your stomach flutter.

"Great," he said, voice soft but steady. "That's... really great."

A loud burst of laughter from the living room reminded you both that you weren't alone in the apartment. Armin glanced toward the door, then back at you.

"We should probably..."

"Join civilization?" you suggested, already reaching for your scattered clothes.

"Yeah," he chuckled, climbing off the bed and searching for his boxers. "Plus, there's pizza."

You both dressed quickly, stealing glances and sharing small smiles as you put yourselves back together. Armin ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame it back into something presentable while you straightened your clothes and checked for any visible marks he might have left.

When you finally emerged from his bedroom, Connie and Sasha were sprawled across the couch, an open pizza box on the coffee table between them and some colorful anime playing on the TV.

"Well, well, look who finally emerged," Connie said, giving you a knowing grin as he paused the show. "Thought you said you were changing, Armin."

Armin froze for a half-second, his ears turning bright red as he fumbled for words. "I was—I mean, we were just—"

"Uh-huh," Sasha smirked, grabbing another slice of pizza. "Changing."

Armin's shoulders straightened suddenly, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. "Well, I have a girlfriend now, so..." he trailed off defensively, the statement hanging in the air like he wasn't quite sure where he was going with it.

Connie and Sasha were silent, amusement on their expressions at Armin's words.

"Yeah, I have a girlfriend now, so what does it matter if I change in front of her?" Armin challenged more confidently, chin lifting slightly despite the blush still coloring his cheeks.

Connie rolled his eyes dramatically, throwing a wadded-up napkin in Armin's direction. "Yeah, yeah, just rub it in our faces, why don't you? Some of us are still single and suffering."

But there was no real bite to his words, just good-natured teasing as he scooted over to make room on the couch.

Sasha couldn't seem to stop smiling, her eyes darting between you and Armin with barely contained delight. "About time," she said, pushing the pizza box toward you both.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Armin asked, guiding you to the spot Connie had cleared.

"Dude, you've been talking about her non-stop for weeks," Connie snorted. "Pretty sure Sasha and I could recite your astronomy project by heart at this point."

"That's not true," Armin protested weakly, but the way he avoided eye contact made it clear Connie wasn't exaggerating.

Sasha leaned forward, stage-whispering to you. "He's had a crush on you since like, the second week of class. It was painful to watch."

"Okay," Armin interrupted loudly, reaching for a slice of pizza. "Can we please just watch the show now?"

You couldn't help but laugh at his embarrassment, settling comfortably against his side as Connie hit play on the remote. The anime resumed—something about giant humanoid creatures that seemed equal parts fascinating and terrifying—but you found yourself more interested in watching the easy camaraderie between the three roommates.

Despite their teasing, it was obvious how much Connie and Sasha cared about Armin. The way Sasha would occasionally glance over with a soft, approving smile, or how Connie had immediately made space for both of you, accepting you into their little circle without question.

As the show continued, Armin's arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You leaned into him, enjoying the warmth of his body and the comforting weight of his arm. His fingers traced absent patterns on your shoulder as he focused on the screen, occasionally leaning down to whisper explanations of characters or plot points you might have missed.

It felt natural. Easy. Like you'd always belonged here, nestled against Armin's side while his friends bickered good-naturedly over the last slice of pizza.

When Armin's phone buzzed with a text from Eren asking how the date went, he simply smiled, typing back a quick response before tucking his phone away and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Good?" he asked quietly, and you knew he wasn't just asking about the anime or the pizza.

"Perfect," you confirmed, settling more comfortably against him as the next episode began to play.

#armin smut #nerdmin #nerd armin #smut #aot x reader #aot x reader smut #aot #aot smut #armin arlert #armin arlert x reader #armin x reader smut #attack on titan

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autffiy · 9 months ago

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A little something about your Subconscious mind

As we all know our subconscious mind is what helps us manifest right? If you don't know, let me explain it to you in a semi scientific way that i learned recently. (spoiler alert; this made it click for me.)

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WARNING LONG POST AHEAD :p

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So 5% is the Conscious mind, thats what helps us know words, numbers, languages and logic.

95% is the subconscious mind that corresponds with visuals, symbols, dreams, emotion, repetition, tone during sleep, relaxation, stories. aka the best way to update the “system”

Our subconscious mind has RAS ( Reticular activating system) which distorts, deletes and generalizes all the information you recieve. Based on believes, values, identity, memories, past decisions, mood, location/ times.

You→ recieve information by the 5 senses with 2.3 million hits per second of data. 128 bits is what your mind will process and that creates meaning+behavior. Which means your reality is a filtered, distorted, generalized version of events.

The subconscious mind → is like a tape player, change the tape, change/upgrade the mind.

Our beliefs exist in our blindspot. The blindspot is created by the mind.

Become aware of your limiting beliefs, not by going in war with your thoughts but redirecting them.

You must leave out the idea that circumstances have any power over you, they don't.

Repetition helps you believe in your beliefs.

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If you suffer a lot with limiting beliefs i reccomend you writing them down, somewhere that you can acces easily. It might be a notebook, ypur notes app, whatever works for you. I want you to write all your limiting beliefs down. Doesn't matter if you have one or a lot, write them down. Then i want you to flip those beliefs, turn them around. Write them down as well, you can write them behind your limiting beliefs or create a new list. These are your new beliefs and you will stick to them.

Some examples:

I can't manifest, manifesting is hard and takes so long.➙ Manifesting is so easy, i always manifest instantly. Manifesting doesn't take long at all.

Money is hard to get➙ Money is easy to get, i get money effortlessly

You have to work for money➙ i don’t have to work for money, hell i can lay in bed all they and receive large amounts of money daily.

I am unlovable➙ No tf i’m lovable i’m perfect, i’m irresistible, everybody wants me. Period, I am so perfect.

They don’t love me➙ They love me, in fact they worship the ground i walk on, they need me, they can’t live without me.

They have another partner➙ Who? I AM their partner, they only love me. That was their cousin or their friend.

I am fat and ugly➙ I am so perfect and pretty, god i look so amazing. I am skinny, my body is so pretty and perfect.

See what i did here? I took my limiting beliefs and flipped them around. And i will now tick to these. Repeating them, not thinking back to those old stupid trashy beliefs. By repeating ypu will create a new assumption and that is what creates your "new" reality.

I promise you if you just persist and repeat in these new thoughts everything will work out for you.

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That was a long one, phew. Thanks for reading all the way to the end!!! Happy manifesting. Love you!!

XOXO

#reality shift #reality shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting #law of assumption #loa tumblr #anti loa dni #law of assumption success #loablr #loa blog #loabr #loa advice #loa assumptions #neville goddard #manifesting #master manifestor #manifesation

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canmom · 1 year ago

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every single thing involving a computer is designed to put something into our senses. until a human looks at it, and interprets it, it is nothing. it isn't 'data'. it isn't 'ones and zeroes'. it's just some electrons and photons moving around, as is their wont.

but if we arrange those electrons just so, and let them do their thing, we can create a pattern that someone will experience as bits, registers, numbers, letters, instructions, algorithms, messages, financial transactions, videos, thoughts, worlds, etc etc.

the whole project of computer programming is corraling the electrons into situations where they will obey rules we have in our heads. electrons are surprisingly predictable, so this isn't a fool's errand. but every layer of the stack of abstractions is something we built: arranging one thing to produce a pattern we want to see. the chip arranged so the 'high and low voltages' fit our idea of 'bits' and 'logic gates'. the screen whose lights create a 'field of colour' for an organism that has this level of visual acuity, this frequency response in its cone cells, this capacity to see shapes and edges. these bits and logic organised into an 'algorithm' that takes 'data' that we think of as 'vertices' and 'triangles' and produces the appearance of 'perspective rendering', which approximates our concept of a '3D object', of even a 'virtual world'.

we have gotten so very very good at producing these patterns that it's easy to see them as something natural, and miss all the layers of orchestration behind even the simplest operation. computers are a game played between humans.

#computer science

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kiame-sama · 4 months ago

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Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 41

(Vil- though not fully Overblotted- still has several visual changes to his coloration and appearance due to the intense presence of blot that had been in his system from his potion. He is able to explain most of it away for those who question him, but those who were present in the classroom when it happened know the truth. They are too loyal and earnest to speak that truth for Vil's sake and the Human's sake.)

Warnings; jealous dragon, fluff and theories, Clay is the only truly aware platonic yandere, Dragon, Harpy, Drider, Vampire bat, hellcat, mention of Cervitaur, mention of Raiju,

~~~~~~~~

"What happened?"

Standing before you- with his eyes wide and his entire body stiff- was a very unhappy and stressed Dragon. Malleus had been trying to keep himself calm with the aid of Lilia, but seeing your exhausted state sent him spiraling. The tell-tale black ink-like coloration at the ends of your fingers, lips, and hair told him you had more than just a brush with blot.

"Blot potion out of control. We're both good now, but we need a snack and some rest. Papa Hades said he would be up with something for us to snack on soon."

"..."

Malleus stood in silence, the tip of his tail flicking angrily and the low roll of thunder sounded in the distance. It often took a moment or two for the Dragon to fully process what was being said to him, and it often took your calmly stated words just a moment longer than most. You had been touched by blot and he was furious to think such a vile liquid could even have a hold on you for seconds, let alone long enough to stain your flesh.

"... Blot potion?"

"Yeah. A bad idea that became a dangerous opponent. It's sealed up now and Papa Hades said he would be dealing with it later. For now, I think Vil and I need a bit of a rest."

The trip back to your dorm had been a long one, or at least it felt so much longer to you and Vil given the prior events. Luckily Rook and Silver- after pulling themselves together- straightened up and carried the both of you. You were put on Silver's back while Vil was on Rook's back. Sebek, professor Clay, and Papa Hades led your group back to Ramshackle, all the while ensuring that any ne'er-do-wells knew to keep their distance.

Now you all were looking for a bit of rest, and Malleus was likely to panic upon fully realizing what took place. You weren't exactly keen to argue with the Dragon and you knew complete fallout would occur if he ever learned you had kissed Vil in order to give the blot potion easy access to your body. Though you could have likely done it a different way, it was the only thing you could think of to encourage the blot potion out of Vil and into you fast enough to save the Harpy.

"Tsuno, I know you aren't happy about it, but it happened and is over now. All that matters is we are back safe and sound. Right?"

"..."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm not going to classes tomorrow. Well, Vil won't be either after tonight's events, so you can stick around with us tomorrow if you feel like skipping a class or two."

This made the Dragon perk up somewhat, clearly pleased at the idea of spending more time with you than he usually would be able to. Still, he seemed hesitant to believe that all of the present issues were resolved so easily.

"Now, let's talk about who gets to sleep where in the nest."

~•§•~

The ancient Shinigami watched the pan sizzle as he cooked a small meal quickly and fiddled with a device in his hands. If the Harpy was so keen to be a data point in this study, Hades wasn't going to argue. It unsettled him that several of the students were showing signs of desperation and of performing desperate acts to get the soft and coveted Human's attention.

Who knows what the next desperate action will be or how far it will go.

"Lord Hades?"

"Yes, Child?"

The Shinigami turned his head towards the Yeti who had been present for the fallout of the Harpy and had been a rather helpful aide when it came to restraining the other students. Had they all tried to help and not been held back by the Ape-man, they likely would have all Overblotted or worse given the situation at hand. He at least lived up to his reputation of being calm under pressure and having a good grasp on dangerous situations.

"That much blot should have killed her."

"I know, Child. That much blot would have killed all of them had it gotten a hold on them."

"I know that potion. Poachers use it to infest their prey to claim they were 'putting down a Feral' instead of illegally harvesting parts from a non Feral. It never ends well for those who use it. Ever."

"I am familiar with the potion as well."

This only made Clay's frown deepen. He had seen entire poaching encampments turned Feral due to that specific potion and he had seen the way it acted like a blight on any magical being. How it moved from body to body, infesting and possessing anything it touched.

"Why didn't it kill her?"

"I have several theories. Humans are not magical, so they have next to no accumulation of blot as they go through life. Blot is a byproduct of magic, and without magic, Humans don't form blot but are susceptible to those who have turned Feral. My own Humans had very little interaction with Ferals by design. Though I knew they were blot resistant, I did not know the extent of their blot related abilities."

"So you don't know?"

"I don't know for certain, no. She has shown an incredible ability to neutralize blot and even attract blot towards her, as shown by the potion itself choosing to abandon it's prize of young Vil and anchor itself to her instead where it could have just taken them both."

The Shinigami turned towards Clay, moving the pan off of the heat to let it and the food he was cooking rest. The monitoring collar he was fiddling with coming to life in his hands as he adjusted it.

"I have a theory that Humans are natural blot absorbers and neutralizers. They likely developed this and their addictive nature by evolving hand in hand with magic using species. Humans needed protection from magical species so they developed a way to be needed and helpful to those that protected them. The magical species create blot, and the Humans absorb it, creating a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps it is this blot absorption that led to Humans being so addictive as they relieve the negative impact of blot, which all magical species have."

"It would make sense... To have blot creators and blot neutralizers. But still, this rampant almost infectious attraction and obsession doesn't really fit..."

"That is why it must be studied. There is the potential that Little (Y/n) is a fluke among Humans with an unnatural resistance to blot. The only thing that I know for certain is the data that has been gathered. Humans are addictive, thousands of years worth of research has proven that as fact. This blot absorption is a new development, and with only one Human as the sample size, it can't be asserted that (Y/n) isn't the only blot neutralizer."

The Yeti crossed his arms, deep in thought. It made sense from a scientific view. No science was perfect and with the sample size being a grand total of one, there was always room for misinterpretation. Even still, there was more than just the science to be considered.

"She deserves to know."

"Hm?"

"(Y/n) deserves to be told of her addictive qualities. If not for the sake of others, than for her own sake so she can protect herself. If everyone is going to have some kind of obsession- deadly or not- she deserves to know about it."

"... I know. I have considered broaching the topic many times before, yet have found myself struggling to find the right words to tell her."

"Why?"

"Because," the Shinigami sighed, running his fingers through his flame hair, "Humans are delicate compared to us. Physically they could be a credible threat to other species, especially when their young were put in harm's way, but emotionally they put more value into how others viewed them. It makes sense, they were at the whims of others for an extended period of time and are an incredibly social species as a whole, but that does mean they are more delicate to the emotional impact they have on others. Little (Y/n) in particular seems mostly aware of her impact on the others, but I worry what guilt she will feel when she learns the truth."

Clay nodded at this, having seen his own fair share of just how impactful the affectionate Human was on the wellbeing of those around her. From the guards that flocked to her, to the students that stared whenever she passed by, she impacted everyone she interacted with. He had also noticed his own growing attachment to the kind little Human that so innocently looked to him for instruction.

"Young Vil and Little (Y/n) are likely hungry with the blot still in their systems, they need food before they rest."

Clay dropped the subject as the elder Shinigami split the ample and warm food into two servings, turning to leave. He paused for just a moment at the threshold of the door to speak to the Yeti with an even and measured tone.

"I will broach the subject when I feel it is right, but trust that I will do it. For now, I ask you keep our conversation to yourself. She doesn't need such stress so soon after an event like this one, alright?"

"... I understand."

~•§•~

Rook was almost vibrating with how thrilled he was, settled down in the nest with his boon companion laying against his side. Vil had his long tail tucked and curled under his legs as he himself had taken an almost fetal position up against the side of the Drider. You were sitting close by, petting a sore and less than pleased Grim who demanded cuddles when he realized you were back.

The storm outside had quieted somewhat, as Malleus had managed to calm himself despite not liking the two outsiders laying in your nest. Silver was already back to sleep, Sebek laying against his side but still warily observing the Harpy and Drider duo in the nest. Though the Dragon was displeased with the interlopers, he was more relieved that you were alright. He didn't overlook the staining you had on your skin, seeing the darker tints around your eyes and lips where the blot had forced itself into you.

"Are you certain you are alright, (Y/n)?"

"Yes, Tsuno, I'm okay. I promise. If I wasn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I appreciate that you care so deeply about me and want to make sure I'm alright, but I promise you I am okay."

"..."

The Dragon continued to frown as a light knock sounded from the door. It slowly opened to reveal the large Shinigami with two steaming bowls of food and you couldn't help but smile at him. At least Papa Hades was present and could help care for you and Vil after the impact of the disastrous potion the Harpy had created.

"Here you are, Little One. Eat up and get some rest, you and Young Vil are no doubt exhausted by the evenings events."

You happily accepted the bowl of warm food, Grim taking several long sniffs towards your meal as you pet his forehead. His little nose wiggled and you were content to give the sore kit bites from your bowl. Vil seemed much more hesitant to take the food offered, seeming as if he were close to crying despite the kind gesture.

"Vil?"

"... I don't deserve it."

Your smile fell and you sighed, having seen similar remorseful driven behavior from Riddle and Alistair following their Overblots. He was likely going to need an encouraging hand if he was going to accept the meal offered. At least his behavior showed he was regretting his actions that drove him to his current state.

"Yes, you do. Eat, or you will regret it tomorrow."

"... (Y/n), I almost killed you with my actions. I could have killed myself as well. I don't deserve accolades or kindness after my actions."

A beat of silence passed as you handed the bowl off to a confused Lilia, handing Grim to Malleus. Vil seemed confused by your actions as you moved through the nest to his side, grabbing the second bowl from the elder Shinigami. Using the provided spoon, you scooped up some of the food and looked at Vil expectantly, holding the spoon up to him.

"(Y/n), I-"

"If your next actions are not eating and saying 'thank you' to Papa Hades, I'm not going to listen or entertain any further complaints. You will eat. You will be thankful someone took the time to make you food. You will accept that I am not angry with you. And above all else, you will forgive yourself for your own misguided actions. If I have to sit here and feed you myself, I will."

Vil was silent for another long moment, but his stomach spoke for him with an impatient growl as he could smell the warm food you held. With a certain hesitance to his movements and very much like a baby bird, he let you feed him that first spoonful. You didn't have to feed him the rest as that one bite triggered his obvious hunger and he happily took the bowl from you.

Once Vil was eating his fair share you gently pet his head, making the Harpy let out a gentle cooing noise at the affection. Lilia returned your bowl to you and you proceeded to follow the Harpy's example, pausing to give the occasional piece to Grim. Papa Hades seemed pleased with the both of you eating and nodded, resting on the edge of the nest to wait until you both had finished your impromptu meals.

"Young Vil, given the... events... that took place, I would rather you join the current study I am overseeing. It is on blot and how Little (Y/n) affects blot in other species. It will require you wear this monitor on your neck so we can get vitals and a fairly accurate measurement of blot remaining inside of you. Is that amenable to you?"

"Yes. I... am still mortified that I even considered Overblotting in the first place, but I understand now how lucky I truly am (Y/n) intervened when she did. It would be meaningless to deny my own participation in your research given my misguided actions."

Vil moved towards you, Papa Hades taking both bowls away and setting them to the side as he held up what looked like the same collars Riddle and Alistair wore. The Harpy held up his hair to allow the elder Shinigami to place the device around his neck, shivering from the cold touch. It clicked in place and seemed to not bother the Harpy too much despite the way it sat on his neck feathers.

"The both of you, get some rest. You have had an eventful night and tomorrow will be more rest and testing. I wish you all a pleasant evening."

"Goodnight, Papa Hades."

The elder chucked at this, smiling warmly at you.

"Goodnight, Little One."

With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him so you and your company could get some rest. Vil seemed much more at peace as he returned to Rook's side, the Drider placing pillows against his abdomen for the Harpy to rest comfortably on him. You settled down with Grim, noticing the way Malleus kept his back to the outside of the nest before pulling you under his wing so he could keep an eye on you.

As the room settled down, Lilia turned out the lights and a tentative calm washed over your group. Rook, Sebek, and Grim were quick to drift off, comfortable among the others in the nest and trusting their company wholeheartedly. You, Lilia, Malleus and Vil still clung to some awareness instead of succumbing fully to sleep.

Though you fought to cling to consciousness, you were quickly pulled into the embrace of rest. Malleus and Lilia both wanted to stay awake and keep an eye on the nest given their own anxieties with the situation. As they were both nocturnal Fae, they were less affected by the siren song of sleep than the others were.

Vil was just trying to process all that had happened. Though it was all orchestrated by him, he still had to come to terms with the memories that had been dredged up from the darker corners of his mind. Your forgiveness was a soothing balm to his worrying mind as he contemplated the cruelty of his mother juxtaposed with your compassion.

Something odd happened with his hazy memories of his mother that the Harpy couldn't explain. Where he remembered crying and hiding from her under a rather sturdy table, sobbing as his father fought in a flurry of feathers for his safety, another figure had appeared. You were somehow in his childhood memory, holding him and soothing him after his mother had attacked him. Though he knew it wasn't possibly true, he still valued that odd change to his memories and cherished your comfort.

Perhaps something had happened to alter his memories to a more soothing outcome when you took on his blot. Perhaps he rewrote his own memories to include someone soothing his distraught child self. All he knew for certain was that you were a very calming and soothing presence that made his heart ache less when you were around.

Your presence comforted and relaxed him more than anything else could. Given the way he had lived his life up until that point, he considered it a miracle that he could find anyone he is willing to accept affection from. He even struggled to accept the endless praise Rook heaped on his shoulders, believing the Drider only focused on his outward appearance despite being his closest friend.

Maybe, just maybe, Vil could learn to love himself with your help. He still was going to try and win your heart despite everything, but he now had a clear way forward and into a better frame of mind. For now, that was all that truly mattered to him.

#kiame-sama #yandere #humans are extinct twst au #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #TWST au #twisted wonderland yandere au #monster au #yandere monster

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sybaritick · 2 months ago

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the inevitable tension between:

In an effort to demystify programming, which many people still think of as a skill that requires some sort of exceptional intelligence or training, I will always emphasize that basically anyone can do simple programming tasks like creating their own browser extension or simple website, using SQL to query a database, making data visualizations with matplotlib, etc. You can learn to do this in a week. If you're not sure you can for real just ask me (dm here or on Discord). it IS easy and anyone CAN do it! This isn't me saying "learn to code to get a job," which used to be decent advice 5 years ago but isn't any more because of AI and market saturation. More just "if there is something you want to do, at work or as a personal thing, that requires programming skills you think you might not have, I bet you can do it anyway. Do it!"

Okay maybe the reason I think this way is because my dad was teaching me Java when I was literally 8 years old

#cal txt

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pythonjobsupport · 4 months ago

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Learn Matplotlib in 30 minutes: Data Visualization Made Easy - Matplotlib Crash Course

In this comprehensive tutorial, we’ll explore Matplotlib, the leading library for data visualization in Python! Whether you’re a … source

#Crash #Data #easy #Learn #Matplotlib #Minutes #Visualization

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physalian · 1 year ago

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You don’t have to pay for that fancy worldbuilding program

As mentioned in this post about writing with executive dysfunction, if one of your reasons to keep procrastinating on starting your book is not being able to afford something like World Anvil or Campfire, I’m here to tell you those programs are a luxury, not a necessity: Enter Google Suite (not sponsored but gosh I wish).

MS Office offers more processing power and more fine-tuning, but Office is expensive and only autosaves to OneDrive, and I have a perfectly healthy grudge against OneDrive for failing to sync and losing 19k words of a WIP that I never got back.

Google’s sync has never failed me, and the Google apps (at least for iPhone) aren’t nearly as buggy and clunky as Microsoft’s. So today I’m outlining the system I used for my upcoming fantasy novel with all the helpful pictures and diagrams. Maybe this won’t work for you, maybe you have something else, and that’s okay! I refuse to pay for what I can get legally for free and sometimes Google’s simplicity is to its benefit.

The biggest downside is that you have to manually input and update your data, but as someone who loves organizing and made all these willingly and for fun, I don’t mind.

So. Let’s start with Google Sheets.

The Character Cheat Sheet:

I organized it this way for several reasons:

I can easily see which characters belong to which factions and how many I have named and have to keep up with for each faction

All names are in alphabetical order so when I have to come up with a new name, I can look at my list and pick a letter or a string of sounds I haven’t used as often (and then ignore it and start 8 names with A).

The strikethrough feature lets me keep track of which characters I kill off (yes, I changed it, so this remains spoiler-free)

It’s an easy place to go instead of scrolling up and down an entire manuscript for names I’ve forgotten, with every named character, however minor their role, all in one spot

Also on this page are spare names I’ll see randomly in other media (commercials, movie end credits, etc) and can add easily from my phone before I forget

Also on this page are my summary, my elevator pitch, and important character beats I could otherwise easily mess up, it helps stay consistent

*I also have on here not pictured an age timeline for all my vampires so I keep track of who’s older than who and how well I’ve staggered their ages relative to important events, but it’s made in Photoshop and too much of a pain to censor and add here

On other tabs, I keep track of location names, deities, made-up vocabulary and definitions, and my chapter word count.

The Word Count Guide:

*3/30 Edit to update this chart to its full glory. Column 3 is a cumulative count. Most of what I write breaks 100k and it's fun watching the word count rise until it boils over.

This is the most frustrating to update manually, especially if you don’t have separate docs for each chapter, but it really helps me stay consistent with chapter lengths and the formula for calculating the average and rising totals is super basic.

Not that all your chapters have to be uniform, but if you care about that, this little chart is a fantastic visualizer.

If you have multiple narrators, and this book does, you can also keep track of how many POVs each narrator has, and how spread out they are. I didn’t do that for this book since it’s not an ensemble team and matters less, but I did for my sci-fi WIP, pictured below.

As I was writing that one, I had “scripted” the chapters before going back and writing out all the glorious narrative, and updated the symbols from “scripted” to “finished” accordingly.

I also have a pie chart that I had to make manually on a convoluted iPhone app to color coordinate specifically the way I wanted to easily tell who narrates the most out of the cast, and who needs more representation.

—

Google Docs

Can’t show you much here unfortunately but I’d like to take an aside to talk about my “scene bits” docs.

It’s what it says on the tin, an entire doc all labeled with different heading styles with blurbs for each scene I want to include at some point in the book so I can hop around easily. Whether they make it into the manuscript or not, all practice is good practice and I like to keep old ideas because they might be useful in unsuspecting ways later.

Separate from that, I keep most of my deleted scenes and scene chunks for, again, possible use later in a “deleted scenes” doc, all labeled accordingly.

When I designed my alien language for the sci-fi series, I created a Word doc dictionary and my own "translation" matrix, for easy look-up or word generation whenever I needed it (do y'all want a breakdown for creating foreign languages? It's so fun).

Normally, as with my sci-fi series, I have an entire doc filled with character sheets and important details, I just… didn’t do that for this book. But the point is—you can still make those for free on any word processing software, you don’t need fancy gadgets.

—

I hope this helps anyone struggling! It doesn’t have to be fancy. It doesn’t have to be expensive. Everything I made here, minus the aforementioned timeline and pie chart, was done with basic excel skills and the paint bucket tool. I imagine this can be applicable to games, comics, what have you, it knows no bounds!

Now you have one less excuse to sit down and start writing.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #organizing your book #outlining #shut up and write the book #google sheets #google docs

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andy-wm · 7 months ago

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Artificial Intelligence vs The Real Jungkook™

In JK's recent weverse live he told us plainly that he's concerned about AI-created songs that use his voice and what that means for his future as a singer.

Because without his consent, random people are feeding his vocals into what is essentially an untested and uncontrollable industrial machine that spits out cookie-cutter versions of songs in his voice.

It's theft plain and simple.

Theft of something deeply personal and intimate and priceless. Jungkook's (every artist's) voice is as unique as their fingerprint. His voice represents his blood, sweat and tears. It's the payoff for a decade of lost youth.

It's his livelihood.

And there's no undo button on this.

Once it's been absorbed into the vast archive of vocal samples, Jungkook's voice is there forever.

But it's no longer even his voice. It's an algorithm that generates data with a particular tone and cadence. It's part of the machine.

Now it's not just other artists he has to compete with to stay relevant. It's an ever-growing, never-sleeping, song factory that will use his greatest strength - his voice - to beat him.

I want to clarify that I haven't listened to any AI songs because i find it all too yuck. I have zero interest in it anyway because the whole point of songs, for me, is the expression of genuine emotion and that can only come from a human soul. I'm here for the music, not the hype.

And that brings me to another, possibly bigger problem:

Hybe - We believe in money music

We don't have to look any further than the recent MAMA show, and the VCR that accompanied TXT's performance, to know where their money-hungry managment company is headed.

All the music and some of the visual in that VCR were AI generated.

ALL THE MUSIC

Why? Because Yeonjun was too exhausted and unwell to perform.

How easy will it be for Hybe to quietly and seamlessly replace the artists we love with digital imposters?

What's stopping them from using the voice samples to produce paid promotions and endoresements?

How will we know what's authentic and what isn't in future?

If this continues, we wont.

Jungkook, despite being beloved by ARMY, was so nervous about singing that his hands were shaking. He said his self esteem was very low.

Sure, he was out of practice but that wasn't the main issue.

"Will I be able to beat AI?" he asked.

"I'm doomed. My job is dissapearing."

He knows what's at stake

And it's honestly terrifying.

I truly hope that all fans, be they army or otherwise, stand up for our artists and their right to own their voice and their creative process.

We aren't here to work a 40 hour week while the machines make music.

💜💔

#bts jungguk #jeon jungguk #jungkook weverse live #jungkook AI songs #hybe entertainment #Hybe AI-created music #respect our artists

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scary-grace · 2 months ago

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certain stars (part 2) - a Shigaraki x reader fic

Nothing in your training prepared you for this: A deadly virus that burnt through Space Station Ultra, leaving only two survivors -- you, and Mission Specialist Shigaraki, trapped together in the command module. With time, food, and life-support running out, you have a choice about how you'll spend your final hours. You just wish you had any idea what you're supposed to do.

This is for @shigarakislaughter (happy birthday!) who asked for a forced-proximity roommates to lovers situation. Being me, I had to make it weird, and being one of my fics, it had to get away from me. Part 1 can be found here! Shigaraki x reader, rated M, space station au, angst + suggestive content. dividers by @cafekitsune.

part 1

You’ve been on the line with Mission Control for four hours, in a conversation that includes you only tangentially, and your eyes are starting to blur. This plan to save your life and Shigaraki’s without carrying the virus back to Earth was your idea. You have to be here to advocate for it, to address any questions Control might have, to find a way around any problems that might arise. You’re the pilot in command. It’s your job to get yourself and the last remaining member of your crew home.

But you’re so tired. It’s all you can do to write down the figures that are being named, calculating trajectories and fuel burns by hand to fact-check Mission Control’s results. It’s hard to do when they still haven’t decided if it’s safe for you and Shigaraki to return to Earth. The suspense would be killing you if you had any adrenaline left to spare.

As Mission Control continues to debate, no one willing to come right out and say that they’re not sure it’s a good idea to bring you back, Shigaraki slips into the seat beside you. You sent him into the shuttle with step-by-step instructions for running a full diagnostic, and he slides the results across the desk to you. You study them, the numbers difficult to read until you squeeze your eyes shut and open them again. Then you tap your mic and interrupt one of the flight director’s proteges in the middle of a soliloquy about reentry speed. “I have the shuttle diagnostics. All systems are operational.”

“What about the heat shield?”

That’s a sticking point. One of many. “Protocol is to do a visual inspection, but we can’t risk a spacewalk. Is there any way we can get a satellite view?”

You hear paper rustling, then a thud. It’s all too easy to picture one of the ensigns getting up in a hurry, tripping over themselves, and falling flat on their face before beelining to the comms center. “We’re investigating the prospect,” Director Sasaki says. “Every participating nation has offered their help, as have several non-participants and several corporate entities. If they elect to put their money where their mouths are, we should be able to give you multiple views of the heat shield.”

You nod, then remember they can’t see you. “Can someone check a compromise rate?”

“The compromise rate depends on your reentry angle,” the flight director says. You think her name’s Tatsuma. You’ve only met her once. “And your reentry angle depends on your landing site.”

“Which hasn’t been decided yet,” Shigaraki says, into your microphone, “because you jag-offs can’t make up your minds about whether we’re coming back at all.”

“Get your own headset,” you hiss, shooing him away. “Mission Specialist Shigaraki has a point. All of this is theoretical unless it’s safe to come home.”

“We told you that already,” Director Todoroki snaps. You roll your eyes. “Were you listening?”

You were probably trying to do math. You rub your eyes, and Shigaraki speaks into your mic again. “I didn’t hear it.”

Director Todoroki heaves a big, nasty sigh, and Director Bate, the current head of the space station program, speaks up. “Based on the data your crew collected, the virus thrives in the same conditions humans do. Extreme cold renders it inert, while extreme heat destroys it. The heat from reentry should cook that thing right off the exterior of the shuttle. Your return to Earth should be safe, as long as you land in the right place.”

“Only two concerns remain,” Director Sasaki says. “First, whether the damage your plan to purge the virus from Station Ultra will cause is worth the reward –”

You appreciate him giving it to you straight. “And secondly, whether the likely expulsion of your deceased crewmates’ bodies into space is an acceptable result.”

“Yeah,” you say. You’re too tired to stick to formal speech. “I thought that might be it.”

Your plan to clear Station Ultra of the virus involves blowing the airlocks on each of the infected modules, which will suck the virus back out into space, where it’ll go back to hibernating. It’ll work, but it’s likely to take the bodies of the crew with it. And the space program’s unofficial and unstated policy has always been to bring all the crewmembers home, dead or alive.

“Um –” Someone in Mission Control clears their throat. “I feel terrible saying this, but we can’t bring their bodies home. They died of the virus. They’re probably still carrying it. Asking the pilot and mission specialist to retrieve them is an unacceptable risk, and we can’t risk live virus entering the atmosphere.”

Someone protests. Dr. Shield, maybe – Dr. Shield, whose daughter died in the lab module, conducting research on the virus right up until it killed her. Director Tatsuma waits for him to finish, then speaks up. “The flight academy prepares its graduates for this. They are aware that this is the likely scenario if they should die outside the atmosphere.”

“The astronauts, sure. The mission specialists have families,” someone argues. You don’t know that voice. Your head hurts. “What are we supposed to tell them? That we just launched their loved ones’ corpses into space?”

“Yeah.” Shigaraki’s finally put on his headset. “Everybody who died here was a better person than me, and if I died up here, I wouldn’t care what the survivors did with my body.”

It’s quiet for a second. “Unless they wanted to eat it.”

You feel insane, hysterical laughter bubbling in the back of your throat and swallow it down. “I think you should ask the mission specialists’ families,” you say. “It’s their loved ones up here. Tell them what we’re up against and ask them what they want to do.”

“That’s unwise,” Director Sasaki says. There’s a pause. “We will reach out to them. Continue your preflight preparations, and we’ll contact you when a full protocol has been devised.”

The call drops, and you take off your headset. It doesn’t make your head hurt any less, but you’ll give it time. Next to you, Shigaraki does the same. “How long do you think it’ll take them to tell us no?”

You knew your crewmates, astronauts and mission specialists both. You met their families. You’re not convinced it’ll be a yes, but you’re not sure it’ll be a no, either. And there’s one crewmember you haven’t known long enough to make a guess. “Would you really be okay with your body being shot out into space?”

“Sure. Not like anybody’s waiting for it at home.” Shigaraki shrugs. “If you were starving, you could eat my corpse.”

This time, you don’t have to suppress your laughter. “Just me, though?”

“What, do you want to share or something?”

“No,” you say. You glance at him, noting the way-too-prominent bruise on his neck, remembering that there’s one just like it on his shoulder. He seemed into it, and you were into his reaction, so you went a little overboard. “I’m not good at sharing.”

Shigaraki’s pale enough that even the faint flush in his cheeks is as obvious as a neon sign. “Don’t act possessive. You only hooked up with me because we’re going to die soon.”

There’s a lot to address there, and you’re too tired to do it delicately. “We’re not going to die soon. I’ll find a way to get you home. I didn’t think you liked me. I only hooked up with you because I thought we were about to die. If we weren’t about to die we’d have gone on dates first.”

Shigaraki is staring at you now, eyes wide. Did you even speak a recognizable language, or were you just mumbling to yourself about nothing? You really don’t want to have to say it all again. You look away from him, even though it’s hard to do, and look down at your sheet of calculations. You can barely read them. You find a new piece of paper and start copying them down again. “What is that?” Shigaraki asks, peering over your shoulder as you rewrite equation after equation. “I thought we didn’t have a trajectory yet.”

“We don’t. But the basic reentry calculations were made assuming that the shuttle is at capacity, and it’s – not.” Not even close. “We’ll be coming down light. That changes things.”

“Huh.” Shigaraki’s chin comes to rest over your shoulder. “Why are you doing it by hand?”

“That was how they used to do everything,” you say. “Back in the early days. But the academy still teaches it, in case we lose contact with Mission Control or the onboard computer goes down. They don’t want us to be totally helpless without it.”

“Huh,” Shigaraki says again. “That’s a lot of physics for a bunch of meatheads.”

“Yeah. Almost like we aren’t meatheads after all.” You copy out the last equations, then elbow Shigaraki until he straightens up. “Check these for me, okay?”

“You don’t trust your calculations?”

“I can barely see straight,” you say. Shigaraki blinks. “I haven’t slept more than an hour or two at a stretch since this started, and this isn’t the kind of thing where mistakes are survivable. You’re an actual physicist. Just look at them.”

“Sure.” Shigaraki flips over the shuttle diagnostic and starts writing on the back.

You fold your arms on the console and rest your head on them, watching him work. You like seeing him locked in on something, even if you wish he’d stop scratching his neck with his free hand, and you wonder what his research profile looks like. What he works on when he’s not getting tossed into a shuttle he doesn’t want to be on. He must be in a lab or something. Or have his own. So –

Something occurs to you. “Should I have been calling you Dr. Shigaraki this whole time? Some people get mad about their titles not being used.”

“Some people are assholes,” Shigaraki says matter-of-factly. “I might be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole.”

He frowns at something he’s just written. “Show me your first set of calculations.” You hand it over, and he identifies the mistake in seconds. “You rewrote it wrong on this page. With this reentry velocity we’d bounce right off the atmosphere.”

“This is why you needed to check it.”

“You got it right the first time,” Shigaraki says. His hand falls from the side of his neck to rest on the console, then edges out into the space between the two of you. You spend a little too long looking before it occurs to you to touch.

A green light starts blinking on the console, indicating a call from Control. You yank your hand away from Shigaraki’s and pull your headset on. “Yes?”

“The families of the mission specialists agreed to your plan,” Director Sasaki says, and exhaustion sweeps over you. Shigaraki is looking at you questioningly. You give a thumbs-up. “However, they requested some sort of commemoration before the airlocks are blown.”

You’ll think of something. “Understood. I’ve adjusted the reentry calculations to account for the lighter payload. Dr. Shigaraki is checking my work as we speak.”

Dr. Shigaraki is also rolling his eyes, but you don’t need to mention that. “We’ve developed a launch protocol,” Sasaki informs you, “which should account for a lighter payload. We also have identified a landing site for you, one which will render any surviving virus inert.”

“Yes,” Director Tatsuma says. “You’ll be aiming for the Ross Ice Shelf.”

You haven’t touched the airlocks, but it still feels like every iota of breathable air has just been sucked out of your lungs. “The – what?”

“A cold environment with little for the virus to feed on, in the unlikely event that any of it is left after reentry,” Sasaki says. “Rest assured, you will have plenty of runway. Do you have any questions?”

You can’t even get your mind around the thought. It feels unreal, like you’ve stumbled through a funhouse mirror into some other reality. Director Sasaki takes your silence for agreement and moves on. “We’ll plan to launch in six hours. In that time you will need to initiate a complete data transfer – everything from Station Ultra, in order to allow for proper diagnostics. Begin the procedure by –”

“I’ll do it.” Shigaraki cuts Director Sasaki off. He looks at you. “You’re going to sleep.”

You look at him blankly. Sasaki’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “The procedure is supposed to be completed by the commanding officer.”

“Yeah. Only you want the commanding officer to land the shuttle on an ice sheet in fucking Antarctica in six hours,” Shigaraki says. “The commanding officer’s going to rest until then. I’ll do your data transfer.”

It’s quiet for a second. “You will need to write this down.”

“I need to get a pen.” Shigaraki takes off his headset, takes off yours, and pulls you away from the console, back to the pile of blankets. “Why didn’t you say you weren’t sleeping when it was your turn?”

“You were having a hard time sleeping, too. It didn’t –” You break off as Shigaraki half-lifts you off your feet, then sets you down on the blankets. “I thought you hated zero gravity.”

“It has one or two perks.” Shigaraki pulls the blankets roughly over you, then fumbles in his flightsuit pocket. “Here.”

You find yourself looking at an old-style MP3 player, headphones already plugged in. You tuck one of them into your ear, and Shigaraki presses play. “What am I listening to?”

“The music,” Shigaraki says. You blink at him. “Musica universalis, on a loop. It helps me sleep.

You hear the first of the high, clear notes, reverberating off into infinity, and hide a yawn. “That’s not very restful.”

“It doesn’t need to be restful. It just needs to keep you calm.” Shigaraki tucks the other headphone into your ear without asking first, his roughened fingertips oddly gentle. “That’s what it sounds like in interstellar space. You’d hear it on your trip to Alpha Centauri and back.”

Your throat tightens, even as your eyelids grow heavy. “Get some sleep,” Shigaraki says. You catch his hand as he straightens up, holding on tight, wishing you knew what to say to him. Like you did when they told you about the landing site, you come up empty. The best you can do is give one more squeeze and let go, before you turn your head against a makeshift pillow that smells like him and fall asleep, the sound of space humming in your ears.

You settle into the shuttle’s cockpit, wrapping your gloved hands around the controls and watching the console come to life. You’ve piloted a shuttle up to Station Ultra three times, but this will only be your second reentry, and it’ll be a hell of a reentry. For a split second, you allow it to fill your mind, oozing into every corner of your thoughts, sending shooting pains through your fingers. What they’re expecting you to do is impossible. It can’t be done.

And then you glance sideways, at Shigaraki strapped into the copilot’s seat. The instant the shuttle detaches from Station Ultra, his fate is out of his hands and firmly in yours. He looks scared enough on his own. He doesn’t need to see it from you, too.

You take a deep breath, then let it go. “Walk me through the preflight checklist.”

Mission Control is in Director Tatsuma’s hands at the moment. One of her proteges takes you through it, system by system – propulsion, shielding, navigation, life-support, everything coming up positive. The satellite photos of the heat shield revealed a few tiny abnormalities, nothing that should cause trouble. Then again, there shouldn’t be viruses floating around in space.

Something occurs to you, and in the middle of a stir of the oxygen tanks, you find yourself laughing. “What?” Shigaraki demands. “What’s funny?”

“The virus,” you say. Shigaraki looks at you like you’re out of your mind. “It’s an extraterrestrial. We found the first alien.”

“From a research perspective, this was a very fruitful trip,” one of the ensigns pipes up. “The first confirmed contact with alien life, the first recordings of Shigaraki phenomena –”

Shigaraki coughs. “Of what?”

“And the first loss of a space station, Ensign Hado. Read the room,” Director Sasaki says severely. “All systems are go. Were you able to come up with a commemoration to share as you depressurize the modules?”

“Um, High Flight is traditional,” you say. “But it’s religious, and not everybody’s religious, so – I have a different one. Should I use that?”

“Can you deliver it while completing the depressurization sequence?”

“Yes.”

“Then begin the sequence with Module Five.”

Module Five was the dormitory module. Five of your crewmates died there. You blow the airlock and speak. “We never know how high we are, til we are called to rise.” Module One is next. You avert your eyes. “And then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the skies –”

You blow Modules Three and Four next, sending Station Ultra into a calculated spin. In the seat next to you, Shigaraki closes his eyes, his jaw clenched. “The heroism we recite,” you continue, blowing the airlock on Module Six, “would be a daily thing; did not ourselves the cubits warp –”

Module Two. “For fear to be a king.” You squeeze your eyes shut, thinking of your crew, dead in the atmosphere, lost to the void. How they kept fighting, kept studying, until the very end. “Depressurization sequence complete.”

“Detach.”

“Detaching in three – two – one.” You disengage the seal between the shuttle’s airlock and the command module, pitch the nose of the shuttle down, and let the stolen momentum from the station’s spin carry you down towards the atmosphere. “Departing high orbit. Any updates to the trajectory?”

“Not as yet, but owing to the uniqueness of the landing site, a pilot who had the opportunity to fly the route in the simulator will –”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Shigaraki mumbles.

You glance over at him and see him taking his helmet off. “If you don’t put that back on right now, I’m going to –”

“Trouble in paradise?” A familiar voice comes in over the intercom, and your frustration with Shigaraki takes an instant backseat. “Long time no see, airhead.”

“Not long enough, birdbrain,” you mutter, and Hawks chuckles into the mic. “Flew this in the simulator, did you?”

“Easy as pie, at least for me,” Hawks says. If you make it through this, you’re going to beat him to death with his helmet. “But don’t you worry, Dr. Shigaraki. You’re in good hands with Airhead here. Second in our class at the Flight Academy. Want to guess who was first?”

“We tied,” you snap, over the sound of Shigaraki gagging into an airsickness bag. Neither of you have enough food in your stomachs to really vomit. “You’re not first just because they called our names in alphabetical order. Do you want to talk shit or beta this trajectory?”

“We can talk shit when you land,” Hawks agrees. “Okay. Your current angle looks good. On the count of five, initiate a two-second burn from your starboard engine. Five – four – three – two – one –”

You trigger the burn, your grip on the controls as relaxed as you can make it, and the shuttle dips sideways. The flight roughens almost immediately, rattling the entire cockpit as you brush against the atmosphere, then skip off again. “Ooh, okay. It looks like you’re not in the atmosphere yet,” Hawks says. You can’t tell if he’s mimicking the flight simulator’s voice or not, but you’re still going to kill him when you get back. “Let’s do another burn – two seconds, both engines –”

The shuttle’s left wing dips into the atmosphere without being repelled, and you feel the lurch as gravity takes hold and pulls. “Autopilot will do the rest,” Hawks says. “Nice and easy.”

It’s not. The shuttle’s too light – too light for gravity to pull you the rest of the way in, and the longer you spend in the atmosphere, the more likely it is that something will go wrong with the heat shield. The cockpit is heating up way too fast. “I’m doing another burn. Both engines.”

“The autopilot said –”

“It’s not flying this mission,” you snap. There’s a reason shuttles aren’t flown completely on autopilot. Autopilot can’t adapt. “I am. If we stay in here any longer, the virus isn’t the only thing that’s going to cook. Burn in three – two – one –”

It works this time. The shuttle leaves space behind and plunges into the thermosphere, and the cockpit rattles and heats up, growing hotter and hotter with every nanosecond that passes. It’s killing the virus, you remind yourself. You’re in a shuttle with a heat shield, but the virus is clinging to the hull, and it’ll be destroyed. Reentry always feels like hell, anyway. Somehow it’s so much worse when you know you’re almost home.

Shigaraki’s got his helmet back on, finally. You can hear his ragged breathing over the comms. Is he conscious? “Stay with me, Shigaraki. This part is normal.”

“This part blows,” Shigaraki mumbles through clenched teeth. “Tomura.”

“Hmm?”

“My name is Tomura.” He’s slumping sideways in his chair, limp against the restraints, his speech slurring. “Call me that.”

“Okay, you got it. Tomura.” You feel a brief twinge of embarrassment that you didn’t think to ask his given name before you hooked up with him. “If I call you Tomura, are you going to stay awake? I really need you to stay awake. We’re going to lose comms with Mission Control in a second here and I don’t want to do this alone.”

Hawks chooses that moment to break in. “You were right about the burn, but you’re coming in way too fast. Hit the brakes.”

“I can’t do that. I need the parachutes for the landing.” You take your eyes off the windscreen for a split second to check your position on the map. “If I cut momentum right now, we won’t make it to the landing zone.”

“And if you don’t cut speed, you’ll pancake into the ice at Mach 10!”

“If I hit the water and there’s virus left on the hull, that’s it. For everyone!” You hate the way your voice pitches up, cracks. “I’m getting to Antarctica, Hawks. One way or another.”

Hawks starts to say something else, but the comms cut off in a static flatline, just like they’ve done at this point on every reentry you’ve flown. It’s the first normal thing that’s happened on this flight, and it hits you like a splash of cold water across the back of your neck. This is a reentry flight. You studied this at the academy. What does a pilot do on reentry to cut altitude and gradually reduce speed? There has to be something. Somewhere –

The answer occurs to you, in the same moment as Shigaraki stirs in his seat beside you. “Hey,” you say quickly, keeping your voice calm. “Welcome back.”

“Are we there yet?” Shigaraki’s voice blurs. “Is it over?”

“We’re through the atmosphere,” you admit, “but we’ve got a problem. I don’t know how much you heard, but –”

“Too fast.” Shigaraki sits up with an effort. His expression is grim through his helmet’s visor. “Either we crash into the ice and kill ourselves, or crash into the ocean and kill everybody else.”

“Or we land on the icesheet and everybody lives.” You reach for the control panel and start making the adjustments, ignoring the alarms that sound. “There’s a way to land this shuttle.”

“How?” Shigaraki’s hands clamp down tightly on the armrests. “If we were going to die anyway, we should have stayed up there.”

“Why?” you ask. You check your trajectory one last time, then kill the engines. “It wasn’t worth it to try to get home?”

“Maybe. Except –” Shigaraki peels one hand off the armrest and clamps it down over his mouth as you put the shuttle into a gentle bank. “Don’t ask. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I need to cut our speed, but if I deploy the parachutes now, I won’t have them to slow us down during the actual landing. So I’m going to slow us down the old-fashioned way. Like a glider.” You can tell that none of what you’re saying makes sense to Shigaraki. You keep talking anyway, adjusting the controls to create a gentle turn. “In the academy they make us study all kinds of aviation accidents. There were a couple where the aircraft lost both engines and had to descend and land without them. One time a flight crew landed a plane on a river like that and everybody got out alive.”

You can tell Shigaraki’s getting nauseous. Then again, you’re flying the shuttle like you’re going down an endless set of switchbacks, trimming speed by fractions on each one. “You’re the physics guy. Tell me what will happen if I burn enough momentum on the descent.”

“If I open my mouth I’ll hurl.” Shigaraki speaks through clenched teeth. If you actually succeed in landing this thing, he’ll wind up with the worst tension headache in history. “You know what you’re doing. Keep talking.”

You keep talking, narrating your bizarre flight pattern as the shuttle travels around the world once, then again, spiraling down with painful slowness. If this was a normal flight, you’d have hit your landing site already, and space shuttles aren’t designed with long-term atmospheric flight in mind. But just because they aren’t designed for it doesn’t mean they’re incapable of it. You’re not putting this thing through any ridiculous maneuvers. Just curving gently down, one S-turn after another, letting physics and gravity take care of the rest. Pilots before you have done this and lived. Pilots after you will do it and survive, too. You just hope none of them have to do it in a shuttle.

When you drop out of the upper atmosphere, gentle flight goes out the window. You’re still coming down fast, and your landing site is approaching. One more trip around the world and you’ll be there, and if you don’t land then, you won’t have enough altitude to make another rotation. You bring the engines back gently, get ready to pull the brakes. “This is it,” you tell Shigaraki. You risk the smallest glance his way. He’s pale, his brow furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’ve got this. It’ll be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.” You check your speed and your stomach lurches. Mission Control had better have given you the longest runway in aviation history. You complete a final S-curve, as long and winding as possible, then line yourself up. “Deploying landing gear.”

The landing gear won’t survive contact with the ice, but you don’t need it to; you just need the extra drag it’ll provide. Brakes next, starting out slow, then pushing harder by the second as your airspeed indicators begin to drop. You don’t even want to think about how fast you’re descending. The ground rushes up to meet you, and the ground proximity alarm starts to sound. TERRAIN. TERRAIN. PULL UP. “I can see it,” you snap at nothing. “Shut up.”

You’re not slow enough yet. You deploy the parachutes while you’re still in the air, and all at once you’re wrestling with the controls, diverting all power to hydraulics in order to maintain a steady flight. “Brace,” you order, like you’re a flight attendant on a plane that’s about to crash with no survivors. “Any second –”

The initial impact jars every bone in your body, and the next is just the same. The shuttle is acting like a skipping stone, touching down and bouncing up, and you already deployed the chutes. As if the bouncing’s not enough, every touchdown brings a series of jolts as the landing gear makes contact with the uneven terrain. You hit the brakes, pitch the nose of the shuttle ever so slightly up, and slam the back wheels down so hard that they crumple like a tin can.

Control’s going to kill you for how much damage you’re doing to the shuttle, but you can feel the drag reducing. Your skipping-stone maneuver devolves into a long skid across the ice, slowing by degrees, as you scan the horizon through the windscreen. No sign of the ocean. As far as you can see, there’s only ice.

Your console chimes, and you take a look at the indication. Hysterical laughter spills out of your mouth. “What?” Shigaraki asks. “Did we crash?”

“No,” you say, although you’re pretty sure the shuttle techs are going to disagree. “You’ll be interested to know that we’ve reached appropriate landing speed.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Shigaraki says, and you laugh harder. “We’re landing?”

“Landed,” you say. The shuttle bobs up once more, and you drop the nose down for a final time, planting it firmly into the ice. “Sorry. Now we’re landed.”

You cut the engines, open the comms channel to establish contact with Control, and start going through your post-flight checklist. Beside you, Shigaraki unbuckles his seat. “I’d stay down if I were you,” you say, knowing he won’t listen. “It’ll be just –”

He drapes himself over the back of your seat, his helmet knocking against yours. The move would startle you if you had any nerves left. As it is, you’re just bemused. “What are you doing?”

“If we died up there, we’d have died like this.” Shigaraki’s arms come up around you, holding on tight. “You’re not getting out of it just because we lived.”

“If that’s how it’s going to be, you owe me a date,” you say. You depressurize the cabin, taking off your helmet the instant there’s outside air to breathe. Shigaraki takes his off, then presses his face into the side of your neck in a way that makes your face heat up. “At least one.”

“That landing of yours took ten years off my life. You own me ten.”

Before you can argue back, the comms squawk to life. “This is Mission Control. Do you read?”

“We read, birdbrain,” you say, and Hawks laughs. You can hear cheering in the background, and you’ve been at Control during enough reentries to picture the scene perfectly. “You blew your landing site by a thousand kilometers, but we’ve got your position. Welcome back to Earth.”

“A drone is on its way to scan the hull for evidence of the virus,” Director Sasaki says into the microphone. “Once we’ve confirmed its absence, our extraction team will come to retrieve you.”

“In the meantime, sit tight,” Director Tatsuma says. There’s a pause. “Well done, Commander. That was quite a landing.”

“We made it,” you say. Your hands are shaking on the controls, and you pull them away. The instant they’re clear, Shigaraki grabs one, peeling it out of its glove. “That’s good enough.”

Tatsuma signs off, after instructing you to run a diagnostic and transmit the results, and you key in the command one-handed. Shigaraki’s got your other one pressed against his face. His skin is warm, his lips dry and cracked. His voice is muffled when he speaks. “I knew you could do it.”

“Yeah?” Your hand is shaking, no matter how you try to hold it still. Shigaraki presses it harder against his cheek. “How?”

“You promised.” Shigaraki’s voice is matter-of-fact, even if it’s rattling just as badly as yours. You give it a few more minutes before one or both of you goes into shock. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know.” There’s never been a mission like this in human history. You hope it never happens again. “Thanks for trusting me to get us home.”

This time, the pressure of Shigaraki’s mouth against your hand can’t be called anything but a kiss. “Any time.”

“I have good news, and I have news,” Yamada, the space program’s PR director, says from the other side of the glass. “Which one do you want first?”

You and Tomura glance at each other. “News,” you say, and Tomura’s grip on your hand tightens. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll start with the good news,” Yamada says, and Tomura rolls his eyes. “The good news is that you guys are cleared. You’re getting out of quarantine tonight, and there’s a hell of a welcoming party waiting for you. Your family’s here – and your friends, Dr. Shigaraki – and they’re hyped to see you.”

“Finally,” Tomura mutters. He won’t let you call him Dr. Shigaraki, or even just Shigaraki – it’s his name or nothing. “What’s the news?”

“The news is that there’s going to be press everywhere,” Yamada says, and sighs. “We’ve been beating them off with a stick, but we’ve been ordered to host a press conference, and they’re going to want to hear from you. I need to prep you for the kind of questions they’ll ask.”

“Go for it,” you say. Yamada grimaces. “What?”

“The media loves a narrative,” Yamada says. “The coverage of the Station Ultra disaster has been wall-to-wall for weeks, and so far, the only narrative they’ve been able to spin is a horror story. Which is what it is. It’s the worst loss of life in the history of spaceflight, and it was nothing anyone was prepared for. Things have been pretty dark. They want something else. And unfortunately, that something else is you.”

Tomura makes a face. You’re pretty sure you’re making the same one. “What does that mean?”

“If there’s anything redeemable about the mission, it’s attached to you two,” Yamada says. “The discovery of Shigaraki phenomena –”

“Stop calling it that,” Tomura says. “It sounds stupid.”

“It’s tradition, as far as I understand it. New stuff is named after the person who discovered it,” Yamada says. “There’s that, and then there’s that crazy landing the commander here pulled off. They’ve had pilots in simulators all around the world trying to copy that landing. Nobody’s been able to do it.”

“Because it was luck,” you say. Tomura elbows you. “It was. Any pilot will tell you that. I know how to fly, but I got lucky. All of this was us getting lucky.”

“We didn’t make it because we’re special or something,” Tomura says. “It could have been any of others, too.”

“I know,” Yamada says. “Everybody does, but nobody likes thinking about it. Like I said, they want their narrative, and they’re building it with or without you. You and me and everybody else in the program knows it was luck – mostly – but the media’s decided it was fate. The media likes a hero. The only thing they like better than a hero is a love story.”

“No,” you say at once. “They can’t make this about us. It’s not about us.”

“It’s not their fucking business,” Tomura says. “And they’re wrong about it.”

That’s news to you. “What?”

“It didn’t happen during the lockdown,” Tomura says. He’s glaring at Yamada through the glass at first. Then he looks to you. “I liked you before that. I was at the command module that night because I wanted to talk to you.”

His face always flushes awkwardly when he talks about his feelings, but he never backs off of it. It always gives you butterflies. “You still haven’t told me what you wanted to talk about. Are you going to?”

“I don’t need to,” Tomura says. “You already know.”

You smile in spite of yourself. Tomura’s eyes stay locked on yours, and you’re conscious of his hand in yours, his leg pressed against your own. You were in two separate chairs, but he dragged yours alongside his before you’d even sat down. On the other side of the glass, Yamada clears his throat. “You guys aren’t exactly beating the love story allegations here.”

Tomura’s face flushes worse than before. You look away with an effort. “What are they planning to ask about – us?”

“Like I said, they’ve already made up the story. They’ll just be looking for confirmation,” Yamada says. You grimace. “If you get a nosy one – I’ll try to avoid calling on those ones – they’ll ask you to elaborate. Don’t lie. The transcripts from the command module were made public, so they’ll call you out.”

Your stomach lurches. “Wait, all the transcripts?”

“No,” Yamada says. “You know the rules about documenting a mission. No filming in the bathroom, during a medical exam, or impromptu hookups in the command module. That got deleted on-sight. But there’s enough context in everything else for them to nail you two to the wall if you try to lie about it.”

The flush in Tomura’s face is slow to fade. “What else are they going to ask?”

“About what’s next for you two,” Yamada says. “If I were you, I’d work out an answer.”

He goes over the rest of the questions – lots of stuff about the mission for you, lots of stuff about his research for Tomura, things the two of you could talk about in your sleep. Then he leaves, and you and Tomura step away from the glass, retreating further into the quarantine unit. You’re still trying to catch up on sleep, so you climb back into the bed, which you haven’t made since the first time you turned it down. Tomura climbs in next to you without asking first.

Originally they were going to put you in separate quarantine units, but then they decided that they only wanted to risk contaminating one. It’s the size of a small apartment, ordinarily cramped for two, but compared to the command module it’s basically a penthouse. You and Tomura have all the space you could possibly need, if you wanted it. But you don’t.

You thought you and Tomura would be sick of each other after three weeks in close proximity, but the opposite’s happened. You feel better when you’re close to him, feel better knowing where he is, which works out pretty well with Tomura’s clinginess. You’ve felt okay here, with him. Not needing to go anywhere or do anything. Just being together, seeing what works, searching for something that doesn’t. So far, there’s nothing. There’s so much nothing that you’re dreading walking away.

He asked the question after you landed the shuttle, so it’s your turn now. “What happens now?”

“Press conference.”

“What about after that?” you ask. “If this is a thing, Tomura – you live in Japan. I live here.”

“Long-distance won’t work,” Tomura says, and your heart sinks. “I’ll move my lab.”

You roll over to stare at him, and Tomura looks back, like what he just said isn’t a little insane. “People are interested in my work. I’ve gotten formal offers from every research university with an astrophysics department. The offer from the one near here was pretty good. They aren’t even going to make me teach.”

“You don’t like teaching?” You fake surprise, and Tomura snorts. “If you’ve got offers from everywhere, you should go where you want to go. I don’t want to hold you back. I don’t want us to hold each other back.”

“Sure.” Tomura shrugs. “But you’re going to be around here, too, aren’t you? They’re making you an instructor at the flight academy.”

You wince. “How did you find out?”

“Read your mail. It was open already.” Tomura shrugs again, and you shove him lightly. “I’ll move my lab. You’ll teach meatheads how to fly. It’ll be fine.”

“Your friends are in Japan –”

“And they work in my lab,” Tomura says. “If I move my lab, they’re coming, too.”

This is what you want. Exactly what you want. And it seems a little too easy. “Are you sure?” When he nods, you speak up again, your voice wavering. “How?”

“I thought we were dead up there. And I didn’t have a job to do like you did. So I had time to think about stuff while I was staring out into the void.” Tomura closes the distance between the two of you, crawling halfway on top of you and burrowing into your shoulder the way he does when he doesn’t want you to see his face. “The universe is so big that human minds can’t comprehend it, and the space between habitable worlds is enormous, and entropy’s ripping the whole thing apart – and there’s fuck all we can do about it. There’s always going to be fuck all we can do about it.”

This is why you never learned about astrophysics. “That’s dark.”

“No shit.” Tomura’s voice is muffled. “I realized that there was something I could do about it. Up there, or down here. Anywhere. I get to choose if entropy wins – not for the universe, just for me. I’m not letting it win. So I’ll find a way to keep the things I want together.”

There’s something a little absurd about him, something you’ve grown fond of. Maybe fond is understating it. “You’re going to fight the laws of the universe.”

“Yeah. And win.” Tomura settles against you, a contented sigh exiting his mouth as your fingers wind through his hair. “Say what you want. If the reporters ask me, that’s what I’m telling them.”

“We’re definitely not beating the love story accusations if you tell them that.”

“Never said I wanted to.” Tomura’s voice is starting to blur into sleep. If you close your eyes, the two of you are going to nap like this straight through the press conference. “If your apartment doesn’t allow dogs, we’ll have to get a new one.”

Now you’re moving in together. It makes as much sense as anything else about this, which is to say it doesn’t. In some ways it feels like you never left orbit, or like you never landed the shuttle – everything is surreal, hard to believe. But you remember Tomura’s music of the spheres brushing against your eardrums, impossible to imagine and impossible to refute. You don’t have to believe. All you have to do is trust what you can see and hear and feel. And that’s him.

For a little while the thought is peaceful. Then something else pierces through it, something you can’t hold in. “I’m still a pilot,” you say. “They’re making me an instructor, and I can’t fly until my psych evals come up clean, but once they do – the program’s down two pilots. They’re going to send me up again.”

It’ll be a while. Right now the mechanics department is designing drones that can repair Station Ultra, outlining a system that will eliminate the need for spacewalks, but it’ll be a long time before it’s ready. Not long enough, though. You’re a long time from mandatory retirement. You’ll fly again. And when you do – “I’ll go with you,” Tomura says. “I still have work to do up there. And I’m not flying with anybody else.”

He yawns. “Deal?”

“Deal,” you say, and when you kiss him, you let yourself believe.

<- part 1

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