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freeluigihesbae · 6 months ago

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𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 (𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖) - 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏

(5,534 words)

summary:

You and Luigi are coworkers for TrueCar, but you've never met in person. You've been flirting around on Slack and exchanging messages as of recent, which seems to become an invitation for him to entire your life. And body.

He accepts and soon, you do too.

𝗍𝗐: 18+ !! 𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝗈𝗆!𝗅𝗎𝗂𝗀𝗂, 𝗌𝗎𝖻!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋/𝗌𝗎𝖻!𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝗎𝖻𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁

TrueCar was the best thing that happened to you. You'd moved from the east to the west coast after attending both your undergrad and graduate years of schooling at Stanford and finally decided that California was the place for you. The weather was fine other than the earthquakes, wildfires, and other disasters hitting the state but you simply ignored them all. As a Computer Science major, jobs were becoming harder rather than easier to find. Your degree was no longer a scarcity but then...

then TrueCar happened. The position was hybrid - both work in-person and virtual - which would come to show how they were far ahead of their time and unknowingly prepared for the pandemic that was going to erupt in a year's time. The main form of communication was Slack, which really was a professionally themed copycat of Discord, but no mind. Everything you did and said was posted and discussed in the several channels that constantly pinged your phone as the app became your new source of corporate social media. You managed to make friends in your new team, having video-calls and occasional meet-ups at nearby bars when time-permitted. In-person was fine but working from home was really the best thing you could ask for.

A few months pass and you see the news about the pandemic. The president is waving his hands in a downward motion, saying everything will be fine, but the coming weeks seem to disprove it. The case numbers are rising and your company decides to go fully virtual, whether this becomes a serious issue or not.

Thank god because you could definitely need it. At the same time, it seems like the company was undergoing re-arrangement which meant everyone had to switch around with team members and projects that they were working on. It seemed cruel, in a way, that they were trying to compensate for the comfort they gave by dipping employees into new arenas on short notice.

But little did you know it would be the best thing that could ever happen to you.

❧

Today is the biggest meeting of the company because you just got approached by one of the biggest car retailers in the world and they want to implement a new program to make vehicles more affordable. They'd be giving away thousands of cars to be exclusively sold on Truecar's website, and you were in charge of convincing them why Truecar was the best option for it.

"Ladies and gentleman, thank you for joining us today. On behalf of TrueCar, we are incredibly honored to have your time and interest in pursuing the deal you have proposed to us. It is my understanding that our consistent increase in sales is what convinced you to approach us, is that correct?" You ask with a brightness in your voice, desperate to get this deal under your belt.

"Absolutely. We were, are, and continue to be pleased with how well your company advertises the use of second-hand and lower priced cars in order to increase the market and frankly, decrease the stigma around it. Cars are cars and as a car company, we are in the business to sell." A man's voice responds in confidence and an undertone of I'm impressed to go alone with it. It makes you smile as your bright teeth are on display for all of the stakeholders, company employees, and members of the interested party to see.

"That's wonderful. The increase in sales that you are seeing are impressive, but I believe it's our methods which are better than the results. The way we have approached sales includes elements of morality and passion. We want to give our customers the best cars for the best price, but we never forget the need to make money. We have and continue to strike a delicate balance which has benefitted our company." You pause, allowing pride to swell in your chest as you click to the next slide, which has a bunch of graphics you spent hours understanding with the help of the responsible parties who made them.

"These graphics are based heavily on the cost-benefit principle. To give a little more background, we use microeconomics to understand our customer because the fundamental exchange or our country's currency starts and continues in the hands of the people. How do we approach the company from a consumer perspective? We did several surveys and found..." You continue with your speech, going through each and every graphic while answering questions that pop-up every now and then, until you get to one specific graphic.

Luigi Mangione's.

He was one of the brightest employees at TrueCar and had a stellar reputation amongst everyone, but strangely enough, you never got the time to know him like everyone else did. But, since re-organization happened, this project was practically catapulted into your face. You found out it was being done in several parts through terrible communication and had to message nearly every single employee (200 private conversation would make a case for this statement, even if it isn't true) and one of them was Luigi Mangione. He responded in haste and detail which was exactly what you needed during such a hectic time. He had volunteered several hours of his time over the past three weeks, hopping onto Slack calls and Zoom meetings whenever you requested them. You can't find a single time when he said no which made you wonder if he was even doing his work.

Of course he was! That's why he was given his project too.

Let's not forget, you are totally into him. That was the worst part because you knew he must've had so many other girls pining after him, probably shooting him meetings and asking questions like dumb blondes would and trying to waste his time. You can't help but indulge in his features and his face every night, wondering what it would be like if...

Back to business.

You land on his graphic which was the most complex and detailed, but highlighted the best of the best points about the company which you knew would make the executives before you swoon. It was a fun experiment and session where you could prove to him that you totally got it.

"This is one of the most important points that we have here. We have a table showing you all a hypothetical scenario in which, it would seem like Option A is the best answer for our first question. But in our second questions, Option B seems more suitable. What you are seeing here is the framing effect, which several if not all companies use to dupe and cheat money out of consumers. We take that out. We cut through the bushes and give customers details that they can read with simplicity in order to make the best decision because buying a car is one of the most expensive purchases someone can make. When we treat our consumers with the respect they deserve, they'll give us the business back. They'll invest in not just the website or the cars, but in us." You speak in smooth, complex sentences which unravel simplicity with skill. You're praying that Luigi is watching, perhaps smiling and impressed, because your eyes are forced to stay trained on the screen in front of you and analyze the graphic like you haven't done so already. You add a few more details before ending and opening up the room to questions.

A few hands go up and you answer them like 1+1 was being thrown at you a hundred times. Your answers are filled with expertise and you make the best impression, getting well wishes and successfully landing a deal which is going to take your company to new heights.

The meeting ends and you let out a sigh of relief before getting flooded with congratulatory messages and hundreds of mentions in the, well, hundreds of channel that you are apart of. Everyone is cheering you on and it makes you smile, but you're really waiting for one specific message.

And it finally comes.

Luigi Mangione: Hey that was a grt presentation. You aced my graphic I'm so impressed.

The message nearly sends you over the edge as you squeal embarrassingly loud, trying to contain your excitement and surprise? Because wow, even you didn't know you were this into him.

You: omgggg thxxx ur so sweet 💘

You add the emoji for your own satisfaction, hoping cupid gets the message across to the man you're keening over right now.

Luigi Mangione: Ugh so cute. Slack call? Do you have a few?

You heart jumps. Did he just call you cute and THEN propose a call? You're rushing to the mirror to do a few fix-ups but thanks to your preparation for the meeting that just happened, you were looking smoking hot to talk business with Luigi.

And maybe, something more.

You don't answer and instead, press the video call icon at the top right, waiting for him to pick up. You turn your camera on while graciously using the time he takes to pick up to stare at his profile picture. His thick eyebrows and sharp nose draw you in like you'd seen him for the first time. His smile was disgustingly charming and-

He picks up. His face pops up on the screen as he gives a wave.

"Hey there." He does his infamous eyebrow raise before laughing out loud and you giggle back.

"Stop, oh my god. I couldn't have done nearly as well if you and so many others hadn't spent hours explaining this to me. The credit goes to you guys." You say, but your eyes and glued to the side of the screen where he's sitting back in his chair, upper torso in display as he is in a short sleeved compression t-shirt. Talk about details and noticing them at the wrong time.

"You talked to others?" Luigi folds his hands and you think you're going to have an orgasm right there. Fuck, the veins are popping up softly under his skin and you're thinking to yourself one hell of a reward would having his biceps around your neck. He seems to catch you staring.

"Hey pretty. Heard me?" Luigi smirks and you snap out of your trance before staring right into your camera.

"Y-Yeah I had to talk to like, 20 other people. You know, like Josh, Andrew, Ashley, and-" You stop, feeling yourself get stressed just having to think about the gruesome three weeks where you had to sit and listen to everyone explain while taking notes furiously. Your fingers would often hurt after these session, which wouldn't be helped by your everyday ministrations having orgasms, screaming Luigi's name and having terribly dirty fantasies that you wish he could fulfill.

Dreams.

"I wouldn't think the explained things as well as I did, did they?" There's a streak of something in his eyes, which darken when he asks his question. Is it jealousy or pride? You're trying to figure it out but he quickly replaces it with a smile.

"No Luigi. They didn't. They didn't at all." You answer back before giving him a wink, feeling bold at what you just saw in his eyes. He finds himself surprised, as his hands slowly rub his triceps and god...

He knows exactly what he's doing. Your eyes are following their movement, taking note of his long fingers which you just wished were inside of your right now.

"Oh I know." Luigi says and your eyebrows furrow.

"What do you mean?" You ask, intrigued by his statement. His eyes go wide before you chuckles out.

"Can't a man be confident in his abilities m'lady?" He asks, a seductive voice intertwined with his question. You gulp before giving him a smile.

"Yes can do my knight in shining armor." You answer cheekily and this time, he winks at you.

"I'm getting pinged by my team. Talk to you later after your pilates at 6." He states this with amusement in his voice but you feel your heart drop.

Because you do have pilates at 6.

"W-Wait how do you know that?" You ask, unable to stop the stutter that makes it's way past your lips. Your smile is at half-mast now, unable to decipher whether this man was just great at guessing or he really knew your schedule.

"Women are predictable. I'd assume you are too?" Luigi smirks before you get a chance to answer. "Does that work?" He asks, tapping his fingers across his abdomen expecting an answer. You let your eyes linger there for a second too long before giving a soft yes and that does it for him.

He puts the phone down and you're left with thinking about how time can go faster, simply waiting for him to call you back.

❧

Pilates couldn't get done any faster, as you had your weekly catch up session with your friend, Bea. She knew everything about Luigi and she was a trusted companion since her type was different.

Entirely different.

It was actually women.

"Oh my god Bea you wouldn't believe it. He told me I was fucking cute after the meeting and somehow, he knew I had pilates at 6." You're walking out of the glass doors, as Bea sighs behind you.

"You know this guy could show up at your apartment unannounced and you'd let him fuck you." Bea snorts and you giggle, letting the thought sear through your core.

"You know I think I would. I wouldn't complain at all." You emphasize the all at the end of your sentence because you have to admit, you were a less innocent than your face cared to show. You liked the idea of him thinking about you when you weren't looking and although it might've been scary, you wouldn't mind if he fucked you senseless.

You actually needed it really badly.

Bea can see how gone you are in your thoughts about him, so she gives a shake and a quick bye before you return it, walking over to your car. You start the engine, steeling yourself and clearing your thoughts so you can drive home safely and call him as soon as possible.

Finally, your car gets into the driveway and the exhaustion from your pilates session scurries away into the dark corners of the world (your car?) and you hurry inside, slamming your door shut and locking it before throwing your shoes off and making your way up the stairs.

You're about to call Luigi on Slack, maybe send a message asking for his number before an unknown number sends you a message.

Unknown: Hey there.

Something about it feel strangely familiar, like how Luigi had addressed you in your earlier Slack call. Normally, you never respond to unknown messages but this one...

this one really drew you in, making something of an obligatory pull bloom inside of you. You slowly type a hey, who's this? back and hit send. To your surprise, the response comes quicker than you'd imagined.

Unknown: Luigi

You swallow hard, pulse beating against your sensitive spot on your throat a little faster. You didn't actually think it would be Luigi, but hey, all is fine. Maybe a coworker gave your number, you think, but it still doesn't sit right because in the time you've been with the company, you only ever gave them your second work number... not your personal.

You: Funny. How'd you get this number?

Luigi: A coworker.

So far, you buy it. You ignore the gut feeling and suppose that it must've slipped and spread across your coworkers at some point since the most recent project had several overlaps with other team members you worked with in the past.

You: So..

Luigi: So...? Do you want to keep typing or can I hear that pretty voice of yours?

He did not.

You: We can call how about you call me this time? I was nice enough to ring you this morning. You end the message, hitting send and smirking.

Luigi: We don't have to call if you don't want to.

Ugh, mean. Was it really that hard to press the call symbol? You wanted to hear his voice though, so you give in and ring him yet again.

The line is going through and you put your stuff down, opening your fridge to heat up some leftovers from earlier last night. You rummage through your stuff, trying to look for that orange-lidded box but it's nowhere to be found. The line is still ringing, so you put the phone down and walk around your kitchen, wondering if you were stupid enough to leave it outside. Nowhere. You check the trash, empty. You're scratching your head at this point and you finally walk over to the sink and to your horror, it was licked clean with remanants of the food on the side with the fork still inside. Luigi's voice scares you at the same time and you jump.

"Hey there." He says, in the same tone he had this morning. You can hear his smile but your breathing is too heavy as your back is pressed against the cool fridge. You swallow the saliva before stepping forward and picking up the phone on her island.

"Jesus, you scared me Luigi." You say, half-focused on him while you're trying to figure out why your leftover tupperware is in the sink. It's making you feel unsettled.

"I don't think I'm a scary person. Is everything alright?" His voice is laced with concern now and you feel yourself calming down, explaining the situation.

"Y-Yeah I'm fine I'm just confused because my leftovers are in the sink and I'm starting to think I sleep eat now." You answer him with amusement and he gives a deep, heart laugh back. It sounds hot, you note, thinking about what it would be like if his voice was in your ear right now. You still can't help but turn around and glance at the box.

"Must be a good cook. I know I'm a sucker for some good Thai food." He breathes it out with the same amusement in your tone and this time, you feel a shiver down your back. Your leftovers were a pad see eu takeout from your favorite Thai restaurant and his answer seemed a little too close for comfort.

"Are you?" You ask, darting your eyes around the room because it's not feeling so comfortable in the house anymore.

"Yeah. Wouldn't you say we have a lot in common?" His voice a bit more stern now but he's asking her with innocence you can't tell whether is real or feigned.

"Like what?" You keep your question curt like the last, slowly walking into the living room and checking the sides and corners to make sure no-one is there. No-one is. You sit down on the couch, trying to control your heart rate.

"Like how we both like Thai food. That's a good start." Luigi answers with surety in his voice and the air feels thinner now.

"I never told you that, so how do you know?" You try to maintain your composure but your voice starts to shake.

"Now I do. Thanks for confirming." Luigi has an irritating attitude in the laugh he lets out.

"I wasn't trying to." You answer, rapid fire. Every sound outside starts to make you jump as you're looking over your shoulder.

"Now, why so jumpy? You seem scared." He teases you, mocking the hesitation in your voice. Your skin is shivering and you're 99% sure someone is watching you.

"I'm not scared Luigi. Just making conversation." You're still talking into the phone, but you slowly get up, making your way upstairs. You know you might regret this, but you have to be absolutely sure because Luigi isn't making you feel too good right now and you're trying your level best to ignore the suspicions your gut is feeding you right now.

"Conversations aren't usually this... high-strung. Are you okay?" Luigi responds, shifting his tone from something dangerous back to concern and you know he's fucking with you. You know this man is trying to screw around with you.

"Great. Great Luigi. You still haven't told me how you know I like Thai food." You snap at him, unable to contain the stress your feeling as your head is spinning.

"I wouldn't be so rude if I were you, baby." The name slips from his tongue and you freeze. Something hot blazes across your skin as you realize you like that. You want that. You've been wanting it and finally, you just got it.

It doesn't clash to well with your increasing heart rate because if anything, it makes it shoot higher. You let out a sharp exhale.

"You like that don't you?" You stepped into your study room on the top floor, checking the windows to make sure they're locked and opening the doors, squeezing your eyes shut and praying no-one is hiding there. Clear. But his question makes you nearly whimper and you find yourself nodding before you stop, stepping back out of the room and back into the foyer.

"I don't." But it's a lie and you can feel it. You can feel your conscience eating away at you, begging you to tell the truth.

"Don't fuckin' lie." Luigi growls, spite and another emotion dripping across the phone and that's when you hear a creak downstairs.

Fuck.

"I'm not lying Luigi. I don't know what you're trying to do right now." You raise your voice before checking the bathroom quickly and as you wished, nobody is in there. You finally make your way down the foyer to the very end, feeling your chest tighten as you prepare to step into your bedroom. Your fingers twist around the doorknob and you practically throw it open when you hear another creak downstairs. You shut the door and lock it, running into the closet and climbing into the attic crawlspace.

"I'm just asking questions and you are lying to me." You're terrified now because this isn't the Luigi you are quite used to.

"You're freaking me the fuck out Luigi. That's what's going on." You hear a step on the stairs and throw your hands over your mouth. Someone is in your house and you think you know who.

But you're praying this is all a trick of your mind.

"It's okay to open up, you know. You can trust m-" "Shut the fuck up Luigi." You shout into the phone before cutting the call. The relief washing over you is better than any medicine you've ever taken, you have a newfound confidence as you press your ears against the wall of the crawlspace. You can hear some sounds from outside and birds chirping which is comforting. You wait for ten minutes and when you don't hear anything and your phone, thankfully hasn't rang from Luigi again, you open it up, making your way down into the closet.

You still step into your bedroom with utmost caution, but you can't seem to take it seriously. Your strides become more confident as you open your bedroom door and nearly missing the wave of panic you feel when you see the foyer.

No-one.

You laugh, thinking Luigi was just acting like a creep but you walking to the bathroom, fixing your hair and letting your ponytail loose. Your mind keeps reeling back to the conversation with him, replaying the way he called you baby and it was just too fucking good.

Too bad he didn't call again. You almost missed his voice but the panic was worse, so mostly, you were glad. You walk back into your bedroom, sliding your sweatpants off and realizing your clothes are everywhere, running around in boxer shorts. You manage to grab a fresh pair of pajama pants which you throw onto the bed before taking your shirt off and letting it slip to the floor. You shiver a bit, just left in your bra. Another top catches your eye and you slip it on, appreciating the cropped fleece.

But something raises a red flag.

Earlier, when you entered the room, it was warm. Quite warm, actually, because you had the heater on the entire day to combat the winter weather. It took all but five minutes for that to disappear? You're staring at the window and realize.

The window was open.

Open.

The window was open.

And as if it couldn't get worse, the phone rings and you nearly trip over the clothes on the floor.

It was Luigi.

Your hands are shaking as you let a cry out, hugging yourself. You place the phone up to your ear before sobbing out a Luigi? quietly.

"Yes baby?" His voice is right next to you, behind you in the slightest and you let out a primal scream which is quickly muffled by a strong, unrelenting hand that gets pressed into your mouth, fingers threatening to choke you. You writhe and squirm against the hand but quickly, another arm grabs your neck and turns it to the side.

It's Luigi alright.

"Missed me baby?" His grips your throat tighter and you can't stop the fear driving your arousal past a previous breaking point, feeling heat spread across your body and absolutely relishing the light-headedness his hands were giving

The hand leaves your throat before a slap lands on the side of your thigh. You bend forward, ass brushing against his crotch before placing your hand on the now blooming red print.

"Fuckin' answer me slut." Luigi's voice is dripping with desire, demanding an answer of you. You slowly remove your hand from your thigh, letting it hang in the air as it shakes impossibly hard.

"Y-Yes." You mewl it out and you can hear his breath hitch before his arm is circling around your waist, pushing your head back into place as you face forward. That hand starts to feel around, teasing over your breasts and down your navel. You whimper, letting tears rush out as his cold fingers are playing cruel games with your skin. He flips, suddenly, grabbing a breast and you feel your knees nearly buckle.

"N-No." You attempt to stop him weakly but he just laughs, gripping harder. He does let go after a few choice squeezes, pushing you onto the bed and flipping you around as you face him and you see him in all his glory. His eyebrows are knitted together as you watching eyes swim with desire. His neck is strained, chest heaving as he is trying to restrain every filthy desire he's waiting to hurt and pleasure you with. His arms are flexed, veins pulsing as he waits and waits.

His eyebrows furrow deeper before his lips curve into a nasty, sly smirk.

"No? No? You fucking slut." He grips your throat and this time, takes the liberty of letting it cover the entire diameter. Your eyes go wide as you pull on his single arm, feeling your breathing get harder and harder.

"I don't know why you're lying to me. I've heard you fucking this pretty cunt with these tiny fingers, moaning my name every single night. I've watching this pretty ass," he stop to turns your lower body around and give your ass a nice slap, letting it echo in the room and watching as the pleasure makes you choke out a sound, something akin to a gurgle. He smiles, letting go to let your gasp and take air in before his hands are on your throat again. You feel yourself trying to get out of his grasp, trying to process how in the world he could know you were masturbating to him and why his hands felt so good around your neck. The deprivation was simply delicious and you wanted more.

"I've watched you ass bend over and split into two at pilates. Been watching you everyday for the past few weeks. Been watching you show my ass to everybody else in that class. I've watched men walking by ogle and just the thought of them staring at your makes me wanna-" Luigi groans, palming himself through his sweatpants. His grip on your throat as lightened up, but you dare not move.

"Makes you w-wanna what?" You gulp, wondering what he would say and he stares down at you, cooing at your glossy eyes that stare at him in fear and wonder and an impossible amount of

submission?

"So glad you asked. Makes me wanna hurt you first. Makes me wanna fuck you with my fingers and slap your ass so hard you cry my name out." Luigi fingers trail down to your shorts, sliding in between your legs as your moan, slowly rolling your hips against his fingers. The touch feel electric, sending waves into your core and you can't stop. Your eyes close until you realize his fingers aren't there anymore. You cover your face with your hands, suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of the moment.

But he has other plans.

He grabs both arms, pulling them down with one hand before slapping you across the face with another. You let out a sob, the pain stinging but still making you pulse between your legs. You can tell he knows by the small sighs he lets out, pressing his bulge against it.

"Can feel you pulsing. You little painslut. That's what you are, isn't it baby?" He starts grinding down on you faster and you can't help but let the sensations get to you, struggling to let free of his grasp because you desperately need to thread and grab his hair in yours fingers, but instead he presses down into your stomach, watching you wince at the discomfort.

"If you don't talk I'll make you bitch." God the insults are just perfect, turning on parts of your brain you didn't know exist. You keep silent, indirectly telling him to keep going. His eyes widen before he tears the top off, making you scream.

"What happened to the cunt that was aching for me, hm? What happened to that pretty voice moaned my name when work was over? Where's that pretty body that was arching off the bed every time you came huh?" Luigi slaps your breast and you moan, crying his name out in a harsh exhale which he bends down and drinks up, devouring your mouth with his tongue. You feverishly reciprocate, desperate for his validation and constant touch on you. "Please." You let out a quiet, slutty noise that makes him groan. His fingers thread into your hair which you starts pulling without mercy, adding to the pain by biting into your neck and you think he might tear it off.

"H-Hurts Luigi. It hurts." You are feeling more pain than pleasure, attempting to let him know how you feel but a part of you knows that he won't listen he won't care. He'll do whatever he wants and in the case he does slow down, it'll all be for his benefit.

"You're gonna take it anyways." He flips you around, forcing your body onto all fours and the sensations of the moment make you arch your back, sticking your ass up in the air which he adds to, pushing your neck sideways and down into the bed. You yelp as you feel another hand smoothing over the entirety of your back, going lower and lower until your stomach is nearly touching the bed and your ass is directly on his crotch. "You haven't answered any of my questions and if you don't," you here something click and shake, which you find in the corner of your eye.

A gun.

"I promise I'll make it hurt baby you want me to hurt you?" He's bent his body now, entirely draping himself over your backside and whispering into your ear, juxtaposing the absolute threat with a sweet, honey-glazed voice. You let out a slow breathing before moaning through your words.

"Don't hurt me Lu." You say this, breathing in slowly as you savor every shift in his position, taking in a slightly sharper breath when his hands start roaming around atop your ass. The lack of pressure makes you un-arch your back, taking solace in having space but a hand is back on top, pressing down.

"Move and I'll make you cry." He takes the gun, pressing the cool metal in the space between your legs, feeling yourself impossibly wet as his slow, circling motion imitate his fingers that were on you earlier. "W-What were you asking-" You wanted to be the perfect little girl and answer his questions which have flown out of your mind, but he's pulled the gusset of your underwear to the side and shoved the tip of his gun inside your cunt, watching the juices flow right down and onto the trigger.

"Oh I'll take my sweet time and make sure I get all of my answers." He keens with a soft, soothing the voice that betrays his next motion as he shoves the entire length in, forcing your to clench and sob at the pain.

He wasn't playing games. He was playing you.

part 2

#luigi mangione #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione smut #class consciousness #eat the fucking rich #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #the claims adjuster #deny defend depose #angelluigiposts #luigisexual #um yes i love this man

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spoiled-oatmeal · 2 months ago

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Modern! Mhin Headcanons

Hiya! I keep imagining Modern College Mhin, so I decided I’d write some headcanons with a small fic in the middle. I just got done with all of my finals, so I figured I’d try to keep writing for Mhin. If I were better at writing, I would try to write for the other characters, but Mhin’s the only one that keeps infiltrating my brain. Maybe in the future I’ll be brave and try, but for now, I will continue to feed the Mhin fans. Enjoy!

<0> next

Since we don’t know how old Mhin is in the game right now, I'm saying that they give off the vibes of a tired master’s student.

I think they would most likely be a biomedical science major or something similar.

They got in shape throughout their undergraduate degree, they picked up odd jobs to pay for their tuition, and the jobs would occasionally end with someone getting upset at them, so they have experience with fighting.

They decided to continue working out even after they got a better job as a teacher's assistant on campus, because it gave them something to do besides study, go to class, and work.

I haven’t decided if it makes more sense for them to be a TA for Kuras or just a random professor.

Mhin took the time to figure out both when they have free time and when the gym is the least busy to avoid running into people.

They wouldn’t be a part of many clubs in college, preferring to just get home quickly after class, but they would join an astrology club that only meets occasionally for various space phenomena.

The club would only have a few people in it, and they would just provide refreshments while the club's academic sponsor describes the different phenomena.

Since they’ve never really gotten close to many people in the club, Mhin decided to take MC to one of the meetings to keep Mhin company.

Okay, but like imagine there’s a meteor shower that's visible on campus and Mhin decides to invite you on a date and they bring like a cute blanket with a cat pattern on it and make like small little snacks and warm drinks 🤭.

Mhin’s first meeting with you is similar to their canon introduction, by saving you ♥️… with less killing.

Mhin just got done with a long study session, eager to get home and try to steal some sleep before their morning classes. They live close to campus, so they quickly pack up their computer and study guides and prepare for the walk home. Just as they leave the campus library, they hear a commotion in an alleyway in the direction of their home. They decide to keep their head down and walk past without getting involved, that is, until they hear a cry for help while walking past, and they make eye contact with you. You’re being cornered by two drunk-looking college students, trying to excuse yourself and build some distance. Your yelling for help resulted in them getting more insistent and aggressive. Mhin takes a deep breath and, despite wanting to avoid getting involved, they know they couldn’t sleep well knowing they left someone in that situation.

“Hey, leave them alone,” Mhin yells into the alley.

“What’d you care?” the guy furthest from you replies, “We’re their friends, just makin’ sure they get home safe.”

The look in your eyes told Mhin that that was nowhere near the truth. It had been a while since they had a reason to fight, but they figured a gentle breeze would knock these drunk guys over, so Mhin started to approach. The fight… wasn’t a fight at all, one shove and a punch was all it took. Mhin expected you to run off the moment there was an opening, and they’d never have to talk to you. Imagine their surprise when they turn around, dusting themself off, and see you gaping at them.

“Shouldn’t you know better than to walk alone at night?” Mhin chastises, “You won’t always be lucky enough to have a stranger walking by.”

“I stayed around to thank you, but if all you’re going to do is yell at me, then I’ll just leave.” You turn around with a huff, voice dripping in sarcasm, “Thank you again, my knight in shining armor.”

“Wait!” Mhin grabs your wrist before you can get far, “Just wait, this part of town is dangerous in the daytime, worst at night…” They flush, averting their gaze, “If you're going in the same direction, I can walk you at least part of the way to your home.”

You agree and start walking in silence, every once in a while stealing a few glances at them. Their platinum white hair and the silver accents on their navy hoodie catch the moonlight and make them look almost sparkling. They looked annoyed and bored, and it seemed like the last thing they wanted to do was make small talk, but you refused to have them save you and walk you home without learning anything about them.

“My name’s _____.”

“Mhin.”

Great. This is a very good conversation, and Mhin is a great conversation partner.

“Are you a college student?”

“Yeah.”

It feels almost cruel that they would save you from that situation just to try and kill you with this horrible conversation.

“What do you study?”

“Biomedical science…” There are several moments of silence and they glance at you and sigh, “What’s your major?”

“Oh my god, thank you so much for asking!” you respond filled with sarcasm, and you see them roll their eyes, “I’m a ___ major.”

“Well, this is my place,” you say, stopping at your front door. You turn around and see Mhin tearing off a piece of scrap paper from one of their notebooks in their bookbag and scribbling something down.

“If you insist on putting yourself in danger, then here,” they hand you the paper with a number written down, “It’s my number, I stay late on campus pretty often, and I only live a block away from here, send me a text and I can walk you home.”

“Thank you, and again thank you for helping me, I couldn’t have wished for a better knight to be walking by,” you say, slipping the paper into your pocket.

“Whatever, I just happened to be there,” Mhin says, quickly turning around and heading to their own home.

Mhin’s apartment is a small 1-bed 1-bath with minimal decor and a small front porch.

They don’t like to keep a lot of clutter around, but do have a few knick-knacks that have sentimental value.

The one thing they have an overabundance of in their apartment is soft blankets, especially ones with nice patterns.

Mhin also has a cat that lives with them; it’s a small white cat that they found living under their porch.

The kitten was extremely malnourished and seemed to be abandoned.

Mhin had just finished the last of their undergraduate finals when they found it and decided to take it in.

#mhin x mc #mhin x reader #touchstarved mhin #ts mhin #mhin #touchstarved game #touchstarved headcanons #modern mhin

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warisaracket777 · 4 months ago

Text

smart mouth 1

Part 1 of 2.

❣ Professor! Bucky Barnes x F!student

❣ uni au, F! student is in her 20s (she’s meannnnnn to our boy, I’m trying to write an unlikable FMC ok)

❣ cw: this is just the build-up to a pwp ch. 2, mentions of university tenure system (sorry, I’m in academia), political science (derogatory), crackfic

❣ MDNI

❣ Word Count: 8.1 k

❣ Summary: The last year of your university career is spent figuring out your life and bickering with taking out your anger on a the new professor in your department. Completing your degree feels endlessly tedious amongst the pile of bills and low prospects of career advancement. So maybe you let yourself indulge in a little game of catch-and-release with a handsome professor who falls over his own feet trying to keep up with you. But sooner or later the man cracks.

❣ Author’s Note: heavily inspired by a professor I had in an undergrad class on “human rights in the 20th century.” The professor himself was a bit of a fuckwit, but still reluctantly very nice to me against all effort on my part. I just wanted to make him scream.

I honestly won’t ever watch superhero movies but I thought Sebastian Stan’s public personality is quite himbo-ish if not a bit shallow, so he was kind of perfect for this piece. (Sorry to his fans, but ain’t no way that man has read Marcus Aurelius. His copy of the book in that GQ interview advertisement had a perfectly un-cracked spine.)

smart mouth, part 1.

“Miss, would you mind taking those out of your ears, please?”

Dr. Barnes mimed at you with a tight-lipped smile, forefingers and thumbs of each hand plucking out wired phantom earphones. You look up him, cocking an eyebrow and trying not to give a smirk — too early in the class to start challenging the doofus — and repeat his motions back to him, making a show of rolling the wires around your slender fingers before shoving them into your jacket pocket. No need to start today’s little sparring session over such a petty attempt to annoy you.

There would be countless errors in his pedagogy or lecture for you to pick at during the course of the hour, no need to tear into him quite yet.

You pull out your notebook and pen, letting out a loud yawn before leaning back in your seat and hiking your feet up on the seat next to you. You’re front and center, your usual spot in every course. At the computer, Dr. Barnes was fumbling around, trying to pull up another one of his bland presentations that would inevitably regurgitate the reading material. You sigh, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head, scanning him as he’s trying to remember his password to his Google Drive.

Begrudgingly, you allow yourself to notice how handsome he was; especially so in today’s sky button down and perfectly tailored slacks. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, exposing a few veins snaking up his forearm before hiding again under a bunch of white fabric at the crook of his elbow. You follow along the hard lines, eyes dragging up Dr. Barnes’ muscular form and to his face — that creeping shadow from one or two missed days of shaving, angular lines framing downturned, pouty lips. You wanted to bite into them and see the blood rush to the surface.

“Alright gang, we’re up and running. I hope you all finished the book and the accompanying article about…” You tune him out, reviewing in your head the reading material and finding logical flaws with the arguments, preparing to play with Dr. Barnes a bit as he makes his way through his lesson plan.

Today was a particularly irritating day. Your boss at your part-time nonprofit job spent too much time berating you about incorrectly formatted documents, and you sat in on one too many meetings that should have been one email. Plus, you had a stack of reading you had to do for your lectures this week — for classes that actually nurtured your intellectual curiosity. Running on three cups of coffee, your meds, and a spiteful attitude (you had forgone breakfast in exchange for an extra five minutes of sleep this morning), you had skulked into the humanities building and jerkily settled into your seat without your usual patience. In retrospect, maybe this was why you were more ruthless than usual today. Unfair, if you really thought about it.

Dr. Barnes was a perfectly nice guy, when you were feeling generous. Not particularly bright, but still a hard worker who seemed to like teaching; rigorous intellectual interrogation wasn’t a prerequisite for a PhD, evidently. Armed with a travel mug of tea and that stupid leather messenger bag, he was always exactly five minutes early to class, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to prostrate in front of dimwitted little college students in exchange for the raving course evaluations necessary for tenure promotion. He was overeager, if you were totally honest.

Today, his tendency to prolong out his lecture — lingering on obvious concepts that any high school half wit would have understood — was grating on your last nerve. That slow voice he uses to read verbatim from his presentation slides (a sign of insecurity, in your eyes, that an alleged expert needed notes to prompt his lectures) to the class reminded you of the way adults spoke to you when you were five, shooing you away so you wouldn’t insert yourself into their adult conversations.

You’re leaning back in your chair, feet up on the seat next to you, scribbling a few chicken scratches of notes you have no intention of revisiting when you catch an opening in his lecture to interject. Perfect.

“And so, several scholars in the field have argued that practices in these countries have been unable to achieve the same standard of human rights that we find here in the United States,” Dr. Barnes finishes reading off of his lecture slides and aims a bright, toothy smile at the class. “Any questions before we get to discussion of the material?”

Your hand and a corner of your mouth shoot straight up, smirk deepening when Dr. Barnes’ eyes sweep over the class before reluctantly calling on you. You can almost hear his silent prayer, begging for any other student in the class to speak. You feel that beginning sparkling sense of fated victory bloom when he calls your name.

“So, these scholars…” you begin, voice saccharine and playful, “what methodologies did they use to get to that conclusion?” You start easy, asking a question you know he can’t answer, like circling around your prey pretending to decide whether to go in for the kill.

“Uh, well. I’m sure they used comparative methods and used the United States as a control,” he says, so unsure. Your eyes positively gleam at the opening he’s left for you.

“You’re sure, Dr. Barnes? So you’re saying that the United States gets to define ‘human rights’ in these studies?”

“Yes, that’s explicitly in the lecture today,” he says. Aha. He thinks he can rely on his little notes to save him. Too confident.

“So the United States should be the final arbiter of ‘human rights’ in the international political stage, is that what your lecture is arguing?” Fingers formed in air quotes, you’re practically simpering at this point, staring at his expression — he was too satisfied and sure that he had averted a land mine.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a stifled chortle, which seems to have an unnerving effect on Dr. Barnes. You make a note of how his shoulders have a tendency to tense upward when he’s defensive, when he’s faced with a challenge. So, with pure delight in your eyes as you raise an eyebrow, you challenge him to do something. Anything.

He clears his throat before saying your name, real nervous and slow, gravelly. Almost sexy in how pitiful it was. But you continue to speak, steamrolling right over his short-lived moment,

“Because the United States is famously really good at upholding human rights, right Dr. Barnes?” You relish in that little indignant flash across his baby blues, satisfaction dancing through your body the sight of your professor, squirming under your gaze. You made him squirm, someone who was ostensibly a figure of authority over you; some idiot who, by the skin of his teeth, might be a passable researcher but in no way possessed the chops necessary to be a good teacher.

It was cute, the few false starts Dr. Barnes stuttered through before fake laughing — nervous, pink-tinged cheeks curving upward. You almost wanted to flush yourself, a bit too focused on the scruff of his shadow, wondering what it’d be like for it to drag against your skin.

You blink that image out of your head, poised and ready to give your final contribution to the discussion,

“Weird that this is a lecture about the United States’ role in global politics and not a single reading about imperialism was assigned. Pedagogically irresponsible, if you ask me.” You bless him with your brightest smile, uncrossing your legs and crossing them again in opposite order — the sarcasm and smugness practically drips from your gaze. Dr. Barnes’ eyes flash indignantly, but you don’t miss that swift glance down toward your thighs, exposed under the skimpy hemline of your miniskirt.

The sound of laptops shutting and shuffling zippers and paper draws the both of you out of your staring contest.

Dr. Barnes clears his throat again, running his metal hand through his hair and pushing a few loose locks back from his forehead. Your bratty little demeanor remains undisturbed, and you think maybe Dr. Barnes is holding your gaze just a smidge too long before he tears away from you and back into his surroundings.

“Don’t forget to schedule your one-on-one office hour with me so I can approve your final paper research topics. Instructions are on the syllabus!” His last few words are drowned out by the hubbub of chairs screeching against the linoleum and students filling out the door.

Dr. Barnes turns toward you as you’re shoving your notebook into your bag, his handsome face shadowed in a scowl so childish you almost want to reach out and pinch his cheeks. Almost.

“That was extremely disrespectful conduct, Miss —“

“Hey Barnes, you got a minute?” Dr. Barnes’ fuming was abruptly cut off by a cheery masculine voice. You both turn to see Dr. Rogers — one of these days you’ll be able to snag a seat in his research class.

“Stark is asking everyone in the Department to turn in their syllabi for next semester by end-of-business today,” he continues, “Need you to look over my reading list, Buck.” Dr. Rogers stops for a second, clocking that you’re still in the room and clearing his throat, sheepishly correcting himself,

“I meant Dr. Stark; don’t tell him I forgot the ‘doctor’ part, he’s insufferable,” Dr. Rogers speaks to you, slightly nervous chuckle escaping as he offers you a good-natured smile. You make a gesture of zipping your lips, returning Dr. Rogers’ smile as you turn to leave.

Dr. Barnes looks between you and Dr. Rogers before calling your name again.

Hm. Stern, as if he were about to reprimand you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Dr. Barnes glares at you, clearly loathing that smug look you’ve schooled yourself into maintaining. You make a show out of shoving your earphones in and paying attention to your phone instead of him, happily aware that his eyes were boring into your skull as you turn on your heel and strut out of the classroom.

Flippantly, you glance back through the door, a false little smile lighting up your face as you utter a phrase you know won’t do anything but rile up your professor,

“See ya later, Barnes.”

If the academic utopia is meritocracy, you’ll eat your shorts.

✶

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting re: research topic approval

Hi Dr. Barnes,

Can I stop by your office hours next Monday to talk about my research paper topic?

Thanks.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱�� ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: Meeting re: research topic approval

Yes, please stop by on Monday.

Thunderbolt Hall, Room 616.

JBB

✶

You can’t help but snort as you close out of your email app on your phone, a bit taken aback by the bluntness of Dr. Barnes’ response to you. Half of the time, the man couldn’t stammer out two coherent sentences to answer your questions. The other half, his answers, delivered in clipped tones, were so cookie-cutter and shallow that you’d inevitably be left a little bored. Never were his responses so blunt.

Sure, maybe you were tiptoeing on that line between childish iconoclasm and outright insolence, but really, Dr. Barnes was an academic. He should be grateful that you were there to keep things interesting. At least your questions were generative for discussion!

Not that you cared, but did you push him too far during the last lecture?

Whatever.

Shoving your phone into your jacket pocket, you pack up your supplies and stumble from around the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, back aching from hunching over your books for the last two hours. Peter Parker is rounding the corner and bounding toward you as you hike your bag up your shoulder, two to-go cups in his hands. One for you, one for him. Thank God for that kid.

“Hey, Parker,” you relieve him of one of the coffees, glad you didn’t have to waste time picking up a source of caffeine before your next shift at work. “What’s going on?”

“Hiya. Locking in before my date with MJ later,” he takes a sip of his own coffee before slinging his backpack onto the desk and occupying the seat you just vacated — you would have complained that someone was using your sacred library work alcove if it were anyone other than Peter.

“Godspeed, buddy. Tell MJ I said ‘hi’ and that I’ll see her for Book Club next week.” You give Peter a goofy salute, stern face struggling to contain a smile, before making your way through the labyrinthine library stacks toward the more populated work areas in the front of the building.

✶

Bucky Barnes is spending his usual Tuesday afternoon deep in the stacks of the social sciences library, cobbling together research for the manuscript he was working on. Piles and piles of dusty leather-bound books surrounded his work station, which rudely occupied an entire table that could have sat several other library patrons.

That day was particularly irritating. Nothing felt right. The deadline for a draft of an article was looming large, and the pressure to publish as often and as much as possible was slowly closing in on him. Helping Steve formulate two undergrad syllabi proved to be a several hour-long endeavor, so Bucky lost an entire morning that he planned on devoting to catching up on his reading. Too many papers to grade, too many faculty meetings to attend, too many articles to review: Bucky was on the brink of burn out.

Despite the organized chaos that was his life as an untenured academic, a significant chunk of that day’s irritation can be attributed to that fucking smart mouth girl in his first lecture of the day. He’d dealt with his fair share of knuckleheads throughout his few years as a young professor, always with an open mind and a kind shoulder — qualities that he felt were essential for a good educator to possess. But you, he pictured you in his head with a sneer.

It was always something with you —

“Actually, that’s the wrong year, Dr. Barnes,” or

“You don’t sound so sure about that, Dr. Barnes,” or

“Dr. Barnes, are you sure that’s how you want to structure the lecture today?” Of course he was fucking sure. He’d been teaching this course for years and his teaching evaluations were top-notch, no thanks to you and your attempts to shake his confidence. Where the fuck did you get off on questioning his authority?

Bucky had spent maybe the first few weeks of the semester mulling over what he had possibly done to provoke you into being such a thorn in his side.

He supposed the first incident happened when he made the mistake of giving you a 98% on a paper and you had decided to grade grub him into oblivion. He thinks about that moment with a derisive snort. Little Miss Overachiever. Bursting into his office, absolutely incensed that a — and this is verbatim — “second round draft pick hire” had the gall to give you anything less than a 100%, the stones to ruin her perfect record.

If he were being perfectly honest, you were much more intelligent than your peers, and part of him understood that your behavior stemmed from boredom. University hadn’t been particularly challenging for you and it seemed to him that you were fed up with it. Figuring out how to fulfill every student’s needs in the classroom tended to be easy for him — his course evals were almost always glowing with praise for his pedagogy. But you. He just couldn’t figure out how to channel all of your spite into something intellectually productive, not only for the sake of peace in his classroom but because he (quite begrudgingly) wanted you to feel like you learned something. That was his fucking job, for fuck’s sake.

Bucky shakes his head, as if his brain were a goddamn etch-a-sketch and he could erase the image of you, sitting so pretty with that petulant smirk that seemed glued to your face. Without fail, always front-and-center. Ready to taunt him, make him flustered, like he wasn’t good enough to be your academic superior. With a deep sigh and a frustration that didn’t seem to dissipate no matter what he did, Bucky tries to knuckle down to finish his task in the library. He would not let some tiny little know-it-all distract him from his work. A know-it-all with a pretty face.

No. Focus, Barnes…

Bucky had started off that day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having completed his departmental duties for the week. He even had the time to edit both his and Steve’s syllabi for the course offerings next semester. His house was spic and span, not a spec of dust or a cat hair out of place — no thanks to Alpine. (Bucky loved that little fleabag to bits but goddamn did she shed like it was her full-time job.) The quiet of his morning routine was perfectly routinized to prep him for the bustle of the day. It was almost ritualistic, the warmth of his coffee mug — “Professor of the Year, 2020” garishly printed in university colors — and an apple as he reads through the queue of journal articles he’s behind on editing. Alpine would undoubtedly be inhaling her food (top of the line, grain-free, high protein, expensive cat food) after screaming bloody murder because her kibble landed in her dish at 7:01 instead of 7:00 am on the dot. After breakfast, Bucky lets Alpine go outside in the yard to chase around the critters in his herb garden, which he admitted was wilting at a faster pace than he’d like. Every so often Alpine would up look at him while he flipped through his textbooks, bright eyes blinking at him slowly as he sat on his porch with his one allotted cigarette of the day.

That morning had proceeded like every other morning, calm and restorative. Nothing was out of place, and Bucky was feeling pretty confident in himself that day. Finally. The stress of working toward tenure was wrapping itself around him like a vice, a near-constant suffocation until recently. Bucky thought he was getting a handle on his career, surefooted in his future at such a prestigious research university.

That is, until the venomous game you insisted on playing with him in every lecture finally knocked him off kilter.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

“Everyone read the assigned text for this week, correct?”

A weak mix of murmurs and ‘yes’s answered his question as an incessant noise started to permeate through the classroom.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Dr. Bucky Barnes’ bright blues, followed the source of the tapping, up the slender hand of its owner before loudly clearing his throat, as was his wont, though he quite hated that habit of his.

“Great, can someone briefly summarize the author’s argument so we’re all on the same page?”

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Perfectly polished nails wrapped around a pencil as its eraser end collided again and again onto the desk. Bucky’s quick to glare at you this time, one eye twitching as he called on some overeager student whose hand shot up immediately.

“Well, Habermas’ idea of the public sphere…”

You raise your eyebrows, but you don’t challenge him, placing your pencil down instead of tapping it harder. A-ha. Victory, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t quite understand why in that moment, but the thought of that small, ever-so-slight advantage he had over you in today’s game sent a burst of warmth through his chest.

Overeager Try Hard pulls Bucky from his slight victory, and he trains his attention on the kid again.

“…and so liberal regimes tend to emphasize intellectual exchange in the public sphere as a basis for the educated voter.” Listening to this kid was such a fucking effort today, but Bucky forces a brighter demeanor,

“Yes, that’s correct —“ Bucky is cut off by a loud snort, much earlier than he expected. His eyes shoot straight toward you, as if he was willing you to combust in your seat. All you can do is roll your eyes at him, like a fucking child, he thinks. He almost bares his teeth when you dismissively mutter,

“Oh, please.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for about three seconds, desperate to keep his slender grasp on his self-control, before he draws out your name and practically snarls,

“Do you have something to say? Or can we both be adults and have a discussion without your attitude?”

A few mocking “ooh, she’s in trouble” ring out from the rest of your classmates, a low sniggering coming from Try Hard behind you. Bucky almost felt like he was winning — the teasing from your classmates, the brief shock at his assertiveness before your face breaks out into such a bright smile.

To Bucky’s great dismay, that mischievous, evil grin didn’t look anything like a conciliatory “You’re right, Dr. Barnes, I’m so sorry and I’ll never undermine you in my tight little skirts again” kind of smile. No, it was a “You’re in for it now, Barnes,” kind of grin, one that sent shivers up his spine in a way that left him almost… excited? Desperate for you to keep responding to him?

You only look at him, maintaining eye contact that felt much too intense for a lesson about what’s-his-philosopher-face and abstract political theory. Bucky swears he feels the tingles in his spine shoot straight to his heart when you respond in the most unexpected way: you back down.

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dr. Barnes.” That saccharine sweet voice, infused with the most malice he’d heard from you yet; and he almost short circuits when you push your bottom lip out into a pout. “Please, continue the lesson.”

What, no jab about his intellect? No undermining fucking snobby comments about his teaching methods? Bucky didn’t know how to respond, so he moved forward. “Just keep going, Barnes. Class is almost over,” he chides himself.

“Right. So,” Fuck. Stop stuttering, Barnes. “As we were discussing, Habermas’ ideas —“

Tap. TAP. Tap. TAP.

Bucky looks down at you again, no pencil in hand this time so his eyes travel down to the source of the noise. You don’t miss the way they’re caught on the skin left uncovered by your skirt, a sudden rush of heat flowing through your chest when your professor’s eyes slink down your legs toward the source of his annoyance. When Bucky’s eyes land on your boots, one of them tippy-tippy-tapping away in a deliberate attempt to make him go insane.

“Are you kidding me, right now, Ms. LN!?” Bucky blurts out at you, clipped tone threatening to burst into something louder, more powerful in impact because you have needled him one too many times. The sheer delight in your eyes doesn’t do anything but completely infuriate him.

“Oh ho ho! Look who’s finally developed a backbone,” you actually jeer at him. That domineering little smirk that he’s become so familiar with. You stop your tapping, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your chest is pushed against your arms, making them look bigger, big enough to fit into the palm of his hand, maybe. Fucking God, Barnes. Focus.

“You’re way out of line today,” Bucky starts, ready to tear you a new one, let you know how fucking irritating it is to have a know-it-all in a course that he spent so much time, so much meticulous attention into developing.

“I’ll step back in line when you can teach, Barnes,” you scoff. You actually fucking scoff. And Bucky is seeing too much red to pay any attention to the taunting and chittering surrounding the two of you. And maybe, (just maybe) Bucky would grow to regret the words that spilled, unrestrained and furious as he slammed down his pile of lecture notes on the table:

“Listen, you and your smart mouth have been nothing but disrespectful to me and your classmates every single day of this semester. If you don’t like my teaching style, drop the class.”

“This course is required for my major, Dr. Barnes,” you state, too smooth, derisiveness barely concealing a deeper anger. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be wasting my time listening to an ‘academic’ so clearly devoid of intellectual depth.”

Bucky swears he feels both of his eyes twitch as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, every drop of will he had channeled into remaining civilized. ‘She’s just a student. Don’t say anything you’ll regret,’ he breathes to himself, over and over. The air quotes you placed around “academic” were too far.

Before Bucky could figure out the most civilized, but strict response, you stand up and turn on your heel, careful to tap your boots as annoyingly as possible as you leave in the middle of the lecture. You stop by the exit, turning around and calling over your shoulder to Bucky, again in that deceptively sweet voice, “Whatever, Dr. Barnes, see you in your office hours.”

In a move that was nothing short of uncool, Bucky calls after you, lacing as much menace as possible, as if he was issuing an ominous warning: “Fine! See you then. We’ll be discussing your unruly behavior, Miss LN.” You return nothing but a simpering smirk, fingers wiggling in a facetious wave that boils Bucky’s blood.

He does everything he can to ignore how shiny your hair is as you turn to leave, short skirt hiking up that much further as you tap, tap, tap down the hall.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

Even the quiet of the library, with its warm wood and cozy chairs, couldn’t soothe his mood. Bucky decides he needs a break, maybe a cup of coffee to wipe the mishap of today’s lecture from his brain. Maybe he’ll go down to the library café on the first floor and see if they had any of those blueberry muffins he liked so much. He stands up and drags one of the large leather armchairs near him closer to the large, arched windows. A hot cup of coffee and his books next to the window. Surely that’ll return him to some kind of equilibrium.

Bucky sighs and gives a yawn, arms up as he’s stretching out his back before he makes his way through the maze of shelves lined with rich leather-bound tomes, each in its rightful place. He lets that thought calm him. Everything is where it should be in the library. No nagging smart ass student. No irritating boss, because Dr. Stark would rather spend time schmoozing with department donors than in a classroom. No distractions — just Bucky and his stack of books, ready to be digested and organized into coherent research. Nothing out of place in his library until he runs into you, that is. As Bucky rounds the corner toward the elevator, a flash of long hair and a familiar short skirt stops him in his tracks.

He pauses for a second before stepping behind the nearest immediate shelf, able to see you and Peter without being observed himself. Bucky doesn’t really process it in that moment, but a tug of adrenaline sends his heart rate up as he watches Peter hand you a cup of coffee. Your face — annoyingly pretty, Bucky thinks — lit up gratitude as your hands grab for the warmth of the cup. Peter leans in, surely too close for propriety’s sake, to hear you better as the last few whispers elicit a chuckle from him. He watches you give a stupid salute to Peter, and a strange, dark heat bubbling through him and tightening his chest.

That day, head hunched over a few archival parchment documents, all that pranced through through his brain were you and your little attitude and little fucking skirt, and the fact that you had picked the wrong fucking day to antagonize him.

Hours later when he retraced the events of the day before bed, Bucky still really couldn’t explain why he stopped so abruptly, why seeing you with that Parker kid was so frustrating for him.

✶

It’s fucking early. Too fucking early on a Monday for you to be dragging yourself out of bed to make your appointment with Dr. Barnes. Usually you wouldn’t bother getting out of bed before 11 AM, but today was a stacked day: meeting with Barnes, work, then a few hours in the library to finish a few assignments. First on the agenda: getting Dr. Barnes’ office hours appointment out of the fucking way.

Of course, you were aware that you were in for a rather unpleasant conversation with Barnes, but you knew that it was bound to come sooner or later. Your behavior wasn’t exactly exemplary of a bright student on track to attending an R1 research graduate program next year. Oh on the contrary, you recognized that your behavior wasn’t much of a deviation from that of a petulant child who had missed her afternoon nap — grouchy, mean, and desperate for calm. But you couldn’t help it. Every time Barnes wanted to explain something (something you already knew, most likely), he dragged out his words like you were actually four fucking years old, like you were just learning such big words and couldn’t connect ideas together with your own, undeveloped brain. Worse than the over-explaining, you supposed that his worst crime was that you had learned absolutely nothing from him throughout the semester. You didn’t feel intellectually challenged. In a course you PAID TUITION for, no less. It was completely unfair.

So, if he treated you like you were a dumb kid, then you’d make it as unpleasant for him as possible. He made it so easy to argue with him. Often wrong, always timid and slow to rebuke — quite honestly, sometimes you thought that you were doing him a service, pushing him into becoming a better teacher. Forcing him to prove his arguments rather than regurgitating outdated research that had no business being taught in the 21st century.

Obviously, this effort was to no avail.

The chill of autumn seeped into the brick walls of your tiny apartment, kicking on the creaky radiator that sometimes disturbed your sleep with its ghostly noises. Usually, the sounds and smells of your routine, the slowness of the morning, were enough to calm you: the burbling and snap of the electric kettle, fragrant coffee with a hazelnut creamer, your little mackerel tabby, Friday, mewing at you for her breakfast.

“Hi, baby,” you coo at her, all nine pounds of terror weaving between your ankles, “Momma’s gotta be out for the whole day today so you be good.” You scratch her one last time under her chin and pour kibble into her bowl, refreshing her water before you mentally prepare for the gruel of the work day. “Don’t try to chew through the treat bag again or we’ll have a problem.”

It was sluggish, the pace at which you pull on your clothes, guided by the weather app on your phone. With perfunctory, sharp motions, you yank on your knitted tights, skirt, and sweater, the second-hand cashmere a tiny comfort to you as you lock up and trudge to the bus stop, the weight of your school bag exacerbating your misery and irritation as your make your way to Thunderbolt Hall.

Earbuds blasted music through your ears, sunglasses blocking your stare. The scarf you’ve pulled close around your nose and mouth to keep in the warmth swishing in the air as you stomped through the university commons. Any excuse to avoid social interaction this early in the morning. Music gave you an excuse to keep walking, anyone stopping to greet you automatically assuming that you couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, or didn’t want to be bothered. Your sensory-deprivation contraption, you think, amused as you trekked toward Dr. Barnes’ office.

✶

Dr. Bucky Barnes hears the tap of your boots before he sees you. He’d been dreading this meeting, unsure of how you’d react to him reprimanding you for your behavior. He was determined to remain civilized today. Last lecture was nothing more than a student getting to him and him losing his cool. It was unprofessional. It felt fucking good, but unprofessional, nevertheless. And Bucky was nothing if not professional.

Nested at the end of the hall on the fourth floor of an old building foisted aside to be used by underfunded humanities departments, Bucky’s office was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of the sun streaming in from two wide bay windows. Surrounded by furniture of dark wood, a cozy living room setup sat in front of the fireplace, which would be put to use as the northeast winter arrives in full force. Bucky tried hard to make it comfortable, bringing in a blanket and a few photos that he framed and displayed on the mantle. One of him and Steve the day they both graduate from their PhD programs. A photo of Bucky with a tight smile while shaking Dr. Stark’s hands, taken against his will on the day of his “welcome” party that the department secretary insisted was earmarked in the budget.

In the corner, a coffee machine whirred as it made his usual second cup of morning coffee. Bucky scoots in his fancy leather chair over to retrieve his mug, sipping on it just as he hears your knuckles wrap on his office door.

He waits a second, placing his mug down on a coaster before arranging himself behind his desk, ready to be the responsible adult between the two of you. He has his hands around his coffee mug, the ceramic warming his hands, and clears his throat one last time,

“Come in.” He watches the knob turn before your head pokes in, looking left and right before stepping in, leaving the door ajar. You’re stone faced, making your way slowly to the seat directly in front of Bucky’s desk and facing him. Bucky notices your skirt… barely catching his disappointment when he sees that your legs are covered in cable-knit tights. God damn, focus, Barnes. You cross, and uncross your legs, fidgeting with your bag in your lap, and raise an eyebrow at him.

He doesn’t respond, but just continues to stare at you, challenging you with an arch of a brow. You can make the first move today. He wants to know which way you’re headed.

“Well, Dr. Barnes,” you sigh, “we have a laundry list of shit to get through on the agenda, so where do you want to start?”

He snorts, amused and unable to conceal it, so he smirks and just says,

“Why not the easiest task? Run your research paper idea by me first.” Just as he couldn’t conceal the fact that he found you amusing, you couldn’t hide your surprise at his choice. But you quickly school yourself into a stony face once again.

“Sure. I’m thinking of juggling several ideas in my paper...” you explain as you pull out your notebook, flipping a few pages before turning to a sheet lined with pretty, swooping handwriting. Bucky notices the neatness with each flare of your pen, how organized you are and how it tickles something in his brain when he sees your long fingers wrap around a pen.

“…hello?” You snap a finger in front of Bucky’s face, shocking him out of his daze. Shit, what did she say?

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Bucky lies, hurriedly trying to get a grip on himself. He was so determined to be in control of the conversation. “Your idea is good. No notes.”

Your face wrinkles, confused and a little frustrated. That pouty lip pushes out a bit, just the way Bucky liked to stare at sometimes when he caught you zoning out in class. Oops. Wrong thing to say, Bucky winces.

“That’s it?” You spat out your words with incredulity, vaguely aware that you had crossed a line somewhere and giving over to your intuition, you tense; ever so slightly, but enough for Bucky to feel his eyes flash in defiance.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says as his brows knit together, crossing his leg to rest one ankle on the opposite knee; he can still salvage the situation. But what the fuck would he say? “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to a word you were saying, I was too fixated on your fingers and what they could be touching?” The thought of it was enough to make him blush.

“I mean, you have no suggestions at all as to how I can improve my research topic?” Okay. Don’t panic, Barnes. Double down. Just double down.

“I think it’s brilliant, actually,”

“Figures.” You scoff, murmuring under your breath, and by this point, Bucky knows that he’s completely lost control of the situation.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Figures that you’d have nothing useful to say. Thanks for the meeting anyway.” You look at your watch before adding, all lofty and slow, “I have somewhere to be.”

You’re spinning on the heel of your boots — much too smug for someone dangerously close to receiving a referral to the Student Conduct Office — before you stop in your tracks at Bucky’s next command.

“No,” he spits out, “We have one more thing to discuss.” He’ll be damned if he let you out of this classroom without some acknowledgment that you were a pain in his ass.

“And what would that be?” you whirl around, quiet, frustrated, and a little taken aback by Bucky’s harsh tone.

“Don’t start,” he commands. You notice his upper arms, muscular, veiny, flex as he grips the arms of his office chair.

“What, you want me to apologize to you? You want me to say ‘sorry’ to the big man whose ego can’t take a little bruising?” you jab, but the confidence is not quite as striking as usual.

“Sit down,” he commands. Again. Much more assertive this time. He nods his head towards the seat you had previously occupied, and adds, “now.” You had frozen, midstep, with your hand on the door handle, cold brass against your palm making your pulse all the more noticeable.

Bucky is almost gleeful when he sees the surprise on your face at his directions. So surprised. So pretty. He watches you slowly make your way back into the chair, setting your bag on the floor next to you and crossing your legs before leaning back.

“Yes?” You grit out, slowly dragging your eyes up to meet his. Arms crossed, you dare to pull that face that gets Bucky so riled up. He clears his throat before beginning,

“We’re not done talking. Your behavior in class has been disrespectful and disruptive. I know for a fact that you don’t behave like this with other professors. What’s going on?” This was the mature thing to do, Bucky had thought. To sit down, ask his colleagues for help, and talk to you like you were an equal. “What’s your problem with me, huh?”

You don’t react, at least externally. You only smile, that fake sweet smirk that he can’t get away from.

“Why, I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Barnes.” Bucky has to take a deep breath, reminding himself not to get riled up. Not to let you get to him.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Bucky responds, strict and to the point. He keeps staring at you, sure that he was in command of the situation. You watch as he gets up from his chair, making his way to lean back against his desk, directly in front of you. He crosses his arms, mirroring you. You don’t like the confident little attitude he has today. You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. So you keep poking at him, in a way that you knew, that you were sure would rile him up.

“Aw, Dr. Barnes. Why don’t you explain to me what you’re talking about? As clearly as you can, please?” You keep the shit-eating simper on, but it fades into confused intrigue as he moves closer to you, invading too much of the air around you.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Bucky savors that innocent moment of shock on your face before he rests his hands, one on each arm of the chair you were sitting in, your arms and legs still crossed as you failed to keep your breathing even. A vague scent of man and aftershave sending an exhilaration through you and flooding you with a warmth. A familiar warmth you’ve only ever felt in your bedroom at night. After the long fucking library sessions and steaming hot showers, when you’d collapse into your bed utterly exhausted but mentally alert, you’d let your mind wander.

The closer Bucky got to you, the more you could see the little flecks in his blue eyes. He was angry. Furious, even. His mouth had set into a frown, and he was so fucking confused about how out of hand the situation had gotten, how out of control he felt in that moment. So he does what he feels is right, just like you always say what you feel is right. He leans in closer to you, nose almost touching yours as he breathes into you,

“I’ve been so patient with you, you know that Little Miss Smart Mouth?” Bucky looks down at your lips and back at your eyes, rasping, “Every fucking day. You come into my classroom and you torture me.” He watches you uncross your arms and legs, attempting to sit up straighter in your chair. He keeps waiting for you to push him away. For you to say something mean. To reject him.

But you don’t. You stare right back at him, demeanor so bewildered and at a loss for words, Bucky dares to let himself think that you were sexy. Pupils dilated, staring up at him, at a loss for words. Uncharacteristically quiet, and Bucky decides that he likes that look on your face, a little awed, a little defiant, but sexy. He watches you swallow, trying to grasp at words that usually come so easily to you,

“I —” Your stammer sounds so strange, and Bucky relishes in this moment, the chance to catch you off guard and unsure of where the dynamic between the two of you broke. He watches you, as you wonder how you have lost the upper hand.

“What, Miss L.N.? Cat finally got your tongue?” he teases, smirking down as he slowly, ever-so slowly, closes the gap between the two of you.

The press of his lips against yours is hungry. Electrifying. Hot. Bucky groans when you lean into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup his face and pulling him closer. Impossibly closer. He breathes you in as he kisses you, hands traveling up your back and bringing you to your feet. He feels a twitch in between his legs when you moan into his mouth, and he bites your bottom lip when you break the kiss.

Bucky stares at you as his chest heaves, your mouth swollen and pink where he had nipped you. Your eyes are glued to his lips, and he gives you what you want, with just as much desire and urgency as before.

“Can’t be a snarky little know-it-all now, huh baby?” Bucky murmurs into your mouth, fingers carding through your hair and working toward a firm grip at the base of your scalp. He gives a tug, and his cock hardens at the whimper that comes out of you when he turns your face to look at his, at the control he has over you in that moment, at the fact that you couldn’t escape him. You smirk up at him, still wild-eyed, and bite back,

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes, guess you’ll just have to see.” You giggle, that girlish teasing giggle that drove Bucky fucking crazy. Your hands, just as greedy as Bucky felt, ran up the length of his arms, squeezing his biceps lightly before they settled on his chest.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he sighs into you before capturing your lips again, desperate, savoring the feel of your lips on his. His cock demanded so much more when he felt you smile into the kiss.

But no, he’s in control today. Even if he hadn’t planned for today to turn out the way it did, he was still going to be in control of this. Of you.

The moment you both come up for air, Bucky steps back, trying to catch himself, to calm down. Your eyes trail down his body appreciatively, the glowing smile on your face brightening when you land on the bulge in your professor’s slacks and Bucky feels his cock betray him, twitching under his boxers and hardening even more under your observant gaze.

“Dr. Barnes,” you look up at him through your lashes, glasses slipping down your nose bridge when your lips perk up, “I thought you were an unremarkable teacher before, but now I’m thinking you’re dumber than I originally thought.”

Bucky tenses up even more, arms cross as he leans back against his desk. It’s taking everything in him not to pounce on you. You seemed to obey his commands earlier, when he was losing his grip on his temper. Bucky could do that again, he could be what you wanted, if it meant you’d stay.

If it meant you’d let him get you off.

“Stop talking, Miss Smart Mouth,” he sneers at you, in command of his tone — low, seared with lust when he sees you bite your lip, obeying him. God, fuck. You were just turned on as he was, he knew it. “Strip.” he says, more demanding this time, still not moving from his position against his desk. You weren’t more than a foot away from him. He could just reach out right now, give you both what you wanted.

But Bucky was patient. He was going to drag this out. For himself. For all the times you’ve gotten on his fucking nerves, undermining his authority during class, in front of other students. For getting to his ego, of all things.

He was patient as you stripped, one garment after another peeling off to reveal smooth, glowing skin that he was dying to lay his hands on. A glimpse of your clavicle here, soft thighs there, Bucky wasn’t sure where he wanted to concentrate his stare. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks to himself when his stare lands on your cleavage; soft, supple, begging to be bitten. By the time you were down to just your bra and panties, Bucky catches himself just in the nick of time.

“Wait, stop.”

You pause, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes?” you ask, timid, in anticipation of what would happen next.

More often than you’d ever admit, your hands would wander under the cloud-soft cotton of your panties, fingers wandering toward your slit and smearing the wetness around your clit, determined to reach an orgasm that would put you into a deep slumber. You’d rather die than admit it, but sometimes, it was Dr. Barnes’ image in your head that brought you to your peak. His muscular forearms, lined with veins and evidently fortified by strength-training, would strain under your grip as he shoved himself in your imagination.

“Come here,” he gestures to you with one hand and moves to clear space on the desk before he taps the wood. The sight of his huge, toned body in front of you, out of reach and ready for you to touch — you felt the cotton of your panties dampen, just like you did on those nights you got yourself off to the image of Dr. Barnes. You take a step forward, hesitant, unable to keep your nerves reigned in.

“Finally found the stones to fight back, huh, Dr. Barnes?” you tease, attempting to get your head back into the dynamic you were used to. You were turned on, but not so much that you were willing to give up your dignity in that moment.

Unamused, Dr. Barnes taps the wood again. His next command is huskier, like he’s not willing to play your game anymore.

“Bend over,” he says, muscles in his jaw jostling with the strength it takes to hold himself back. He couldn’t describe it, this energy between the two of you. A heady, lustful sheen had blanketed the two of you in your own little world. He forgot who he was. He forgot that you were his student. He forgot himself, and all he wanted to do was scream.

#writing in hiding₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊#bucky barnes #smut #smut fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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shimishimii · 1 year ago

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six degrees of separation [first part]

Kuroo Tetsurou x gn reader

⎯ [wc: 2.5k] fluff to angst, has proper closure, but it’s part 1 of a mini six-part series, taglist is open, have a lovely day thanks for reading!

⎯ exes to enemies to lovers

| main masterlist | ♡ | next |

“who made your first love experience tragic, and you almost tear up every time you remember it?” your friend asks, you glance at the folded polaroid behind your phone case.

Kuroo Tetsurou did. But you shake his name away from your head, “just someone who likes this ice cream.”

As the summer breeze warms your cheeks and melts your ice cream, you felt you were back to when it started.

Classes were cancelled that day due to the high heat index and walking home under that sun would be brutal. Or maybe you are just making excuses when you see a raven-haired guy, a popular face among sophomores and freshmen. You notice he often stops by at the convenience store near your university. Maybe it sells some amazing snacks, you thought.

You began to like this specific popsicle the convenience store sells. It has cute designs, some based off on cartoon characters. But what you like about it the most was the short message engraved in the popsicle stick.

Days after, next thing you knew, you were always stopping by at the same convenience store, buying the same ice cream, sitting at the same corner, looking at the same guy.

His eyes were hazel from afar, and you wonder if you would see hints of gold and honey if you could just see him closer. His eyes are often narrowed and piercing, reminds you of a cunning feline's gaze that when he catches you sometime staring at him, it’s as if he has every answer for the questions you have yet to ask.

He’s definitely the athletic type. He could reach the tall shelves in the store and would sometimes help out the staff. He holds out the doors for women and elderly, greeting them when they walk in. He tells the little kids which snacks they should pick, helping them compute the total amount before paying. You also tried out his food recommendations and oh boy, he does not fail. He dances to some convenience store songs, sometimes he does it awkwardly, but most of the time he is actually talented.

You like seeing him smile, that soft genuine smile that appears not so often, but you could only look at him for a few seconds, because god you get weak when he smiles like that. You start to observe the things that makes him smile. His friends, eating, some science jokes you overhear, but so far no relationship partner. That was what you remembered. It was a relief.

You prepared a few conversation starters, but only your gaze tracing his silhouette could pass on the words left unsaid.

You bought the same popsicle you always like, hoping the message engraved on it would be different this time. You got the word unlucky marked on the popsicle stick yesterday, and also the other day, and some days before that.

Today may be the day your streak of misfortune ends before you could even see the message on the popsicle stick. Seems like luck is on your side this time because the guy you find cute takes the seat beside you. That’s new, you think. He was always with his friends. On the opposite table, near the counter, that was their spot. Today, he is alone.

Your hand felt sticky. The popsicle was dripping.

He points at your long-gone ice cream. “I really like that flavor” He smiles. “And that design too.”

You smile at him. I know. You always pick them at the bottom most part of the fridge. You compare their sizes even if they look controversially the same.

You look away after a few seconds, processing the features of his face like how he does have specks of gold in his eyes and that he smiled back. That damn smile. The dripping syrup slowly becomes a hazard to your fresh from laundry white pants. It did not catch your attention. But fortunately, it caught Kuroo’s.

“Excuse me, but your ice cream's got a mind of its own, it seems,” he says. “and you would not want that on white pants.”

“oh no,” Too late. You panic scooping out the falling liquid, still, a few drops painted your pants. “but I just washed this” you say, frowning.

He chuckles lightly, offering a tissue, “here, use this, ice cream stains can be hard to remove,” he hands you the tissue. “I just know”

I know that too. You once bought an ice cream sandwich, bit and kept it at your mouth as you played some games, and forgot you were eating an ice cream. Your white shirt was a disaster after.

“thanks” you took the tissue, cleaning your hand. You tried to remove the stain on your pants after. “that probably looked embarrassing” you kept scrubbing, smiling apologetically.

Kuroo places his hand at the back of his head. “Not really, it happened to me once or twice too”, he looks away, muttering softly, “…and you still look pretty.”

some imaginary audience cheers at the back of his mind, and other side of audience were gripping tightly, unsure if the smile on your face meant ‘that was cringe’ or ‘thanks’

He can’t believe he brags about his natural way with people but took weeks before having the courage to start a conversation with you. His friends would definitely ask him why. He was simply glad you like that ice cream flavor too and he has spare tissues.

you may have traded off a piece of your health from consuming ice cream every day before this conversation happened, but you still thank your past self for that sacrifice.

You remember the first time you met whenever you look back at those two popsicles sticks with engraved messages framed on your wall.

“you know, we could have known each other from jogging in the morning or at a gym” Kuroo looks at you with a raised brow, “but no, we both just have to be unhealthy.”

Kuroo replies with a soft smile, “we had an unhealthy first meet that’s because I was meant to take care of you”.

It started good. Because the feelings that bloomed in your heart may be the same to what Kuroo feels. The evidence of love and affection was written all over the year of your relationship. In each polaroid photo displayed across the wall of your room, you know cupid did his job well.

The first photo, marked on the first month you met, when Kuroo lets you lean on his shoulders while he plays whatever game he just discovered.

Second photo, on the fourth month, there was barely any context, it’s simply a photo of you together smiling. Because when Kuroo smiles, that smile you always love, you know that meant he was happy to see you, how he feels light and at ease with you.

Third photo, the seventh month, you are in Kuroo’s arms, his embrace gave warmth on that day he first saw you cry.

Fourth photo, the ninth month, in an expensive dinner date where you laughed with him because of his clip-on tie. Kuroo was too nervous that he felt his necktie choking him, and changed it minutes before you go out. That clip-on tie had pink paw prints design.

You hold the polaroid. In that photo, you both have wine glasses on your hand with him kissing your cheek. And you remember how he casually thinks of compliments that would make you blush, your hair, your clothes, and even noticing the new lip gloss you tried.

It was love, as you believed. This feeling. Because what else could it be? It was a conclusion you made up without prior knowledge to what love actually is.

You trusted the love Kuroo gave, never asked anything more than it, never questioned it.

Even if everything started to feel like it was not really romantic love. That it was just a thoughtful smile, a concerned hug, his natural way of words, and the love that was from just a friend who happened to like you a lot.

Yes, he was friendly, caring, charming, and thoughtful. You have no right to list a job description for a boyfriend, shouldn't you?

And they say great couples are simply best friends in love.

Looking back at most memories, it felt like you were really just a best friend, who happened to have the privilege of kissing him.

Someone he likes to be with, not someone he falls in love with.

It never was supposed to be a big deal. But people would often mistake you as ‘just another friend’. He was the same with everyone and you don’t want to dictate him to change.

But if he treats everyone the same, then it means what he does for you was not actually that special. It's just his natural way of being towards everyone. You started to think, maybe you were not a priority, just another friend amongst many.

You stay awake past midnight, with your thoughts loud, when you sink into the realization that there might not be really anything special at all. Because everything he did for you, warm hugs, compliments, leaning on his shoulders, those were just the perks of being Kuroo’s friend.

So, who are you in his life?

You know you are more than his friend.

Until less people stopped believing you were lovers, and maybe you stopped believing as well.

“So you’re close with him?” someone asks even if it was obvious you are Kuroo’s special someone. Maybe it did not look like that. Kuroo simply agrees that you two are close. Same likes, agrees with almost anything, vibes a lot. Typical best friend qualities. Of course you wanted to feel it was more than that.

“That’s Kuroo’s special friend” and that might be the worst introduction you have ever received. The word special, losing the meaning it once held.

At least you were someone to him, that still meant something right?

Sure, it was your own demons. How you started to feel like crouching when he stands beside you. His tall figure shining in daylight as you walk down the street during your dates, but as hours pass by and the sun changes position, you notice you have become just a shadow.

Worse, you started to feel like you were not enough when you're with him.

You appreciate who Kuroo is.

Dating him was a gamble against your own insecurities. You know what you were getting into, you know the hole you might fall into. But you haven't learned yet how to get up. As each monthsary gets celebrated, you were falling further and deeper into the abyss of your inferiority. And Kuroo did not even notice you were no longer beside him during parties, or at some special events. He forgot what ice cream flavor you like. He no longer corrects people mistaking you as just his friend.

On your first anniversary, the wine on your glass was gone a few minutes ago, you needed the courage.

Kuroo reaches out for your hand, you held it for a second, squeezing it slightly, and slowly letting it go. He clicks his tongue, noticing your avoidance for weeks. You used to hold hands everywhere you went, but now you avoid touching altogether.

“Can you at least look at me?” he asks.

You shift your gaze from his hands to his face.

"Why won't you look at me?" his voice was firm, almost disappointed.

"Because every time I do, I see what we've become."

It was his turn to look away.

"Do you remember when we first met?" you ask.

"I try not to."

You don’t know what he meant by that.

The silence between you grows louder with each passing day, until it's suffocating. Kuroo is not wearing a clip-on tie, you noticed. He tugs his necktie, adjusting it every now and then.

You try to salvage what's left of your relationship, maybe this anniversary date should do it. But it's like trying to hold onto sand slipping through your fingers.

You pour another batch of wine on your glass before speaking, "You know how you always used to say, 'The grass is greener where you water.' Remember?"

"Yeah, I still stand by that. It's about perspective."

"Perspective? How about the perspective of feeling invisible in a relationship?” Kuroo does not like where you’re going, where this is going. “Do you—do you even still see me?"

"Of course not” He tries to hold your hand again and you hold onto him. “of course I see you.”

Kuroo speaks again. “But sometimes, what you think doesn't really matter.”

You scoff.

“But those are my feelings” your voice is getting higher, you adjusted your seat, you feel like sinking in the chair. "So my feelings don't matter to you?"

"No, that's not what I meant.” he sighs before continuing, “I just think you're overthinking these things."

"Overthinking? Maybe I'm just realizing I deserve better. Maybe, just maybe, I deserve to be seen and valued." you try to catch your breath. It sounded almost like a plea.

His lips stay pressed on a thin line. He was no longer holding your hand. You were looking at his direction. He is looking down, holding his fork, tapping his plate.

You know staying in this relationship could mean getting invisible day by day. Not until he could no longer see you, worse, until you could no longer see yourself.

Sucks to end it that way, you could almost laugh bitterly at this situation, cliche even.

He looks at you, for the last time that he could, then mumbles. "I never wanted it to come to this."

You slowly look away, your eyes betraying a mixture of hurt and determination. "Let’s just leave this memory as a good one” you hold his hand, for the last time that you could, “I don’t want to end things ugly and start hating you.”

Because you know you never could. You wanted things to end while he was still someone you love.

Kuroo was not looking at you anymore. He felt a shiver, realizing the absence of warmth from your hand.

“Isn’t it enough that I see and value you?”

“Do you really see me? Or am I just another name on your close friends list?”

He sighs again, longer than the previous, as if he was afraid of speaking more, "Well, if that's how you feel, I’m sorry"

"Is that all you have to say?"

“You know, I—” Kuroo can’t understand why he can’t say those words. It takes three words for him to fix this. He stayed silent. And it took just a fraction of his silence for you to realize there was no use to trying to fix this.

taglist (open):

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wandasaura · 6 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/wandasaura/760270354350538752/ducklings-graduation-i-feel-like-wanda-and-nat?source=share

(not the same anon) was scrolling through your asks & answers aft rereading yail (one of or my most favourite fics by the way, so thank you for that! It's so gd… wonderful a mix of tooth-rotting fluff and smut. I feel like you've spoiled a lot of other fics for me now).

Saw this and was wondering if ducky has decided what she'd do aft graduation? (also read in one of your answers from so long ago https://www.tumblr.com/wandasaura/743960989904568320/what-does-duckling-study-could-we-maybe-see-a?source=share that ducky studies compsci, wonder if that's still the same or it's different now?)

Or how she'd balance work and being w WandaNat cause ppl you work w are more permanent than those you study w (and I can envision some ppl being mean to ducky and being made to regret it)

hii, thank you so much for reading my stories and loving them so much. it truly means so much to me that you still care about these characters and plotlines even though im not writing for them as actively as i used to.

and, not to say ducky's entire plan changed after graduation, she's still very passionate about computer science and would love to secure a job in that field one day, but directly after graduation 'party planner' basically fell into her lap and its apparently something she really enjoys. enjoys enough to put her hard-earned degree on a shelf and become one more permanently.

it truly was unintentional. ducky wouldn't have even needed to apply to work as head for wandanat's tech department after graduation, the job was practically hers already as natasha prepared to promote darcy to another field, but it just so happened that wanda fired their usual event coordinator the week before the annual gala the company holds for their partners and employees, and ducky happened to be home between her last two finals when wanda was sitting at the kitchen island stressed beyond belief. ducky shoved herself between wanda and the counter and took over, only occasionally asking if wanda liked a particular color story more than any other. ducky even managed to somehow expedite an existing order of center pieces that wasn't meant to come in until the day of the gala. and after that, wanda repaid her with an earth shattering orgasm over the island counter and went about her night as normal. it was the next morning when she was telling pepper about ducky's help that pepper took initiative and hired ducky as their event coordinator 😭 natasha found out through being cc'd in an email that ducky had accepted the position and was now a member of their staff. natasha, overjoyed with the news of seeing ducky every day, of course snuck into the bedroom after one of her meetings and gave ducky some of the best head she's ever received, and then natasha went all boss mode on her and ducky decided that was the hottest thing ever.

but! they do have very good working relationships! ducky was honestly very skeptical about how they were going to balance their multiple dynamics and keep the air clean now that all three of them were tied up in the same drama all day long, but wanda and natasha are seasoned professionals, and ducky has an inability to ever preform less than stellar, so everything runs smoothly. and ducky loves getting to be apart of their world. not the criminal justice legal jargon this man is not a murderer world, but the 'i built this place so nobody ever felt as alone and unsupported as i did' world that it all stemmed from. she loves getting the summaries for different events, like the january event wanda hosts every year that meets and recognizes members of her staff and partners that have either served in the military, or lost a loved one in the military, and putting together something that just truly resonates with the message and theme. she also likes getting to boss natasha around and tell her that by no means should she show up to the mid-spring banquet in a maroon suit when the color theme is blues and pinks. honorary mention of the fact that pepper is absolutely overjoyed that the banquets and gala's actually have color stories now. the last event coordinator was too scared to push back against wanda and natasha and therefore every single event was just red and black. pepper is so glad she gets to wear the pink heels tony got her for their anniversary now.

everyone loves ducky! but its hard not to love her when one time wanda was scolding the tech department and ducky marched her ass into the room and pulled wanda out by her pinkie finger, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about how 'sometimes you should breath before you storm in guns blazing, maximoff'. nobody had ever dared to pull wanda maximoff away, let alone interrupted her in the middle of a lecture. but here's ducky, who comes to work every day in different colors leggings and a crewneck, pulling wanda away by her pinkie while she holds a pink smoothie in her hand that everyone knows she stole from natasha because theres a big NM on the front of the plastic cup. like she's so powerful to them, but also all of them know she's literally the sweetest girl and not a singe one of them can understand how she does what she does and gets away with it.

(also to address the leggings thing. ducky definitely wore a suit for the first week and then complained to natasha about how much she hates it, and one day she just decided to show up in red leggings from lulu and a black crewneck that admittedly was within dress code, but anyways, wanda lost her mind over the leggings which definitely led to office sex, which then prompted natasha to reach out to lulu and have them make ducky different pairs of leggings with the company name embroidered on them so at least they could claim she was advertising their company instead of just blatantly breaking the rules because she doesn't like suit pants or 'ugly old people dresses'.)

#[ 🪩⊹ ] — aura’s mailbox!#a: anon #yail: asks #answered.#minors dni ৎ୭ #brought to you by highura 🍃

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bagalois · 2 months ago

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i got an email from the general grad advisor today, questioning how wise it would be for me to take algebraic topology 2 given my C in algebraic topology 1. she suggested that i could take the probability course track instead, which will knock off a distribution requirement and "could play more to my strengths"

ngl, i'm a little pissed. i'm doing a phd in math to become an academic and to have research in pure/applied mathematics. stats might be more employable, but i'm not putting in all this work to become a statistician. if i wanted to work industry, i would have tried harder to find a tech job with my COMPUTER SCIENCE DEGREE or CYBERSECURITY EXPERIENCE.

at first, i wrote a paragraph saying things like, "Regarding my strengths and interests, I'm figuring those things out. I don't have any statistics/probability background prior to my TA experience this past year - I didn't have much interest in it before and the subject is still new to me. I'm very interested in being employable after I graduate though, so I am happy to open up my options as much as I can."

i read over it and deleted it. my actual reply was pretty dry - all i said was a brief "thank you for the email" "hope your summer is going well" and "i'm interested in switching over to probability."

as second-year student, nobody actually cares about your interests. that's for after i have my master's degree and start shopping for advisors - and even then, it's more about what you have experience in than what you like.

they say grades don't matter, but the only thing anyone actually cares about (when you're early in the graduate career) is if you have good grades... i already knew that of course, but i let myself get swayed by the "your gpa doesn't matter!" propaganda from everyone in the department.

and here i thought mathematicians were honest.

you know, the biggest thing i regret from spring semester is not skipping classes when they stopped serving me. i wanted to, but i was more afraid to be rude than i was to fail.

(i don't encourage skipping class though, obviously. i only stop going when i seriously hate being there. i learn from the book instead and i still do the homework and show up for exams. it was easy in undergrad because those professors don't care. i just needed the credit/grade, not their approval.)

i just have to stay true to what i know. i'm usually right about the things i need and want. can't be letting other people detract from what i need to do for myself.

i thought that, since the department is full of mathematicians, they would understand me and share my interests - but the only interests they have are their own. i need to remind myself of this.

what i need over the summer is to prepare and practice for the statistics class i'm teaching this july. i need to review and relearn algtop 1. and i need to get As this fall.

technically i only need B+'s, but i want As, so i'm going to get them.

switching to probability should help me a lot. i have a classmate who took probability last year, and i'll be brushing up on my calculus anyway from being a calculus instructor this fall. so i have high hopes that, if everything goes well, i can pull it off. then i'll study hard in the winter and take the master's exam in the spring.

#bags personal postings #studyblr #gradblr

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skzdust · 1 year ago

Text

Contingency

Part 2

This one ends with a bit of a cliffhanger but the next part will have some smut so prepare for that hehehe! Enjoy! Thank you @palindrome969 for beta reading!!!

Summary: You accept a job from your best friend Seonghwa getting information on Ateez's rival group, SKZ. You decide to get to the organization through one of their members: Lee Minho. You find yourself falling for him, and things get even more complicated when SKZ's resident hacker seems to have his sights set on you as well.

Pairing: Lee Know x I.N x Reader

Includes: Coffee shop date, mafia party, meeting Jeongin, cliffhanger ending

Word count: 2.7k

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife, @tsunderelino, @hyunjinsjeans

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!!

Part 1 | Part 3

Masterlist

-----

Minho was already at the coffee shop when you walked in the next morning. He hadn’t texted you, but you were counting on him to have run a background check on the name and number.

Y/n l/n was a squeaky clean person: never gotten so much as a parking ticket. Middle of her class at the local university, graduated with a computer science degree. Worked for a country-wide company headquartered in the city, providing a degree of anonymity a more important job at a smaller business wouldn’t have. No boyfriend. Parents lived four hours away. Only a few friends in the city.

You’d gone to great lengths to forge y/n l/n’s life as the perfect partner for Minho. You hoped it would be worth it.

Minho was seated facing the door, and he smiled as you walked in. You waved and got your latte before sitting across from him.

“Hello.” He greeted you awkwardly.

“Hi.” You smiled. You were nervous, but you knew that was stupid. This was a mission, just like any other. This wasn’t really a coffee date, this was a step in a calculated plan.

But to Minho, it was just a coffee date. “I’m going to be honest, I hate small talk.” He took a sip from his americano, keeping his eyes on you. “So, I have an important question for you.”

“Sure.” You ignored the jump of fear in your stomach. Did he know who you were?

“Are you a cat person?”

You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Pets are definitely considered small talk.”

“Pets are very important to me.” He gestured with his hand for you to keep talking, smiling. “I asked a question.”

His tone was joking, but the glimpse of dominance made your stomach jump for a very different reason.

“I am.” You shook off the thoughts.

“Good. This might work out, then.”

“That’s a prerequisite for dating you? I have to like cats?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Yes, it is.”

You laughed again, wondering if you were laughing too much. “Fair enough. Fortunately, I love cats.”

“Very fortunate.” His smile was genuine again. “So, tell me about what you do for work.”

He was blunt changing between topics, but you went with it, inventing something about the grocery company you worked for and how you liked your workplace but your boss was a bit too authoritarian at times. A standard answer.

“What are you doing here all the time, then?” He gestured around the coffee shop.

Your heartbeat kicked up. “I, er, I work hybrid. I’ve had a few days out of the office recently.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

“How about you?”

Minho’s lie was smoother than yesterday. He told you about business deals he helped to negotiate for one of the biggest banks in the country, and his only tell was the slight shifting of his feet under the table you could hear when you asked a question. You knew the truth, though, and didn’t hesitate to test him a bit.

“So, you travel a lot?” You interjected after he mentioned something in Milan.

Minho nodded. “Yeah, it’s a lot of long flights.” He sighed. “I don’t like flying. I don’t like being away from my cats, either.”

It was one of the first personal details he’d given. He’d kept his talk strictly to work.

“You must really love those cats.”

His eyes softened, a fond smile curving his mouth. “I do. They’re my babies.”

“I’d love to…” You cleared your throat, not even needing to fake anxiety. “I’d love to meet them.”

“Trying to get in my apartment already?” He looked amused.

You held up your hands in front of you. “I just like cats!”

“Mhm.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I didn’t want you there. Anyway.”

Your discussion turned to other things: music and books you liked, what you did in your free time, your favorite places around the city. You didn’t forget who you were talking to, or why you were talking to him, but you let yourself enjoy flirting with him for now.

There was a lull in your conversation.

“So…” Minho filled the silence. “I know this is our first date, but I figure it’s worth asking. I have a work party coming up, and I was wondering if you’d come with me.”

“Wow, you haven’t even taken me out to dinner, and you already want to bring me around your coworkers?” You teased.

“There will be dinner at the party, does that count?” Minho scrunched his nose as he smiled.

“I suppose that can count.”

“So, you’ll come?”

“I’ll come.”

You couldn’t believe your luck. Minho trusted you enough—liked you enough—to bring you to one of his SKZ parties. It would be a great opportunity to get to know what kind of resources SKZ had, both in people and in equipment.

“I should warn you, it’s kind of a business party.” Minho said. “We’re celebrating a… a victory. A big deal.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh?”

He laughed. “I wasn’t too involved, but as I’m a branch of the team that did the work, I got invited.”

“So you don’t know too much about it?” You gave him an easy out.

“Not too much, no.” He shook his head. “I’ll send you a dress.”

“Don’t you need my address for that?”

“You see, I was hoping we could go there together.”

“You want me to bring you home?” Your eyebrows shot up. “Minho, we’ve gone on one date. What if you’re a stalker or something?”

“Then at least I’m hot.” He smirked.

You suppressed a grin. “You’ve got me there. I’ll give you my address, but you’re not coming home with me tonight.”

“Fine, deal.” He leaned back. “I’ll send you a dress.”

“When’s the party?”

“Er… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You were genuinely surprised at his answer. You’d heard about the SKZ party through one of your contacts, but you didn’t know it was so soon.

“I know it’s short notice... but I’m looking forward to you being there.”

You smiled. “I’m looking forward to it, too.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Alright.” You wrote down your address for him, your heart jumping at the self-satisfied smile he gave you as you handed it to him.

He stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You got up, too. “See you.”

Before he left, Minho took your hand and pressed a kiss to it, keeping eye contact with you, before sweeping out of the coffee shop.

—

The next day, the dress Minho had promised showed up at your door, delivered by a man in a dark suit. You unzipped the garment bag, excited to see what Minho had picked out for you.

The dress was beautiful, a shimmering deep blue material with a low neckline and a low back. The bottom flared into a trumpet skirt.

You were surprised at the quality of the tailoring. You couldn’t tell if there was any special adjustments to the pattern, but even if it was a standard size, it fit you like a glove. You admired it in the mirror before taking it off, deciding to do your makeup and hair first so as not to mess up the dress.

You finished your preparations and put the dress on again. You hid a few knives on you before doing a few twirls in the mirror and checking the time. It was almost 7:00, and a minute later, there was a knock at your door.

Minho was standing there in a black suit with a blue shirt that matched your dress. There would be no doubt who you were there with. He was carrying a small bouquet, and held it out to you.

“Thank you, Minho!” You accepted the flowers with a genuine smile.

“Of course.” He nodded his head.

“I’m gonna take these inside, and then we can go.”

He nodded again, a smile creeping onto his face. “Alright.”

You went back inside. This apartment was a rental, not your actual apartment, and you had no idea where the vases were, so you just got out a large cup and half-filled it with water before setting the flowers inside.

Minho held out his arm as you walked back towards him, and you took it. “How gentlemanly.”

“That’s me.” He smiled as if laughing at some private joke. “A gentleman, through and through.”

You almost snorted. You didn’t think the numerous people he’d killed would describe him that way, but whatever.

You left the apartment building, and you acted surprised at the limousine waiting for you. “A limo? Minho!”

“It’s on the bank.” He opened the door for you, and you climbed in.

“Well, if you’re kidnapping me, at least you’re doing it in style.”

He laughed. “If I were kidnapping you, you’d know it.”

He got into the car after you, and you were off. The party turned out to be in a ballroom in a skyscraper downtown, which you found a little disappointing. You’d been hoping to see one of the SKZ buildings tonight, but you supposed Minho probably wouldn’t bring an outsider to one of his organization’s secret locations on a second date.

He helped you out of the car and opened the door for you as you went inside. You were the only two in the elevator, and as it dinged to indicate you’d arrived at your floor, Minho held out his arm again. You took it and walked out of the elevator to a short hallway. Two men stood outside one of the doors, and Minho nodded at them as they opened the doors.

The ballroom was big, a huge chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and beautiful rococo-style molding on the trim and wall panels. It was dim, but not too dim, and it was full of people.

“Don’t be too intimidated. Some of them might seem… scary, but I promise they’re all nice.” Minho mumbled as you walked in.

You held back another laugh. You knew these people were killers. They’d kill you if they knew who you were. They weren’t nice.

But you nodded. “I’m not easily scared, it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, here’s my boss.” Minho sighed as a man noticed you, waved at Minho, and began to walk over. The gun holster strapped to him was the same dark color as his shirt and suit, but you noticed it immediately. He was young, younger than you’d expected, but if he was Minho’s boss, this had to be Bang Chan, the leader of SKZ.

You swallowed. His job was to know who his enemies were. His job was to know who you were.

But he didn’t indicate any recognition as he smiled at Minho and extended a hand to you. You let go of Minho’s arm to shake it.

“Hello, Minho. And hello, beautiful.” He smiled at you, and if you didn’t know who he was, you would’ve melted. But you were a little too terrified of him knowing who you were to be starstruck by that brilliant smile.

“She’s here with me, Chan.” Minho said, but his laugh was good-natured. “I forbid you from hitting on her.”

Chan gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, fine.”

“My name’s y/n. I’m… yeah, I’m here with Minho.” You looked around. “I know exactly no one else.”

That was a lie. You didn’t know everyone, but you recognized at least half the faces here, either from missions or reading files. Right now you could name Han Jisung, who was one of SKZ’s top spies, and Kim Seungmin, a gifted medic, among others.

“It’s alright, I can introduce you.” Minho smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, no one’s scary.”

“At least not too scary.” Chan said, and Minho shot him a look.

You’d met a few bosses, but never Chan. He was more lighthearted than you’d expected, but you knew his relaxed vibe masked a ruthlessness and a tendency for vengeance that surpassed those of other organizations. Chan was like Minho: dangerous, but good at hiding it.

Minho guided you around the party, introducing you to a few people, including a few of those you already recognized. You were on guard the whole time, hoping no one would recognize you. You’d never worked with or even against anyone in SKZ before, but you were known enough in the mafia world that you half-expected someone to blow your cover. But you were lucky, no one let on even the slightest indication or tell that they knew who you were.

Although you did notice someone watching you.

He had blond hair and the most intense eyes you’d ever seen—and you worked in the criminal underworld, you’d seen a lot of intense eyes. You didn’t recognize him, but he stuck to the walls. His white jacket and the black belt he wore over it stood out in the sea of dark suits worn by almost every man in the room.

Minho was talking to someone, so you told him you were going to get a drink and walked over to where the man in the white jacket was leaning by the punch bowl.

You poured some into a cup, trying to react to his staring like a normal person and not like a bounty hunter. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a little creepy.” You looked at him, and he gave a wry grin.

“I’m not trying to be creepy. I just… you look familiar.”

Your stomach twisted. “I don’t work for the bank. I’m here with Minho.”

“Ah, you’re Minho’s date.” His grin grew, and if he didn’t know the bank lie Minho had been telling, he didn’t let on. “I’ve been teasing him about coming solo to parties for a while.”

“Do you have a date?”

“No.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Then who are you to talk?”

“Touché.” He laughed. “So then, why are you so familiar?”

You shrugged. “Dunno.” You took a sip of your punch.

“Hm.” He hummed.

“I’d better get back to Minho.” You said, turning around.

“Wait.”

You turned back to him.

“My name’s Jeongin.”

Your blood went cold.

Your specialty was tech and hacking. You were one of the best. But if there was anyone better than you, it was Yang Jeongin of SKZ. He was your biggest competition, the only one who could get past a firewall or take down a system faster and more effectively than you.

Jeongin knew you as The Spider. He shouldn’t know your face. You’d never seen his. The fact that you were familiar to him was very concerning.

“Y/n.” You replied with as easy a smile as you could muster.

“Y/n.” He repeated, tilting his head. “That’s a beautiful name. Just as beautiful as you are.”

“Thank you.” You were getting flustered, both from his recognition of you and his compliments. “I should get back to Minho, though.”

“Oh, Minho… he won’t mind if you talk with me for a little longer.” He gave you another grin, but this one was more flirtatious and less threatening.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You.”

“Me? I’m not very interesting.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Why are you being like this?” You said bluntly.

He tilted his head, and his eyes got a little more intense. “I didn’t come here with a date. I hope Minho will forgive me for what I want to do to you.”

A shiver ran through you, definitely not fear.

This was arousal.

“And what do you want to do to me?” You whispered.

He smiled, and it looked warm, but you knew it was dangerous.

You knew he was dangerous.

But you wanted him.

“Come find out.”

You swallowed. “That’s a bad idea. I’m here with Minho.”

He rolled his eyes, laughing. “I can deal with Minho… if he finds out.”

This could jeopardize the entire mission. If Minho found out you’d cheated on him, he’d probably dump you, and while SKZ likely wouldn’t retaliate, you wouldn’t be welcomed either. There would be no way to get their information.

On the other hand… if you could convince him you were just some civilian, you weren’t involved in his world at all, you’d be safe. Hooking up with him would probably do that.

This was a poor rationalization, and you knew it. But he was hot.

“Okay.” You said after a second. “Show me.”

----

a/n: prepare for smut lol.

#stray kids #skzdust writes #stray kids fic #i.n #lee know #lee minho #lee know skz #skz x reaker #skz #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #i.n x reader #jeongin x reader #jeongin stray kids

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samwpmarleau · 6 months ago

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fic: ginger root

whumptober day 24: motion sickness masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Galaxy-jumping and Robbie’s stomach do not, apparently, mix well. Fortunately, there’s a source of tea and saltines on board by the name of Daniel Sousa. part 1 | part 2

Robbie can’t remember the last time he felt so nauseas. Disgusted, sure. In pain, definitely. But being on the precipice of throwing up, skin clammy and ears ringing, it’s been quite a while.

He hasn’t yet found a way to prepare and prevent when he hears over the intercom the dreaded words, “Jumping in three … two … one …”

His stomach lurches as everything in his vision goes blurry. Intellectually, he knows it takes only seconds. He knows that, but from where he’s standing — or sitting — it’s the longest hour of his life. They’ve jumped three times since he was resurrected, and if anything, it only worsens.

He keeps his head against his knees as the ship comes out the other side. His bunk isn’t the most spacious of places, but it’s the one place that he doesn’t have to worry about someone coming across him in the state he’s in now. He’s already an interloper, he doesn’t need mortification, too. What kind of grown man feels like a child with stage fright from a silly little warp drive?

Right as he’s deciding he’ll keep his breakfast down, he discovers that maybe even his bunk isn’t safe, for there’s a knock at the door. The panel to open it is so far away.

“It’s Sousa,” comes the visitor’s voice.

Sousa? The man’s been plenty polite so far, but Robbie’s still amazed by the fact that he was transported here from the 1950s looking not a day over forty. And everyone acts like that’s just another day in the life. Which it must be for them, but Robbie’s playing catchup. Existing as Ghost Rider’s host had been so simple. Hacking and slashing and portaling, most of the time not even aware of what his body is doing. Time travel is beyond him.

He has no real reason to deny Sousa entry, however, so he rises to his feet and holds his hand to the panel.

The agent arrives in his typical business-casual fit (a hard-won upgrade from formal business, Daisy’d said) with a sympathetic smile and a cup of tea.

“That for me?” Robbie asks. He grimaces at the wobble in his voice.

“Yeah. Ginger root.” Sousa hands him the cup, along with most of a sleeve of saltines. “Took me awhile to get the hang of jumping, too.”

Robbie takes a sip of the well-prepared tea and nibbles on a cracker. “You’d think after thirteen years of dimension-hopping I’d be used to this.”

“Different kind of travel. And you’re no longer …”

Robbie waits in mild amusement as Sousa searches for a nice way to put it.

“… enhanced.”

“Possessed,” Robbie corrects. “I sold my soul to the devil, man. You don’t need to talk around it.”

Sousa gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Right. Sorry.”

“Did Daisy send you? No matter how many times I tell that girl not to worry —”

“She does. Don’t I know it.” Sousa helps himself to one of Robbie’s crackers. “No, she didn’t send me. She’s working on tuning static out of the comms system. New solar system, new frequency to figure out. I’ve noticed you’re always in your bunk when we jump and skip lunch, so I made an educated guess.”

Well, that’s better than having his business aired to the entire ship, he supposes. Still, he’d rather not dwell on it. “My brother would have a field day with all that techy stuff. He planned on majoring in computer science.”

Gabe’s face flashes in his head, the way he wears his joy after deciphering some equation or experiment, and the sullen way he gets when he can’t. At least, that’s the way Robbie remembers it. He’s talked to Gabe a couple times since he was brought back, and every time throws him for a loop. When Robbie had left with the Darkhold, Gabe had been a seventeen-year-old kid about to graduate from high school.

Now, he’s a twenty-four-year-old man with two degrees, a steady relationship, and a good job. While Robbie knows Gabe had been excited to see him, there’d been an ensuing awkwardness that Robbie once would have said was unthinkable. He doesn’t begrudge him that, he understands that Gabe must’ve mourned him as dead long ago when it was clear Robbie’s trip to hell wasn’t a short one. Nevertheless, that disconnect feels like a gaping wound.

Once we’re home, everything will be fine, Daisy had encouraged shortly after giving up on the sham of not eavesdropping.

Robbie hopes she’s right. It’d just be helpful to know when that’ll happen. There’s not much Daisy and her team can contribute to Earth’s chaos, or so says Mack — no, Director Mack — and everyone they love are accounted for, so their original cosmic schedule remains the same. His desires are not, unfortunately, high up on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s list of priorities.

“Bright kid,” Sousa says. “Daisy checks in on him every couple months and visits on resupply. They played long-distance Scrabble for awhile until she got tired of losing. It’s Trivial Pursuit now, though I’m not sure who’s —”

“You’ve met him?”

“Oh. No. No, that was something Daisy always wanted to do alone. She just had had a lot to say when she came back.”

Robbie feels some relief at that. He has no ill will towards Sousa, but the idea of Daisy inviting the man into the promise she’d made him, Robbie, sits uneasy in his gut. An uncharitable feeling, perhapas, but Robbie can’t help it.

He takes a generous sip of tea. That, Robbie has no problem with. He says as much, and the compliment lands. Brightly, Sousa replies, “I learned from the best. Agent Peggy Carter didn’t have much tolerance for a bad cup of tea, that’s for damn sure.”

Not for the first time, Robbie marvels at that. It breaks his brain a little to know the man in front of him dated the famed progenitor of S.H.I.E.L.D. simultaneously ten and seventy-five years ago.

“Force of nature, I’ve heard,” Robbie says. There’s not a whole lot of books to read on this ship, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history is one of them — protocol, probably, to keep a copy on every vessel — so he’s been left to brush up on the agency’s inception. With a wry smile, he adds, “I think you have a type, Agent Sousa.”

Sousa’s cheeks tinge faintly pink. “Guess I do.”

“Hey, no shade, man. I get it.”

“You, too, huh?”

“Well, I haven’t had anyone follow me up with Captain America, but yeah. You could say that.”

“How it’d end?”

Robbie slowly drains the rest of his tea, buying himself time to beat around the bush. “Uh, I mean, we never dated. It wasn’t the right time, and I don’t know if she felt the same. I thought maybe …” She’d seemed receptive back then, almost flirty, even. The memory of being in the control center, fully human for the first time in years, spending his last remaining moments with her, is one he’d kept forefront in his mind as his body hurtled through dimensions and rivers of blood. Not that it meant anything in the end. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I had to leave and didn’t know if I’d ever come back.”

“You’re back now,” Sousa points out. “You could give her a call. She might hold the same torch.”

The idea has crossed his mind no less than a thousand times. But he hasn’t felt any interest from her since he returned, and even if he had, Robbie doesn’t trust that he won’t be snatched up again. That the Rider wasn’t lying about enjoying his new host, that he isn’t merely waiting until Robbie’s settled and happy to take over. More importantly, he wouldn’t want to saddle Daisy with that uncertainty. She deserves a hell of a lot better than that.

She deserves a hell of a lot better than him. Ghost Rider or no Ghost Rider, he’d never match up to the man in front of him. Robbie’s not even sure who he is anymore without the demon.

Which leaves only one answer to Sousa’s optimism: “Unlikely.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You wouldn’t be if you knew who it was, Robbie doesn’t say. He’d gotten the sense on day two that it wasn’t Sousa who’d brought up the notion about being more compatible as friends than lovers.

He does say, “It is what it is.” He studies Sousa’s earnest face and admits despite himself, “I’m still trying to deal with the whole space and being brought back from the dead thing. I’ve been in crazier situations, but it’s like —”

“— you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Sousa’s bang on, which brings no comfort. Robbie’s nightmare had been far more public than he’d like, but the rest of it, how it feels to be himself again, what the Rider’s conditions had been, he’d only told one person. “Did Daisy say something to you?”

“No, nothing like that. I can relate, that’s all,” Sousa says. “Not the hell part, obviously. Feeling like an outsider, though? I’ve been there. It’s not easy to be dropped in the middle of a world you weren’t expecting.”

“You seem to be doing fine.”

At least you have a job on this ship, Robbie sulks.

Sousa snorts a laugh. “Daisy thought the same. Between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the SSR, I’ve spent two decades among superspies and dealing with blowhards who like to punch down. I know my way around a poker face.” Sousa puts a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. From someone else, maybe it’d feel patronizing, but Robbie knows the guy’s too genuine for that. “You’ll get there, Robbie. Give yourself time.”

Robbie almost rolls his eyes. Time? Since when? He expects to hear the Rider’s snicker in his head — yet there’s nothing. Not even a whisper. The Rider-voice prickles at the edges, sure. But Robbie’s not an idiot; he can tell the difference between his subconscious and the real deal. If Ghost Rider keeps to his word, then, incredibly, Sousa might be right. Time would be a luxury he’d have.

He’d have choices.

“Tell you what,” Sousa says, either not noticing or courteously not mentioning Robbie’s realization, “I bet Agent Reedy could use a hand down in the mechanic bay. From what I understand, you’re a damn good grease monkey.”

“Yeah, for cars. I don’t have any experience with planes, let alone spaceships.”

“If I could figure out an iPhone, you can figure out a spaceship. Unless Daisy was gassing you up for no reason and you’re worse than a kid in a shop class.”

Robbie scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Great,” Sousa grins with a clap on the back. “I’ll tell Reedy he’s getting a partner.”

Robbie regards Sousa with renewed curiosity. He hadn’t envisioned having anything in common with a Greatest Generation Boy Scout, yet here he sits in kindred. From time disorientation down to nausea on space jumps. “Well,” he says, gesturing to the tea and crackers, “thanks for this. And the conversation. You’re a good guy, Sousa.”

“As are you.”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget the part where I sold my soul to a demon?”

“No,” says Sousa, “I didn’t.”

#daisy johnson #robbie reyes #daniel sousa #quakerider #daisy x robbie #past dousy #agents of shield #whumptober2024 #no.24 #motion sickness #fic #my fic

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girliestwomaninstem · 2 years ago

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introductory post (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*

Hellooo <3 I've been on Tumblr for a few years now, however, lately I have become a bit of a slacker in terms of my student and professional life and a lot of y'all have inspired me to get a studyblr + accountability blog to help keep myself in check, focused and driven

🌻 about me ♡

name: tofu

age: 23

pronouns: she/her

zodiac: ⊙ aries, ☽ scorpio, ↑ scorpio

languages I speak: english, hindi, japanese (beginner)

🌻 my favourite subjects ♡

- academic: chemistry, cybersecurity, creative writing, biology, personal finance, physics, discrete math, intro to programming (the easiest part about a cs degree yet daunting)

- non-academic: cosmetic science, psychology, literature, ancient/modern history, physics, astronomy, linguistics

I'm trying to once again pick up hobbies that I used to have as a child, such as reading, singing, gardening, cooking/baking, scrapbooking

In my free time, I love watching asian soap operas, Studio Ghibli, and sitcoms that I'd like to call my comfort shows and video essays related to all my non-academic subject interests

I'm an undergrad student currently enrolled in a computer science/fintech double major and I'm preparing either to enter the workforce or pursue a masters in either quantitative finance or bioinformatics engineering or data science (wow, the existential crisis that came with typing up that sentence). I could also talk more about my interests in the above-mentioned subject areas, or new ones as they come up. My goal is to create a routine for myself that I can actually stick to, and spend each day having learnt at least something, no matter how small. I feel like the only way to achieve that is by comparing myself to my peers (I know that is v toxic but hey it helps). Additionally I really want to learn how to drive this year, learn to crochet and keep up with new technologies, do some art journalling to take my mind off stress.

I'm so excited to meet new people on here and keep myself busy and productive! ❤️

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 6 months ago

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Simulated universe previews panoramas from NASA's Roman Telescope

Astronomers have released a set of more than a million simulated images showcasing the cosmos as NASA's upcoming Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope will see it. This preview will help scientists explore Roman's myriad science goals.

"We used a supercomputer to create a synthetic universe and simulated billions of years of evolution, tracing every photon's path all the way from each cosmic object to Roman's detectors," said Michael Troxel, an associate professor of physics at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina, who led the simulation campaign. "This is the largest, deepest, most realistic synthetic survey of a mock universe available today."

The project, called OpenUniverse, relied on the now-retired Theta supercomputer at the DOE's (Department of Energy's) Argonne National Laboratory in Illinois. In just nine days, the supercomputer accomplished a process that would take over 6,000 years on a typical computer.

In addition to Roman, the 400-terabyte dataset will also preview observations from the Vera C. Rubin Observatory, and approximate simulations from ESA's (the European Space Agency's) Euclid mission, which has NASA contributions. The Roman data is available now here, and the Rubin and Euclid data will soon follow.

The team used the most sophisticated modeling of the universe's underlying physics available and fed in information from existing galaxy catalogs and the performance of the telescopes' instruments. The resulting simulated images span 70 square degrees, equivalent to an area of sky covered by more than 300 full moons. In addition to covering a broad area, it also covers a large span of time—more than 12 billion years.

The project's immense space-time coverage shows scientists how the telescopes will help them explore some of the biggest cosmic mysteries. They will be able to study how dark energy (the mysterious force thought to be accelerating the universe's expansion) and dark matter (invisible matter, seen only through its gravitational influence on regular matter) shape the cosmos and affect its fate.

Scientists will get closer to understanding dark matter by studying its gravitational effects on visible matter. By studying the simulation's 100 million synthetic galaxies, they will see how galaxies and galaxy clusters evolved over eons.

Repeated mock observations of a particular slice of the universe enabled the team to stitch together movies that unveil exploding stars crackling across the synthetic cosmos like fireworks. These starbursts allow scientists to map the expansion of the simulated universe.

Scientists are now using OpenUniverse data as a testbed for creating an alert system to notify astronomers when Roman sees such phenomena. The system will flag these events and track the light they generate so astronomers can study them.

That's critical because Roman will send back far too much data for scientists to comb through themselves. Teams are developing machine-learning algorithms to determine how best to filter through all the data to find and differentiate cosmic phenomena, like various types of exploding stars.

"Most of the difficulty is in figuring out whether what you saw was a special type of supernova that we can use to map how the universe is expanding, or something that is almost identical but useless for that goal," said Alina Kiessling, a research scientist at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in Southern California and the principal investigator of OpenUniverse.

While Euclid is already actively scanning the cosmos, Rubin is set to begin operations late this year and Roman will launch by May 2027. Scientists can use the synthetic images to plan the upcoming telescopes' observations and prepare to handle their data. This prep time is crucial because of the flood of data these telescopes will provide.

In terms of data volume, "Roman is going to blow away everything that's been done from space in infrared and optical wavelengths before," Troxel said. "For one of Roman's surveys, it will take less than a year to do observations that would take the Hubble or James Webb space telescopes around a thousand years. The sheer number of objects Roman will sharply image will be transformative."

"We can expect an incredible array of exciting, potentially Nobel Prize-winning science to stem from Roman's observations," Kiessling said. "The mission will do things like unveil how the universe expanded over time, make 3D maps of galaxies and galaxy clusters, reveal new details about star formation and evolution—all things we simulated. So now we get to practice on the synthetic data so we can get right to the science when real observations begin."

Astronomers will continue using the simulations after Roman launches for a cosmic game of spot the differences. Comparing real observations with synthetic ones will help scientists see how accurately their simulation predicts reality. Any discrepancies could hint at different physics at play in the universe than expected.

"If we see something that doesn't quite agree with the standard model of cosmology, it will be extremely important to confirm that we're really seeing new physics and not just misunderstanding something in the data," said Katrin Heitmann, a cosmologist and deputy director of Argonne's High Energy Physics division who managed the project's supercomputer time. "Simulations are super useful for figuring that out."

TOP IMAGE: Each tiny dot in the image at left is a galaxy simulated by the OpenUniverse campaign. The one-square-degree image offers a small window into the full simulation area, which is about 70 square degrees (equivalent to an area of sky covered by more than 300 full moons), while the inset at right is a close-up of an area 75 times smaller (1/600th the size of the full area). This simulation showcases the cosmos as NASA's Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope could see it. Roman will expand on the largest space-based galaxy survey like it—the Hubble Space Telescope's COSMOS survey—which imaged two square degrees of sky over the course of 42 days. In only 250 days, Roman will view more than a thousand times more of the sky with the same resolution. Credit: NASA

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #astrophysics

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cantsayidont · 2 years ago

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Cooking à la replicator

Chapter 7.6 of the semi-canonical STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION TECHNICAL MANUAL by Rick Sternbach and Michael Okuda includes a description of how the replicators work that offers some interesting background for how people in the TNG era might approach food and cooking in the era of replication technology.

The first and most important point is that the molecular patterns replicators use to recreate objects are a form of compressed storage, akin to a compressed audio or image file. The text explains:

Because of the massive amount of computer memory required to store even the simplest object, it is impossible to record each molecule individually. Instead, extensive data compression and averaging techniques are used. Such techniques reduce memory storage required for the molecular patterns by factors approaching 2.7 x 10^9. The resulting single-bit inaccuracies do not significantly impact the quality of most reproduced objects, but preclude the use of replicator technology to re-create living objects. … The data themselves are subject to significant accuracy limits.

So, a replicator pattern is an approximation of the original object, just as a JPEG image scanned from a 35mm negative is only an approximation of the original negative. Data compression issues also mean that there are tradeoffs between imaging fidelity, memory storage requirements, and the power required for replication. The text notes:

There are two main replication systems on board the Enterprise. These are the food synthesizers and the hardware replicators. The food replicators are optimized for a finer degree of resolution because of the necessity of accurately replicating the chemical composition of foodstuffs. Hardware replicators, on the other hand, are generally tuned to a lower resolution for greater energy efficiency and lower memory matrix requirements. A number of specially modified food replication terminals are used in sickbay and in various science labs for synthesis of certain pharmaceuticals and other scientific supplies.

The chapter doesn't specifically discuss how these things impact food and food preparation, but there's enough information to infer a number of additional points:

There is a quantifiable difference between replicated and non-replicated food, and probably a qualitative one as well. A fresh apple is not identical to a replicated copy of that apple, so we can surmise that beings with sufficiently sensitive palates could probably tell the difference. Furthermore, a fair number of people would probably insist that they could tell the difference, whether they actually could or not!

The range of foods that can be replicated has significant practical limits. In order to replicate something, you need either a preexisting molecular pattern or an extant example you can scan. Furthermore, because each pattern is resource-intensive to store, a given system can really only retain a finite number of patterns. So, for rare, exotic, or unusual foodstuffs, no molecular pattern may be available, and finding a molecularly scannable example might be difficult.

Because of the "single-bit inaccuracies," generation loss is likely an issue, so replicating replicated food will produce a qualitatively worse result (although each first-generation replicated copy of the same pattern is theoretically identical).

The difference in replicator resolution probably has many gradations. For instance, a food replicator included in a shuttlecraft survival kit might be tuned for the lowest resolution that's still safe for foodstuff preparation, to conserve power, while replicators used for synthesizing pharmaceuticals in sickbay might have somewhat higher resolution than the ones in the mess hall.

So, what does this mean for TNG-era cooks like Benjamin Sisko and his dad? Some guesses:

Chefs might use specialized ultra-high-resolution replicators, either ones specifically designed for culinary use or repurposed ultra-high-res replicators from some other application (like a pharmaceutical replicator), to produce higher-quality replicated foodstuffs.

Cooks and bakers may prefer to replicate raw materials and then prepare them the old-fashioned way. For instance, it would probably make more sense for a baker to have replication patterns for different kinds of flour, eggs, sugar, etc. than to try to image and store complete breads and cakes, since the same ingredients could be used to create many different finished products.

People undoubtedly still cook with non-replicated ingredients where they can get them, and probably routinely combine replicated and non-replicated ingredients. An apple pie made with fresh-picked apples and replicated flour and sugar is probably still better than a wholly replicated pie.

There might be a whole genre of cookbooks focused on cooking with replicated food, aimed specifically at working around the impact of resolution-related "single-bit inaccuracies" on how food tastes.

People probably have strong opinions about the impact of replication, such as which foods or drinks can't be satisfactorily replicated, and the pros and cons of different replicated and non-replicated foodstuffs.

People on starships probably occasionally try to make food or beverages with the sickbay replicators, insisting that it tastes better that way.

#star trek #star trek the next generation #rick sternbach #michael okuda #pseudoscientific gobbledygook #star trek deep space nine #benjamin sisko #there WOULD be extensive discussions #about how or whether replicated food could be kosher or halal #except that star trek is explicitly antisemitic and islamophobic #and discovery asserts that islam and judaism were exterminated in the 21st century

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kiera-raelyn · 3 months ago

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So, this post had me thinking.

Specifically, it's got me thinking about AtLA and Ba Se Sing university. There are a bunch of college/university AUs set there. Most of them tend to be Modern AU on top of that, though. I'm not sure if college/university is automatically modern? And that kind of matters in this case. Because you could actually write a college/university AU set in AtLA that wasn't a Modern AU. BSSU is canonical, and it works to some degree like our universities (in that it has professors, students, and classes/lectures). You could have a bending, pre-industrial college/university AU without changing pretty much anything about the AtLA world. You would have to put some thought into what classes/concentrations are offered, because obviously they wouldn't have things like computer science, but…

I dunno, I'm just thinking about how you could make this work in a post-Zuko's coronation canon-divergent AU.

Long post is long, so... Keep reading under the cut if this is an interesting idea to you.

First of all, Iroh is Acting Regent in the Fire Nation. 1) because he loves his nephew and is not, in fact, a giant douche who fucks off to BSS and leaves his nephew alone in enemy territory (do you want assassins? that's how we get assassins) and 2) I love him, but Zuko is frankly not prepared to rule a whole ass country.

Prior to Azulon's death, Zuko would have been 4th in line to the throne. He was probably expected to join the military when he came of age and either continue on in a military career his whole life or eventually end up an advisor to his cousin, Lu Ten. He became crown prince at age 11/12 (95 AG). He's banished at 13 (97 AG). So, he got roughly 2 years of education, at most, on how to rule the country before he was shipped off to sea. But we know he wasn't allowed to war councils (presumably due to his age, not just because his father hates him), so there were probably other councils etc, that he wouldn't have been allowed to attend, too. Iroh probably would have tried to educate him as best he could on the ship, given his hopes that Zuko would turn away from his father and the FN's nationalistic teachings, but Zuko was… narrow-minded in his pursuit of the Avatar, shall we say. I doubt he spent too much time on learning to be Fire Lord, because the whole point was moot if he didn't end his banishment. So. Completely unqualified. Feeling unprepared af for his future as Firelord, and under pressure from his uncle to gtfo and be a teenager, he enrolls in university.

Holy shit. Trying to figure out how the education system worked in AtLA is crazy. I get the impression that this was not an aspect of worldbuilding they spent much thought on when they introduced the concept of BSSU. From what I can gather, there were "several" universities in the FN by the time the war ended. We're not going to stick Zuko in one of those, though, because they are definitely in need of numerous reforms/revisions to the curriculum and that's going to take awhile.

Ohh, damn. Hold on a second, though. This is cool. The Unity was apparently a "massive vessel ... built with the accumulated technological knowledge of the learning institutes of the four nations ... [and] set out on a year-long trek to visit all the different nations, sharing their studies and technology in a gesture of togetherness."

You thinking what I'm thinking?

That's right, the Suite Life on Deck/AtLA crossover no one asked for!

I'm actually really loving this, tbh, because I was super struggling with how going to BSSU, an Earth Kingdom university, was going to help Zuko learn how to be a good ruler to the FN. Like, any political science or law information is going to be geared to the EK, which might be useful in terms of diplomacy with them, but not in terms of ruling another country. Additionally, there was the issue of how I was getting Katara (and most of the rest of the Gaang!) there, too.

But I think a giant ship, crewed by people from the various nations and populated with tutors from the White Lotus and other nations is like, the perfect solution. We're going to grab Fire Sage Shyu and throw him on the ship (wow, he is way more qualified for this than I first thought! - he comes from a long line of dissenters, so you know he has been hoarding the pre-Sozin FN knowledge). They would put out a call to BSSU faculty for anyone willing to join. I think the same would be true for all the Water Tribes (Northern, Southern, and Swamp). And probably there would be people from all the world's governments on board, to keep an eye on things and make sure this isn't an insidious FN plot.

Firelord Regent Iroh would spearhead the initiative as the Grand Lotus of the White Lotus. Not in the open, obviously. Like, people might know of the WL's existence now, but I don't think Iroh would reveal his ties to it, necessarily. I just think he would mobilize the WL's resources to make the whole endeavor happen. He recognizes that Zuko needs to be educated not just in actual FN history (instead of the propaganda in the schools), but also in the histories and cultures of the other nations, as well. And it wouldn't hurt for the other students on this vessel to learn the FN's potential, what it was before the war and could be now. So, this vessel and its voyage serves three functions: 1) to get Zuko (and, ideally, the other future leaders and shakers of the world) that education and knowledge; 2) to foster understanding and goodwill between the nations; and 3) it serves as a gesture of good faith from the FN, illustrating its commitment to moving forward as part of the world again, not its conqueror.

Ooh, boy. That is a lot. I think the only other thoughts I have on this at the moment are that, unlike the Unity's voyage, this one would last more than a year. Because I said so.

But also because I see the ship making stops all around the world and I think a lot of those stops would not be short stops. Like, they would probably spend the first winter in the Southern Water Tribe. And they would probably spend a lot of time in Yu Dao, or at the Air Temples (which all appear to have water access). Like, these kids are traveling the world together (this time with adult supervision!), learning about it, helping it rebuild, and getting firsthand experience solving real world problems. They are preparing to become leaders for their peoples.

I need a name for this ship. For tagging-of-this-AU purposes, if nothing else. I'm thinking something with Harmony in it? We could be lame and just do Harmony, like they did with Unity. Maybe Harmony's Hope?

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rscroogewritesfic · 25 days ago

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Note: This is a scrapped one-shot I wrote about how Scrooge's dad feels about them 'dating' PV.

Ichabod pushed a stapler out of his way, shuffled a few papers around, and started setting a few rubber ties across the desk. He tugged a bundle of cables out and started stretching each one, making a mental note of how long they were, and getting ready for the tedious task of setting up proper cable management.

He should have been at his desk, surrounded by pumpkin themed tchotchkes, and digging into code for incoming student registry. If he was left alone, he’d dreamed up a solution that would resolve 60% of the later issues with misspelled names, a last minute surname change, and other minor mistakes that came with class sign-ups. Instead, the general IT guy that took care of classroom issues like faulty projectors and “Have you turned it on and off again?” had called out.

As the unofficial second in command after the director, Ichabod had been recruited for preparing the equipment in the new professor’s office. While this wasn’t his job and only tangentially related, he begrudgingly trudged down to do it anyway since the dean really wanted to roll out the red carpet for whoever this vaunted addition was.

The college had been desperate to find somebody to round out their biology course load. They’d been pushing to expand that curriculum from general science and classes dual course high school kids used to earn easy credits to something more esteemed for years. This year, they scored the credentials needed to offer a bachelor level biology degree. One of the requirements was a more robust bio-engineering program.

They’d actually approached Ichabod to teach since he had a master’s in biology and held a temporary post at a facility looking into splicing starfish DNA with a human or anthro in the vague hope it could regrow limbs. His experience and degree didn’t exactly fit. He’d been more of a note taker or quality control rather than the main scientist performing experiments. Plus, he’d switched to tech and computers over 10 years ago. What technical terms or otherwise he used to know like the back of his hand were fuzzy memories in present day.

As Ichabod was about to crawl back under the desk, he noticed a figure enter the office from the corner of his eye. He stood back up, anticipating the beak-nosed and cranky dean. Instead, it felt like ice water had been poured down his neck. There stood an unnervingly familiar man in a lab coat, tight pants, and white boots with a purple complexion and an indifferent stare.

Ichabod’s grip on the cables tightened.

“Hey!” The visitor said with an attempt at a smile and a general wave. “I’m Professor Venomous. I wanted to sneak a look at my new office.”

“Mm..” Ichabod grunted. “Still setting up your computer. Should be done by late afternoon.”

“Great.” Venomous walked in. “So...are you who I’d go to about tech issues?”

“Things like log-in info, class portal issues, student registry, yes.” Ichabod was trying to hide how much he was seething. “I’m Ichabod Crane. The general IT guy, who you’ll see a lot more of, is Mike Warner. He’s out today.”

“...Crane? Sounds familiar.” Venomous thought it over for a moment while tapping his chin. “Oh! You’re Scrooge’s father, right?”

Ichabod almost bit his tongue. “...I’m Kathryn’s father, yes.”

“They’re one of my colleagues in my other...profession.” Venomous smirked like he was clever. “They’ve mentioned you a couple of times, Mr. Crane. It’s a pleasure to meet in person.”

If Ichabod’s grip tightened any more, he was going to snap the cables in half.

“She brought you up the other night.” Ichabod tried to keep his tone calm. “A lot.”

“We’re pretty close,” Venomous replied, letting him painfully fill in the blanks.

While he wasn’t great at reading people, Ichabod noticed the shift in the professor’s expression and the flash of his fangs. All that did was make his blood boil and wish that he could punch the man’s face in so far it left a crater where his nose used to be.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Maybe we’ll see each other again at a family dinner or something.” Venomous shrugged. He had the audacity to hum a few bars from the wedding march as he shuffled out.

When Ichabod looked down, the cables had been reduced to snapped bits of copper, the colorful outer coating, and other viscera.

****

Ichabod stared at his pathetic TV dinner, prodding at the plastic mac and cheese with his fork.

“It...still looks pretty frozen, dear.” Ichabod’s wife Mauve pointed at the ice chunks and freezer bits clinging to the meat loaf slab and green beans.

“Kathryn’s coming over again on Thursday, right?” Ichabod chewed his lip.

“Yeah, Thursday!” Mauve chirped as she fiddled with her knitted blanket. “She’s bringing her little boyfriend this time! I’m trying to get her to tell me what his favorite dish is.”

“Mauve…” Ichabod growled. “You’re seriously entertaining this?”

“What?” She frowned. “I’m not sure I like Box kid’s new name. It’s a little much, but I’ve always thought he was a pleasant young man. Just a little misguided.”

“I wish it was that little twerp,” Ichabod said through gritted teeth. “Professor Venomous is someone else entirely. I told you about Foxtail reaching out a few weeks ago?”

Mauve blinked both sets of her compound eyelids. “Did she find that poor young woman?”

“Yeah, they managed to find her just before she hit subatomic level.” Ichabod’s scowl deepened. “The character Foxtail was trying to apprehend...That was Professor Venomous’ doing.”

“Oh…” Mauve covered her mouth. “Maybe...Kathy’s friend is an impersonator or something?”

“No.” Ichabod ground his palms into his forehead. “He’s the real thing. He’s the new teacher at the Neutral Zone college. I ran into him and he was pretty obnoxious about the fact he’s dating our kid. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the reason Kathy became a villain.”

“Maybe...this is just a bad boy phase?” Mauve nervously clicked her claws together. “I dated a few villains in my early 20’s too.”

“Oh, I get the appeal. Everyone’s dated at least a few,” Ichabod said with a dry chuckle. “From what you’ve said, your guys rode motorcycles and robbed convenience stores.”

“I did date a planet eater!” Mauve wore a wicked smile, showing off her pointed teeth.

“Yeah, yeah….one date with Cosma.” Ichabod rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

“Yes, it does.” Mauve glared. “You’re a legend if you go on at least one date with the kaiju queen.”

“Whatever. I don’t want Professor Scumbag in my house…” Ichabod speared a green bean and started squishing it open with a fork tong. “I really hope this is just a phase. I wish she’d cut out this villain crap already. It’s embarrassing...”

“Try to play nice,” Mauve said. “If you go in heated, it’s just going to make things worse.”

“He’s not stepping foot in my house.” Ichabod’s eyes flashed.

“Okay.” Mauve folded her hands diplomatically and casually flicked her tail. “BBQ at the Golden Elixir. It’s cheap. Just about everybody likes BBQ. It’s a popular couple breakup spot…” She winked at Ichabod and he raised his brows.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind bringing home some shrimp.” Ichabod nodded and pushed himself back up, distracting himself with thoughts of sumptuous seafood as he shoved his sad dinner back in the microwave for another minute or so.

****

Ichabod tried to focus on the pulp-y sci-fi novel he was reading, but his nerves were getting to him. His gaze shifted between the sentence he’d read four different times already and the buttery yellow paper lantern hanging over the front restaurant door.

While he was frayed, Mauve was a wreck. She was jiggling her knee, tapping her claws together, scrolling through her feed on her phone, and swiped three more napkins out of the nearby dispenser. At that, Ichabod lightly elbowed her and pointed at the napkin stack she was building. She shot him a frustrated glance before taking a few of the napkins and shoving them in her axolotl-shaped purse.

She had so many odd bits and bobs inspired after or based on axolotls. He’d teased her that her collectibles would be the equivalent of him carrying around human-shaped bags or statues with dead eyes and she responded that monkeys would be a more appropriate comparison.

That’s when the match made in hell walked through the door. Ichabod almost didn’t recognize Venomous in something other than his ridiculous tight pants and lab coat. Despite himself, Ichabod thought the professor looked respectable for once in a collared shirt, blue cardigan, and khaki pants that actually had breathing room.

A thought struck him. Of course he wouldn’t clock this right away as an older heterosexual man, but Venomous definitely fit the pretty boy template a lot of younger women were really into. That was probably the bigger reason Kathy was hanging off of Venomous’ arm and pressing her face against his shoulder. He wanted to vomit when he watched Venomous mouth something at her and gently brush hair out of her face. Of course she’d dyed her hair fire engine red. The stupid orange sunglasses were new too. It was a dramatic complement to her boyfriend’s cool color aesthetic.

Kathy didn’t let go of Venomous until they were sitting across from Ichabod and Mauve. But it didn’t stop the giggles, the heart shaped irises, the hair twirls.

“So, um…” Kathy cleared her throat. “Mom, Dad. This is my colleague, Professor Venomous.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” he said with a snake oil grin. He took Kathy’s hand and laced their fingers together in full view of Ichabod and Mauve.

“I’ve heard quite a lot. It’s nice to finally meet you, dear.” Mauve nodded. “I’m Mauve. Feel free to call me ‘Ma’….if you want to!” She laughed nervously.

“I’d prefer to be called Mr. Crane,” Ichabod chimed in, letting some ice fill his tone.

Venomous nodded while Kathy narrowed her eyes.

“So...Kathy talked my ear off about some mutant worm caterpillar...thing?” Mauve tapped the table.

“Mom, it’s Scrooge.” She sucked on her bottom lip before adding. “Or Felix. If you’re still going by old school ‘don’t use your villain moniker in private life’ rule.”

“Felix?” Ichabod met her eyes and blinked several times in disbelief. Mauve smacked his hand under the table.

“Sorry, Kat-I mean, Felix.” Mauve folded her hands and started fiddling with her fingers. “It’ll take a bit for me to adjust.”

“So, the mutant is a cross breed between a caterpillar and a worm,” Venomous cut in. He was lightly stroking Kathy’s arm and shifted his gaze between her and Mauve. “My goal is a critter that both benefits a garden and eats every other parasite and pest that might show up.”

“I...mentioned it’d be a big help with my herbs,” Kathy chimed in shyly.

“Oh, neat.” Mauve clapped and placed her palms on the table. “Sounds like I could use one!”

“For the rose garden you endlessly wax poetic about but never happens?” Ichabod chuckled.

“I have that rose bush clipping…” Mauve cut in.

“You mean the collection of sticks and dry leaves in the closet!” Ichabod butted her with his elbow and grinned. “No. Just kidding. I set it up out back.”

“I’m considering planting some rose bushes in front of my new house,” Venomous commented.

“Ooh! What color? Mine are yellow,” Mauve said, a note of genuine interest in her voice.

Another half hour crawled by with surprisingly boring, mundane conversation. Ichabod put together a few beef and vegetable skewers and worked through those with only a few single word answers.

He started zoning out, wondering what the space captain in his novel would find at the edge of the universe and what code he’d try out tomorrow in hopes of getting caught back up. As long as the dean didn’t pull him away for more stupid errands related to Professor Scumbag, he could clear his queue for the inevitable mountain of students switching classes 5 different times, botched teacher log-ins, and other nonsense.

Ichabod returned to reality when a too-chipper waiter slapped a black folio and bill on the table. He started reaching for both out of habit but Venomous was faster. Moments later, the waiter ferried away a black credit card and a showy blue fountain pen. The logo and name on the side reminded Ichabod of some really bougie designer label he’d probably seen flash by in a commercial or mercilessly name-dropped in one of Mauve’s romcom movies.

“...thank you, Professor. You didn’t have to!” Mauve was saying in her sweet, “I like this person” voice.

“Oh, no problem at all!” He flapped his hand with a satisfied, shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ve had some ventures take off recently, so I’m doing quite well.” He shot a challenging look in Ichabod’s direction, probably the same look he gave his regular hero rivals or victims. If he was hoping to intimidate Ichabod, all it did was irritate him.

“We’ll cover you next time, son.” He shot an obnoxious smile back. “Return the favor.”

“Much appreciated, Mr. Crane.” The grin turned into a smirk.

As everyone stood up to leave, Ichabod glared at Venomous’ retreating form. Of course, Kathy was snuggling up to his arm, gushing in that high-pitched and affectionate tone lovesick people used as she traced circles on the back of his neck. After the nightmarish display walked out, Ichabod held up a finger at Mauve and she gave him a baffled glare.

“Really, Ich?” She folded her arms.

“Yes,” he hissed. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Fine.” She dug deeper creases into the material of her sweater sleeve. “You better tell me everything you hear. Every last word.”

“Of course! Something to entertain your friends with…”

She rolled her eyes and started drumming her fingers. Ichabod took a deep breath, activated his powers, and popped off his head. He ripped open a seam in space-time and shuttled his head through, trying to be careful about positioning his disembodied part in a decent spot to eavesdrop. After scoping out the surrounding alley, he set up behind the softly glowing top of a streetlamp. It’d been years since he used his powers for active recon efforts, but the skill hadn’t diminished.

Now he had a bird’s eye view of the other shops along the strip mall. Everything was bathed in crisp night and soft moonlight. If he was more of a cinephile, he would call the scene romantic or ripped from a movie set. Instead, he felt his stomach clench in his body that was several feet away. Kathy blew out a breath as Venomous played with her hair.

“...I’m never asking you to tag along for something like that again,” she said. “I thought it’d be a good laugh but that was just painful.”

“I had fun,” he replied with a churlish chuckle. “Your old man is so easy to wind up. It’s been too long since I had a chance to be that petty.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” she said sadly.

“Hey…” Venomous’ tone turned unexpectedly tender. “I had to cut my parents out of my life too. I get it. It’s difficult.”

“I want to stay in touch with Mauve,” Kathy said. “She’s actually trying.”

“That’s up to you.” He shrugged. “I might reach out again. She has some interesting ideas for landscaping and a good eye for decent soaps.”

“Ugh...I’ll stop now. I’m getting you way more involved than I ever wanted to.” She frowned. “What if this gets back to Billiam? Is that…”

“He won’t care!” Venomous laughed. “He’ll get a big kick out of this, actually.”

“Yeah…”

“Speaking of, think you’ll go to his next party? I can find a sitter for Fink. It’d be nice to have a date that isn’t Billiam by default.” He leaned in closer. “I honestly prefer your company, Scrooge.”

“Nah, I’m staying home,” she replied.

“I can skip and stay in with you,” he offered in a sultry voice.

“No. Go ahead.” She pulled away from him. “I’m….feeling pretty done right now. I’ll see you later.”

“Want me to walk you home?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I need some space right now.”

“See you,” he said softly before leaning in for a kiss.

To Ichabod’s relief, she pushed him away, went for a very quick hug, then walked away. Venomous watched her for a moment before sticking his hands in his pockets and wandering away himself.

Taking another deep breath, Ichabod reunited his head with his body. Mauve clasped her hands and gave him an expectant look and he returned it with a head shake and frown. While a large part of him was glad that Kathy’s relationship with this joker was shaky at best and probably about to fall apart, he wasn’t sure how to process the rest of it. He knew that certain news was going to break Mauve’s heart.

Though, Mauve took people at their word. Ichabod was going to wait out whatever stupid thing his child did next. It was just a matter of time before she came around.

#ok ko fanfic #ok ko let's be heroes #ok ko professor venomous #oc x canon #fan characters #scrapped fanfic #one shot

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yet-another-deanw-girl · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 5: So many questions, so little answers

||The Prophecy Series||

She knew for 15 years that this day would come. She knew her destiny had already been written. That her death had been foretold.

She knew she would have to stop him. She knew she would have to kill him. And she thought she was prepared for all of it. But the day she met him she realized how wrong she was…

Set in Season 10

Pairing: MoC!Dean x Female!OC

Warnings: the usual SPN, language

Episode mapping: After episode 4 of season 10 "Paper Moon"

Note: The events of this story are following season 10 of Supernatural and are taking place between October 2014 and July 2015. I tried to make sure that all the references to weapons, tech, etc. are accurate with the time period.

AN: This is my first time writing a fanfic but the story has been in my head for too long and it just needed to get out. I hope you like it.

AN: English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes.

Image from Pinterest

I spent the past couple of hours answering all Sam's questions.

"How are you supposed to kill him? The Mark will not just let him die so easily." "I don't know yet."

"When is that happening?" "I'm not sure but not before the spring." "Why the spring?" "Because I will not be 33 until then."

"I need to see that prophecy. I may find something to stop it." "You can not. No one can see it except the one that it is about. I can not recite it to you, I can not write it down. There are some strange rules about all of it. I can tell you all the conclusions that I had made and all the situations that it turns out to be right but not the exact words of it." "So this is just your interpretation of the words? You can be totally wrong about all of this?" "I'm not. Not about this." "How, the hell, are you so calm? It will be your death too?" "I had enough time to accept my fate."

"Tell me about this stuff with the bunker. Do you know what's happening with it?" "Not yet. But I will." "How? Do you have any idea how it even works?" "I do... I have a pretty good idea how it works and I have a degree in Engineering and Computer Science, if that will help to convince you I know what I'm doing." "No way! She is going to get along with Charlie pretty well." Until this moment, Dean had been silent for hours. I almost forgot that he is still in the room. At some point, the boys had uncuffed me but I never moved from the chair. After everything that happened today, I'm dying for coffee. At that moment I realized I'm never going to have a good cup of coffee ever again. I will have to do something about that. I'm not going to live my last months coffee deprived. No way! Priorities, right? I'm annoyed, again, and exhausted. All the blood lost from earlier and this interrogation are not a good combination. And… that makes me crave coffee even more. Really? You are thinking about coffee? Now!? Not about the fact you will die!!! Soon!!! Shit! I realize that when I'm in a difficult or unpleasant situation I rely on the coffee. I'm definitely addicted to that stuff. Well it is better to think about coffee than to think about all the other things… I can not afford to do it… Not right now… I had stopped paying attention to the boys a while ago. Apparently Sam had asked me something and now is waiting for an answer.

"That's enough, Sam! She is probably exhausted. Emilia, I'll show you to one of the rooms so you can rest." Dean stands from his chair and riches for my bag, but Sam stops him. "We have to search it first." "Really? She could have killed us on the road if she wanted to do that. You know, when her hand was practically on her gun." "It's ok. Search it." Sam opens my bag, raises his brow in amusement and starts pulling out packing cubes. Yeah, I know, I may have a mild OCD… He opens the first cube and goes through my t-shirts looking for weapons. He meticulously goes through everything but when he reaches for the last one he freezes. It's the one with my underwear. I almost lost my composure and burst into laughter. "I have no problem checking this one." Dean announces. Keeping my neutral face is getting harder and harder. Dean is confirming my initial assessment about him. He is a player! Sam only rolls his eyes and quickly checks the last cube.

"Here you are. It's not much but it has a bed and a bathroom. The kitchen is that way. Ahm… the main area is…" "I'm familiar with the layout, Dean." "Oh, yeah. Of course you are. I'll leave you to it then. Tell me if you need anything."

I close the door and go back to the library. Sam is waiting for me there.

"She is not staying here! I don't trust her and I don't think it's safe for you." "Sammy, you heard her. She is not dangerous. And obviously, she can not go back to Europe until she fixes the bunker." "Don't tell me you believe her!" "Oh, I do! I think she knows what she is talking about. But I also know that you are going to do your own research about everything she said. And… we don't have a choice anyway." "Dean, what are we going to do if she is telling the truth?" "If she's telling the truth we will have nothing to do. And when the time comes, she is going to stop me. If she's telling the truth, and she can stop me, I'm not leaving her side." "I'm not letting her kill you! I'll find another way. There is always another way." "Maybe not this time, Sammy. Maybe not this time…" "I'm not letting you die! You understand! I am not! Even if I have to kill her to stop it…"

I'm alone for the first time since I killed the werewolves. It had been just this morning. I look at my watch… just 14 hours ago and it feels like a lifetime. Days like this one tend to feel endless. Days that set your life on a path ending with your demise. I stare at the date. Isn't that ironic? October 11. Exactly 6 months to my birthday. Exactly 6 months until I'm 33. I had known for almost 15 years that my 33rd birthday would be my last one. And I may have said many times that I have accepted my fate and my destiny but the fact is, I haven't realized the full meaning of that until now. In less than 18 months I'm going to die. I'll never see my family again. I'm never going home. This is where it will end. And I finally know who will be the monster I'm destined to stop... And why… He is not a monster at all. They had told me about the reasons Dean had taken The Mark. He had done what he needed to do and now he is wearing one of the most dangerous marks on his arm. It will not be his fault. He is just going to lose control. And all hell will break loose after that. This is going to be harder than I imagined…

I have been standing at the edge of the bed, lost in my thoughts, for almost an hour. My abdomen starts to hurt again and that pulls me out of my head. I start rummaging through my bag in a search for some painkillers. I get out some clean clothes and the medicine kit. Thank God I have packed some of the good stuff. The witches are pretty good with all the pills and lotions and things. I change my bloodied jeans with clean ones and I remove the plaid shirt. The bandages on my stomach are tight and I wander to the bathroom to use the mirror to remove them and clean up the wounds. I manage to remove all of the dressings and look at my abdomen for the first time since the attack. It's bad. And really huge. "The four blood lines". The prophecy is right on point again. Well, I thought that this 'blood lines' are going to be something else entirely… some old family lines or something like that… but… well… the prophecy is like one big riddle… I take a breath and open the jar with the lotion. This is definitely going to leave a scar no matter how good the witches' magic is. I hear a knock on the door and before I can answer, Dean is entering the room. "I just want to check if you need… Oh… I'm sorry… I didn't realize…" "It's ok. Just give me a second to… Fuck…" In my attempt to hurry I poke at my wound too hard. "Let me see that." Dean is standing on the doorway of the bathroom. He turns me around to face him and examine my shredded stomach. "It doesn't look infected. That's the good news. But it will definitely leave a scar. What's that?" He asks when he sees the jar with the strange looking content. "I'm not exactly sure." I admit. "Something the witches had concocted for situations like this. It should speed up the healing process. But yeah, I think this will leave some scars. At least, I know for sure, it's not going to kill me. That's your brother's task…" He looks at me with amusement and puzzlement in his green eyes at my attempt at joking. Oh, those eyes… I'm definitely in trouble… "Too soon?" I ask with a smile. "You are… something else!" He chuckles.

Chapter 6: A Girl Stuck in a Bunker >>

||The Prophecy Series||

AN: Hey! I hope you like the story so far!

Thank you for all the support! I get exited for every like, comment and reblog.

This story has been in a work for s long time, mostly in my head. So I decided to write it down just to get it out of my mind. I always had an overactive imagination they say.

So... The story was collecting dust for a while but I kept going back to it and revisited it from time to time.

I'm not too good with words. I have always been thinking more in pictures. And then I started to experiment with different AIs for image creation - mostly trying to break them and test their limits. But eventually, I realized I can create images for my story and I got overly exited.

That's how we are now here.

I'm still learning how this thing is working, so excuse all the mistakes I'll inevitably make along the way.

I hope not to disappoint you and thank you all again for the support!

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