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vivwritesfics · 5 months

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No Need To Ask

Chapter Twenty-Three - Without Him

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

2.1K words

Series Masterlist

Recap from a previous chapter:

Carlos's phone vibrated against his chest. He picked it up, reading the text. "What is it?" Y/N asked softly, gently. Carlos wasn't hiding the screen from her or anything, but the text was in Spanish and she couldn't yet read it.

"My mother," he answered as he replied to the message. She was okay, had been in contact with Carlos ever since she'd made it to Alonsos safehouse.

As much as the Sainz family and the Alonso family hated each other, they had an agreement in place. If anything happened to the Sainz, those who could get out were to get to Alonsos territory if they could. It worked both way, with the Sainz offering sanctuary for Alonso and his men if needs be.

Señora Sainz had made it to Alonsos territory. By the time she'd gotten there, the attackers had left Alonsos. It was in a state, everything broken, documents missing, just like Carlos's house.

Alonso hadn't escaped like the Sainz family had. He had a bookcase that he could hide behind. Once he was behind it, the bookcase looked bolted to the wall, unmovable. Nobody thought to look for Alonso in there.

When Señora Sainz arrived at the Alonso house, he took her and her daughters to his own safehouse.

While she was in the Verstappen Stronghold, Max was the only person Y/N spoke to. He was the only person who would speak back to her.

She'd heard the rumours growing up, that Max Verstappen was as ruthless and terrifying as his father. But she didn't see that. To her, Max was sweet and kind and definitely not terrifying.

He loved joking, loved making her laugh. Actually, he was the best company she could have asked for while she was waiting for her husband to return.

Max gave her the tour of the Verstappen stronghold. He showed her the library, the home cinema, Max's very own game room. That game room wasn't Y/N's sort of game room. There were screens and monitors on every wall, with every type of gaming console known to man. There was a cabinet full of board games, Monopoly, cluedo, battleships, and chess.

The two of them spent a lot of time in the games room, playing chess with him. Well, it was more like Y/N playing a game of chess alone while Max playing his racing games on his xbox and tried his best to talk to her at the same time.

It wasn't like last time, when Y/N was the newcomer in Carlos's house. She wasn't going to rot away in her room while she waited for her husband to return. Time would pass by quicker if she kept herself busy.

"So, you're pregnant?" Asked Max as he drove around the corner. His set up had a proper steering wheel with the foot pedals and everything.

Y/N looked up from her game of chess. "Did Carlos give it away?"

Nodding his head, Max concentrated on the game. But the bots he was playing against were all colliding into the back of him, causing him to retire from the race. "Actually, he said you guys are gonna name the baby after me."

She couldn't stop herself from laughing at him. "Somehow, I really doubt that, Max."

"Yeah, but think about," he said, turning in his gaming chair. "You could name it Maximus Sainz, which is probably the most bad ass name for a head of family, ever."

Y/N rolled her eyes. She and Max continued chatting casually in this fashion as he played his racing simulator and she played her game of chess. Day after day went like this, but she didn't get bored. Not while she was waiting for Carlos to return.

Max was her solace in this time.

***

When Carlos returned to Spain, he was incredibly scared for his own life, although he'd never admit it. He had a wife who he loved, a wife who loved him, and a baby on the way. It wasn't like when he was a kid and he could throw himself into the line of fire without a second thought. There were people who counted on him. People he wanted to be there for.

When he landed back in Spain, from what was hopefully his last ever commercial flight, he rented a car. His car was too recognisable now.

His driving was still smooth as he headed back to his house. Their house. The house they were going to raise their baby in.

As he drove, his phone buzzed. Carlos easily answered it as he continued towards the house, holding the phone up to his ear as he steered. "Hamilton," he said into the phone.

"Sainz. I am sorry to hear about your father," said Lewis. "I've heard from almost everybody but you that they have managed to recover. How are you doing?"

Carlos sucked in a breath. "They found us in the safehouse," he said. "I've had to send my wife away but I won't be saying where, if it's okay with you," he said and Lewis agreed. So, Carlos continued. "I am heading back to my house to rebuild," he said.

"Keep us informed," said Lewis.

Carlos hesitated before hanging up. He had just one question left for the head of all of the families. "Norris, is he okay?" He asked him.

"Yes," Lewis answered quickly. "He's tightened his security, just as all of us have."

Carlos hung up the phone. There was no goodbyes in the mafia family, they just stopped the call. Carlos pulled over to dial one more number.

"Y/N?" Said the person on the other side as soon as they picked up.

Carlos pulled back onto the road, driving towards the house. "No, Lando. It's her husband," he said flatly.

The noise Lando made was unrecognisable. "Where is Y/N? Is she okay?" He asked quickly, urgency in his voice. Clearly, he was panicked.

"Yes, Lando, she's fine. I've gotten her somewhere safe," Carlos answered. "But I need you to do me a favour and call Max," he said.

"He's right next to me."

For a moment, Carlos frowned. He'd just left Max in the Netherlands. What on earth did Lando mean? But then it clicked. He always seemed to forget about Lando's best friend Max. "No, the other Max," he said. "Verstappen. Give Max Verstappen a call," He said and put down the phone.

Carlos drove the rest of his way to the house in silence, just praying that Lando did what he asked.

He pulled up to the house, the gates shutting behind him. They'd have to go, he thought as he imagined a few more rows of wall and gates. It would all have to be completely fortified.

He abandoned his car and walked into the house. The doors were already being replaced by metal ones, ones that bolted shut and required a retinal scan to get in.

Carlos made his way up to his office. That was where all the controls would be. It had been cleaned up by his men since the last time he'd been there, his papers put back into order. There was a stack of receipts, the costs of fortifying the house.

He wanted guard dogs, too. They weren't his usual sort of dog, with Carlos preferring something small. But he'd get the biggest dog around if it meant keeping his wife and unborn child safe.

He checked his weapons, all of them still where he had left them. Aside from the few papers, the thieves hadn't stolen anything. It was so confusing, what they actually wanted from him. They hadn't stolen anything of value, just paperwork.

The thieves had only seemed to attack every other family once. But Carlos had been targeted twice. Why? What did they want with him?

He signed some papers, allowing construction to start.

***

"You!" Shouted Señora Sainz as she stared at Oscar. She grabbed a hold of Alonso's gun and pointed it straight at Oscars chest. "What do you think you're doing here!?"

Suddenly, Alonso grabbed a hold of the gun, taking it away from Señora Sainz. "Now, now," he said, placing it in one of the many desk drawers. "There is no need to resort to violence."

Señora Sainz grumbled and crossed her hands over her chest, glaring daggers at Oscar. "I'm sorry to barge in like this," he said, although his tone suggested anything but apology. "But I've got nowhere else to go. Y/N and Carlos have gone and I can't get back to Australia," he said.

"As Webber's boy, you're allowed sanctuary here," said Alonso as he stood up to shake Oscar's hand.

Oscar visibly deflated, like he was a balloon that had lost all of it's air. He suddenly realised just how exhausted and hungry and thirsty he was.

But, before he could ask Alonso for some food, Señora Sainz cut in. "What of my son and his wife?" She asked suddenly.

Unable to hold himself up anymore, Oscar sank into the nearest seat. "They got away," he said. "While we were being ambushed, Carlos managed to get her out. I'm not sure where they are now."

"What ambush?" Asked Alonso.

"Those thieves, the ones that broke into every house. They came for us in the safehouse."

Alonso frowned. He shouted something in Spanish and two of his men strode forward. Oscar recognised one of them to be Lance, on loan from Stroll in Canada. Lando grabbed a hold of Oscar and walked him through the house, promising him food.

Oscar allowed himself to be dragged along. If he didn't get something to eat soon, there was no way he was making it through the night.

***

Max's phone rang. He looked at the caller I.D, a smile gracing his features. He held a finger up to Y/N and ducked out of the home theatre, walking out to the hall to answer the call. "Little Lando Norris," he said, wearing a smile.

"You can't call me that now, Maximillian," Lando responded with a slight grumble. "I'm a head of family now."

Max rolled his eyes. It really was easy to forget that Lando now had as much power as his father did. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair that someone younger than him had to deal with such a burden. "What do you wan?" He asked, his voice still chipper as he leaned against the wall.

"Carlos said I should call you," Lando said, jumping straight to the point.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "Probably because I've got your sister here," he said.

Lando made another one of those unintelligible noises. "What?!" He cried. "What do you mean? Is Y/N in the Netherlands? Are you in Spain? Can I speak to her?"

Unsure just quite how to answer that many questions at once, Max walked back into the theatre and passed the phone to his house guest. She looked at her host in confusion as she took the phone and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?" She called, her voice unsure.

"Y/N?" Came the startled voice of her brother. "Is that actually you?"

"Holy shit, Lando!" She stood, walking into the hall as Max went back to watching the movie. "You're safe," she said. "You're safe, you're safe, you're safe!"

"I've been so worried about you! Why're you with Max? Where is Carlos?"

Their conversation was a jumble of voices, the both of them trying to talk over the top of each other. Y/N needed Lando to shut up and listen and he was rambling, clearly stressed. Y/N could picture him now, his tie knotted too tight, his curls a mess, sticking up in every direction from where he had been pulling them.

"I'm pregnant!" She blurted out when he wouldn't shut up.

That did the trick. Lando fell silent. "Lan, you're going to be an uncle."

"Well, that's great and all, but you haven't actually answered any of my questions," Lando answered.

It wasn't the answer Y/N had been hoping for, but at least he wasn't stressing anymore. So, she calmly and collectedly took him through the events that had ended with her in the Netherlands and Carlos back in Spain.

Lando had only interrupted her once, with a little cry of 'they ambushed you twice?!' but he quickly let her get back to her story.

"That's it," he said as soon as she had finished speaking. "I'm bringing you home right now."

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steddieasitgoes · 4 months

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written for @steddielovemonth Day 7 prompt: Love is: Silently passing them a pickle because you know it’s their favorite. Rating: T (for suggestive language) | no cw

Eddie wouldn’t call Steve a push over, he’s witnessed him annihilate the kids with a bitchy retort and a pointed stare too many times for it to be true, but there are times when Steve’s soft center oozes out, allowing the ones he loves to walk all over him.

Like when it comes to food.

Eddie’s always known Steve’s willing to share his food with his friends. He witnessed it enough times in the Hawkins High cafeteria — Steve wordlessly passing Tommy his unopened applesauce seconds after he finished his own or scooting his tray closer to Carol when she opted for a salad and looked at her choice with regret.

It’s only gotten worse though.

Now, Steve’s plate barely gets set in front of him before there are hands making passes at it. Dustin’s grubby paws snatching the pickle spear from the plate, Max and Erica harvesting his fries until all that’s left are the burnt and wonky ones, Mike and Lucas occasionally shoveling spoonfuls of Mac and cheese into their mouths before it’s even had a chance to cool. Even Robin gets in on it, swiping a slice of garlic toast from his plate like some feral bird.

And Steve never says anything.

Well, most of the time.

If anyone ever takes something he really wants — like the time Dustin tried to get a sip of his Neapolitan shakes a few weeks back — bitchy Steve comes out in force, defending his food with the same ferocity he used to rip a demobat apart with his bare hands in the Upside Down.

With that knowledge in mind, Eddie comes to the conclusion that pickles, fries, Mac and cheese, and occasionally thick slices of garlic toast are low on Steve’s favorite food list.

So, one can imagine Eddie’s surprise when he excuses himself from the movie marathon going on in the living room of Steve’s place in search of a beer refill to find Steve chomping on a pickle spear in the bright light of the fridge.

The sight is something, sure. Especially the way Steve’s sweatpants strain against his ass as he squats to put the jar back. But Eddie doesn’t want to get caught intruding on Steve’s secret pickle whims so he quietly retreats to the living room — beerless, sure, but with a lot on his mind that he doesn’t even care.

If Steve liked pickles all this time, why hasn’t he told Dustin off for always stealing his? And if he’s secretly harboring a love of pickles, what else is he selflessly giving up without anyone knowing? Does Robin know about his pickle love affair?

Eddie spends the rest of the night rethinking everything he’s thought he’s ever known about Steve until he’s so worked up he makes up some lame excuse about needing to help Wayne with some yard work in the morning and leaves right in the middle of the third movie of the night.

On his drive home, he comes to the conclusion that he’s not going to let Steve miss out on pickles anymore. Not if he can help it.

Operation Save Steve’s Pickle gets put in motion the following day when Eddie is summoned via Dustin’s booming voice over the walkie-talkie to lunch to make up for his abrupt departure last night.

It’s business as usual so far in the diner, just with fewer faces. Steve, Robin, and Dustin are the only ones in attendance today, making the corner booth more spacious than it has ever been.

Eddie feels the adrenaline coursing through his veins as the waiter approaches with their food. He might not be running for his life this time around, but his heart sure hasn’t gotten the memo practically beating out of his chest in anticipation of what he’s about to do.

Like clockwork, Steve’s plate is set in front of him and Dustin’s hand snatches the pickle without a second thought. The little shit even has the audacity to take a bite, juices pouring down his chin, as he lets them all know that it’s the best pickle yet.

Eddie wants to strangle him, but he refrains and sticks to the plan. When Steve’s preoccupied lathering his burger in more ketchup than one person should consume, he picks up his untouched pickle spear and slides it onto Steve’s plate.

“Are you giving Steve your pickle right now?” Dustin screeches, drawing the attention of everyone in the crowded diner.

“Maybe don’t phrase it like that, please,” Robin chimes in, burying her face in her hands in embarrassment.

Eddie can’t help but bark out a laugh before glancing at Steve who hasn’t broken eye contact with the pickle on his plate. He’s pretty sure he sees the smallest twitch of his lips, threatening to pull into a real smile but gets interrupted from watching the sight by Dustin’s hand. Eddie swats it away.

“What the hell!” Dustin groans, massaging the back of his reddening hand. “If you’re going to share your pickle, you should give it to me, not Steve. He doesn’t even like them”

“Except he does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Steve,” Eddie huffs, turning in the booth to face him. “Can you please tell this insufferable know-it-all that you do like pickles? Like them so much you have a secret jar in your fridge?”

“I mean, yeah I do—wait how do you know about the secret jar?”

“I caught you eating one last night.”

“You have a secret jar of pickles in your fridge that you’ve never told me about?”

“That is what secret means,” Steve deadpans, rolling his eyes. “You get my pickle every time we come here. Why should I share them at home too?”

“This is a betrayal of epic proportions!” Dustin whines.

“Oh can it, Henderson. Go back to eating your lunch and let Stevie here enjoy a pickle from Sue’s for once in his life!”

Surprisingly, the kid actually listens to Eddie and the table launches into silence except for the crunching of fries and pickles in Dustin’s case because Steve still hasn’t touched his.

Eddie nudges Steve’s forearm, “Better get to it before Henderson makes another pass for it.”

“We could share?”

“No need. This one’s all you.”

Steve gives Eddie one of his uncharacteristically soft smiles before taking a heaping bite out of the pickle. Juice dribbles down Steve’s chin but he doesn’t seem to mind judging by the pure bliss on his face. Eyes closed and head tipped back as if he…

Jesus H. Christ

Maybe giving Steve his pickle wasn’t a good idea after all.

“Holy shit,” Steve moans, taking another bite. “This is the best pickle I’ve ever tasted. Thanks, Eddie.”

Eddie's stunned for a moment, eyes locked on Steve's throat, watching as he swallows before he comes to his senses.

“You can have my pickle anytime, Stevie,” he says without thinking, high off Steve's pickle-drunk expression.

It is not until Robin groans and they all erupt into a fit of laughter does the euphemism lands on Eddie. He didn’t mean it like that, not in the slightest. But hey, if Steve wants that pickle too, Eddie’s sure as hell not going to say no.

#steddielovemonth #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington ficlet #eddie pov #stranger things fic #stranger things ficlet #dani writes

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shuttershocky · 4 months

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what do you think of shu, new sui kid on the block? i like her design. the colors are very tasty looking :)

Shu's design is my favorite among the Sui siblings so far, very impressive given how much Ling was made to appeal to my personal tastes.

It's the Roberta in her eyes (same artist). Can't help but be charmed.

I also love that her whole theme is agriculture. All the Sui embody an artform. Nian does metalwork, Dusk does painting, Ling does poetry, and Chongyue does martial arts, but Shu's art is agriculture. Not to embody an Asian stereotype here but I love the respect towards rice farmers.

Now as for her skillset, Shu is a Guardian Defender, a bold choice when Saria has so thoroughly dominated the Guardian class (or just ground support units in general) that the last 6 star Guardian, Blemishine, steered clear of Saria and played a funky DPS/Sleep/Defensive Recovery support role just to be able to see play.

Shu on the other hand, returns to focusing on heals and support utility, meaning she'll actually be encroaching on Saria's turf. Let's look at her skillset.

So from her first talent, we see that Shu goes all in on utility, compared to Saria talent 1 bulking herself up with +ATK and +DEF stacks, or Maria's talent 1 letting her attack sleeping enemies. The "rice fields" give HP regen instead of heals (which means it heals unhealable units like Musha or Juggernauts) which greatly extends her versatility, and granting shelter to allies hiding in her sowed times is a nice bonus, but what I really value about the talent is that she sows the 4 tiles around a healed ally as well, meaning you can get great coverage on a map.

Her Talent 2 is kind of a meme. The Max HP and ASPD effects are really easy to get which is great, but the SP and ATK buff applied when four of Shu, Nian, Chongyue, Dusk, and Ling are all in the team is kind of a meme imo. That's 4/12 slots taken for a meh attack buff and a 0.25 SP/s increase, which is lower than the +0.3/s provided by Ptilopsis (although Shu's appears to work on all SP recovery types which is nice). The Sui siblings don't really have all that much synergy with each other (in fact Ling would rather fly solo to have as many deployment slots for her summons as possible) so trying to force the Sui buff by having 4 deployed seems to me like you will just be griefing yourself half the time on harder stages.

Now for her skills

S1 looks to be the exact same thing as Saria's and default Nearl's. I think Saria's S1 will remain the most valuable version of this since Saria stacks both ATK and DEF on herself over time and this S1 is mostly used to make a Guardian act as a tank. Shu's regen and shelter from ricefield tiles would have to be crazy high for me to consider her S1 when I already got both Saria and Nearl on S1M3.

Shu's S2 is interesting, it's basically an upgraded version of regular Nearl's S2 (which no one uses). I need to see the numbers on the boost to Talent 1 to properly judge this skill, but for now this could potentially open up new strategic options (due to being a ground unit-based shelter buff). It's manually activated and heals two at a time which can be a pain in the ass vs just using Saria's S2, but I'm looking forward to seeing how much it buffs her sow tiles.

And now for Skill 3.

Welcome to the rice fields motherfucker, you aren't allowed to leave. The bonus ATK and ASPD for allies inside her range is a buff no other Guardian can provide, but the really cool bit is teleporting enemies who have stepped on a Sow tile back into it if they end up walking too far.

I'm going to be honest, I have no idea if that is insanely broken for crowd control or if it's just a big meme, as you need to heal allies to plant sow tiles (so you can't plant ahead of your units to make an unescapable trap without using an Operator to create the Sow tiles). It is weird and creative and a very different take on Saria's S3 also being AOE crowd control and heals though, so I like it and can't wait to experiment with it.

#arknights

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dear-ao3 · 6 months

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who are the 20 f1 meow meows?

max verstappen (fast but an asshole on the track. lives in fear of his cats. winning everything.)

checo perez (might lose his spot. had two separate did not finishes in the same race. kissed another car at the hairpin)

sir lewis hamilton (fashion icon, classiest mother fucker you’ll ever see, knighted, just wants a comeback and to win his 8th world championship)

george russell (walking meme, looks like he belongs in the window of a tommy bahama, says crikey and blimey unironically, the most british person ever)

charles leclerc (the poorest little meow meow, is a millionaire but has a cracked back of his phone, either is fighting for the podium or crashes on the first lap, please dear god let this man win something he has the worst luck i’ve ever seen)

carlos sainz (smooth operator, dunks on everyone’s golf game especially landos, aparently doesn’t eat his pancakes with toppings, drives a volkswagen golf at least sometimes)

lando norris (usually getting told by carlos he sucks at golf, chronically online, has a blanket with george russell’s face on it, gets in trouble for being too sarcastic, please give him a win it’s been 5 years)

oscar piastri (has never once looked like he’s having a good time but almost did once while building a house of cards, hates horoscopes, almost got sued by alpine when he said he wasn’t signing with them after alpine announced he was signing with them, has an iconic mom)

fernando alonso (old man, retired and then came back for some reason, tad villain and he knows it, don’t mention taylor swift around him)

lance stroll (still waiting for his tennis career tbh, his dad bought aston martin to guarantee him a seat, rage monster)

esteban ocon (french, monster of a teammate aparently, once got beat up in the garage by max verstappen, besties with stroll and mick schumacher)

pierre gasley (also french, terrible awful haircut, did i mention he’s french, had his brain chemistry permanently altered by being teammates with yuki, photo dump king)

nico hulkenberg (looks like that one penguin with the weird hair from penguins of madagascar, dad, has raced in over 200 races and never been on the podium)

kevin magnussen (was kicked off haas because they wanted younger drivers only to reappear the next year after they fired one of the drivers for probably funding the russian ukrainian war, once fok smashed a door, has the cutest child)

valtteri bottas (unproblematic king, cyclist, makes his own alcohol, is ass out on netflix and has his own naked calendar called bott ass, mullet mustache man)

zhou guanyu (baby fashion icon, trying his best in a medium shit car, first chinese driver ever in f1)

daniel ricciardo (class clown, made the worst career mistake of leaving red bull and is now trying to get back in, from australia but is a texas cowboy, usually fucking shit up, just wants to tickle his scrotum and touch his nutsack)

yuki tsunoda (wants to chef, was forcibly moved to italy by his team cause he didn’t want to work out with his trainer, short king, usually gets sacrificed to the luck gods, cursed radios)

alex albon (so insanely barbie coded, filmed a cereve commercial in his hotel room with his girlfriend, definitely dyes his own hair with box dye, incredible oldest sibling energy, single-handedly carrying williams)

logan sargeant (what the fuck is a kilometer!!!! only american in f1, usually found in dead last or kissing walls, one of his essential items is heinz burger sauce, says mate with an american accent)

#f1 #not a tag #from saph #i need 1-3 business weeks to recover from vegas

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cerastes · 2 months

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As someone who hasn't touched it yet- how does IS4 stack up? How's first impressions been?

Ok, let me give my thoughts on IS4, now that it's been a week!

TL;DR -> This Rocks, I love it.

IS4 is far, far more polished than IS3. I feel a bit bad blasting and slamming IS3 so much, but the bottom line with it is that it's just very very flawed in ways that really make it hard to revisit it in the same way IS2 is always a fun romp.

If I had to point out flaws with IS4, it'd be that, on a personal level, I wish it had a few more Normal Arknights Maps. The vast majority of maps in IS4 are pranks and checks of some sort. This isn't necessarily a negative, but I do like playing some Tower Defense more frequently than what IS4 allows, since it's always got me worried about "oh god my team lacks X, Floor Y's Map Z checks X, if I get it, I'll D I E " so I try to go for my super tried and true team instead of daring to experiment all that much. This will eventually pass, but it's been a Thing for me.

Besides that, though? I just have a lot of good things to say about it. The systems feel like they were thought out this time: The Fordartals (sp?) system allows for a lot of player expression, agency, and just in general fun in a way the Light system of IS3 can simply never hope to compare to. About the only thing the Light system did right was the way it worked thematically: If you wish to confront The Corrupting Heart, you really, really gotta go in the dark, and for the best possible chance against, Izumik, Mizuki must find the Light again and be filled with hope. Yeah ok sure, thematically, these work, but the gameplay component sucks ass, because Light exists almost exclusively as a form of punishment and in basically no way as something you can use. It opens some roads, sure, but that Rogue Trader and Wish Fulfilled node are not worth having 9 out of you 11 Operators with Metastatic. Speaking of Metastatic, the single worst thing Arknights has done, even if you are maxed out on Collapse in IS4 and are packing four fully upgraded maluses, THAT STILL DOESN'T COMPARE to how bad Metastatic was. Let that sink in.

The endings are no longer RNG! Absolutely wonderful!

Eik is the first IS 2nd Boss I can say I think is good! Frozen Monstrosity was just annoying, Big Sad Lock is incredibly static, and The Last Knight, in my opinion, is the single worst and most boring boss in the entire game, not even just the game mode. Eik is like if The Last Knight didn't suck: Same principle, but done in a way that is actually not snooze-inducing. Mind you, the principle of the fight is still not something I enjoy, but unlike The Last Knight, that's wholly a me thing, as opposed to being an objectively awful and boring fight (like The Last Knight, the worst and most boring boss in Arknights).

Even though I said I'd like some more normal maps, the maps are good, to be honest! I can't think of any Fire and Water Unions or Out of Controls.

IS4 is the Smash of Arknights: (Almost) Everyone Is Here! Brush up on your gimmicks from various events, because they WILL appear.

The Midboss philosophy in IS4 is lovely, in my opinion: It's low HP bosses who can quickly fuck you up in their own way, be it stun, immense conditional damage, or simply supporting their team so well that you get overwhelmed. The Variant stages for the bosses are entire new maps, so that's also cool.

Collapsal enemies are congruent with the map design: Collapsals can be very quick, with a caveat: Normal Collapsal mobs speed up after they get hit, Casters speed up after not attacking for a bit, Aerials are fast but always have many loops and never directly go to the point until after a while. Shattered Champions are the exception, and they can either loop a while or just go straight for the jugular, making them apt Elite units for the faction.

There's much more I could say more concisely, but really, just try the game mode, get your ass kicked a bit, learn it, and then you'll see how coherent the design of IS4 is in terms of systems, maps, enemies, and features. Sorry, IS3, but you got your ass absolutely kicked like I did on my Waves 15 runs when you'd give my 2 main DPS units Metastatic on Floor 5.

#arknights #bricelar

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ikkosu · 2 months

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I would love something, anything with human reader (gn) SSAU, stuck between Prowl and Pharma <3 maybe they’re a mechanic? Or just a nurse? I love how you write the two dorks. They’re just sooooo 👀💚

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A WALL

a/n : ah!!!! my favorite person!!! it's been a while pookie jkjk I am excessively obsessed with them, as well LITERALY (I kid you not. It's about time I write an, ahem, threesome with them

"Have you tried reporting him for harrassment?"

Oh, you've have enough.

Your datapad hits the surface of your desk with a clink, not without letting out a growl of frustration that all the more tightened the coil of a headache, brewing in your temples.

Just a visit. It's just a visit. It's just a visit. He's just being himself he's just—

"You know what, Prowl? You're so damn petty sometimes."

You swivelled to face him, but the cop-bot perched in your chair, your chair, inspecting your work-cubicle, pretends to look away.

Like, he didn't just pester you the whole hour on ethics of trying to fire your own boss and slandering your note-taking skills.

(yellow? seriously? any other highlighter you can choose but you picked yellow? disgusting).

"You should know your adjectives, by now. I wouldn't call that petty. A term I'd prefer is being Strategic." He clipped. "But I'm sure, given how your emotions normally regulate your, whatever you have, is a brain — you wouldn't be able to comprehend such a notion."

He's made a habit of making everything sound so reasonable, it's baffling. You round your desk, stopping short in front of him. Prowl retaliates your scowl by leaning back against the chair. He tips his helm until it hits the headrest and his eyes, flaring blue, peered over the crook of his nose.

You know he's got that stupid bastardly smile underneath the facade.

"What do you want?" You huffed out.

"A simple, round the block, routine checkup. Nothing important. "

"Yeah? Yeah? You're, like, three fucking planets away from your station. I'm sure that's plausible."

Where's Max when you needed him most to beat his ass?

"Anything is possible if you think it to be so."

Oh, you're this close. This close. You look to your watch, groaning internally. Around three hours more you're due for an operation. And you're not even prepared yet! You're supposed to go through your notes on how to yank out a gut from it's slot, not having a verbal spar with Cybertron's number one asshole.

"Look, I don't know what beef you've got with the guy but I thought you're the enforcer here, mister goody two shoes. This is illegal."

He scoffs at that but doesn't seem to regard the last part, however. " It's your boss now, huh."

"Excuse me?"

"Last I heard he was the boss." The chair creaks as he shifts on the spot, looking incredibly out of place in that plush, black office wheeler. " What, did you pucker up your lips and appeased his ego to botch that spot?"

"What?" You sputtered. "Botch that spot? What are you— No, No!— He's my boss!— I— What do you want me to say?"

"That you're not his playtoy." He crosses his arms.

"I'm not!"

"Then, call him by his name." He grits his teeth. "Don't say 'my boss'. It sounds corny. It sounds stupid. You sound stupid." A digit juts your way and you scoff, holding yourself back from commiting first degree murder. " And, you know what's even better? Just don't talk to him. Ever. Not even a look or a smile. Is that understood?"

"Prowl, i—" You sighed, dragging a palm down your face. "Please, tell me you didn't come all the way here to Delphi —all the way here — just to tell me that."

The corner of his mouth tugged up a little. He looks away to hide it, though. "I'm paid to serve the law after all."

"Oh, yeah? You're paid to shut the fu—"

"My, my. That's not a pleasant way to address a man of law, now is there darling?" A low voice crooned behind you and you feel his servos curling over both sides of your waist, chassis against your back. Pharma rests his chin on your shoulder and a chesire grin is directed to the enforcer.

You don't dare to look behind you, but you're also not strong enough to lock eyes with Prowl who's got a death grip on the arm chair, teeth gritting, digits digging into the cushion. Eventually, he stands up to his full height, stepping close, you're almost sandwiched between the two like a smore.

"Doctor." He clips.

"Enforcer." Was Pharma's drawl. "Here to fetch your little pet?"

He bristles, door wings piking up at the term but doesn't regard it. "Here to take them far. How much for a forced unemployment?"

"Oh, nothing much. I usually do it for free, but this one..." Pharma leans close and you yelp when his chassis pushes you forward to press against Prowl's, you guessed it, chassis. "—Is an exception. You see, officer, I actually quite like having this one around. Keeps my arduous moments flourishing, my lonely nights — occupied."

Prowl lands a servo on your shoulder. "Yeah. Figured as much." He grits out.

"Oh, not really. It doesn't have to take much assuming." Pharma straightens up, a servo on the other side of your shoulder. "While, its all in good fun, we three all have a job to do, yes? Best you leave them to their devices now."

He was about to tow you away when Prowl's unrelenting death grip on your shoulder prevents you from moving. "I'd rather not."

"Is that so?" Poison spools out from that drawl.

"Your audials doesn't seem to be of optimum order. Mind If I smoothen out the creases?"

You winced, looking at your watch. Shit. Shit. Shit. Of all times Pharma had to come in, he takes the opportunity when Prowl is here?! You need to prepare yourself right now. That patient isn't going to pull out a gut themself, and they aren't sewing their lungs back, either. If you could just....wiggle from the rooks of their grip and slowly slide away to— Prowl clamps a servo on your waist. Pharma, clutching your shirt.

They hold you close.

Oh, forget it.

A wide, terse grin eases out on the jet's face. "Perhaps your t-cog would need a diagnosis as well. Oh, no, no not just your t-cog. Something else. As a doctor I would'nt want my patient limping for...." He whispered lowly. ".... undercompensation, given how you're strutting around...."

Prowl let's out a low growl in his throat. "Oh? How about we head out side and hunker down a nice 'smoothening out?"

"Don't try me, enforcer." Pharma's mood isn't much better but unlike Prowl he's got a good facade holding up. " You've got what's coming and it won't be pleasant. I suggest you step out now."

Then the bastardly smile curls the corner of his cheek. "Let's test out that theory, then."

Oh, dear.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #transformers idw #pharma #prowl x reader #idw pharma #idw prowl #pharma x reader

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shortpplfedup · 1 year

Text

Ayan being a gremlin to Akk: accurate. Akk being pissy with Aye: also accurate. Getting together isn't a personality transplant operation; they just like kissing each other now they haven't become different people. And people also don't magically know how to be in a relationship, communication and compromise is required. We saw pretty much nothing of established-relationship-post-curse Akk and Ayan in the original series, they literally JUST got together. It's been what, a few weeks in-universe? Maybe a couple months max? Now that they're both starting to heal from their life traumas and out of the pressure cooker of the Suppalo situation and Ayan is reasonably confident that Akk isn't going to end it all, now we are seeing the part where they actually figure out how to be in a relationship with each other (well, some of the early calculus).

These two have ZERO clue how to navigate a relationship. Akk's repressed ass couldn't even acknowledge to himself that he had any kind of romantic inclinations towards anybody until basically moments ago. He is just starting to understand his needs in a relationship through his relationship with Ayan, a person he has never felt the need to people-please with, so yeah, he's salty and snapping. As for Ayan, he's learning that Akk isn't this way because of the circumstances or the environment, he's just like this. He cares about everything and everyone while Ayan cares about what and who he cares about and doesn't really give a rip about the rest of it. There is an intersection there, because what and who he cares about is Akk, but they haven't gotten to that intersection yet where they actually understand what the other person is REALLY asking for. Akk wants Ayan to care more and be less standoffish and more engaged. Ayan wants Akk to care less and be more self-protective and less self-sacrificing.

That general approach is also bleeding into the relationship. Akk wants Ayan to be softer with him (like he was when he was worried he was gonna hurt himself) and Ayan wants Akk to be tougher with him (like he was when he was worried he was gonna tear down everything). It's not an insurmountable problem, but it will require them to use their words, absorb the implications and deliberately alter their behaviours.

Akk's people-pleasing (Ayan's gripe is literally that Akk cares too much about others) and Ayan's self-centredness (Akk's gripe is that Ayan considers himself too much and others not enough) are canon. This is literally what brought them into each other's attention in the first place: Ayan doing whatever he wanted and Akk being pissed about it. Add in that Ayan enjoys riling Akk up for horny reasons and Akk softens whenever Ayan gets affectionate with him. Add in that Ayan has seen in 4k the extreme consequences of Akk's people-pleasing (the literal campaign of terror he rained on an entire school, lest we forget), just like Akk has seen the consequences of Ayan's self-centredness (Thua's anger at Ayan's hypocrisy of staying in while pushing others out).

They just like each other. They haven't become different people. And they now have to learn how to communicate and compromise because liking each other means they care about not hurting each other. Which is one of the themes of the special. One of the things @bengiyo says over and over again on @the-conversation-pod is DICK IS NOT MAGICAL IT DOES NOT FIX YOU. It's why we both bonded over loving drama about staying together more than drama about getting together. This is so intriguing to me, watching this play out, because this is the part romances tend to ignore, either because they end before they get here, or they gloss over here with a time skip. As somebody invested in the intricacies of long-term relationships and the compromises people make or don't make along the way, this is working all over for me.

#our skyy 2 #our skyy x the eclipse #the eclipse #the eclipse series

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rosewaterandivy · 2 months

Text

Everyone But You - a Life as We Know It au

Ch. 1 - Come as a Known Enemy Memory

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Summary: You and your nemesis, the blight of Williamsburg himself, are thrown together under disastrous circumstances. Pairing: e.m. x f!oc w.c.: 4.5K warnings: NSFW / MDNI, immersive second person narration w/ a name and background but no physical description mentioned, big sads, grief, character death, car accident, jason carver mention, legal guidance, CPS, repression of emotions, occasional catatonia, max mayfield esquire

The call comes in somewhere south of 2 A.M. It’s an unfortunate fact of life that you are stone-cold sober, awake, and pouring over the second to last manuscript from the agency.

You answer it by the second ring.

“This is Vance.”

"Ms. Vance, this is Officer Booker at the 94th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m calling on behalf of Christine Carver, could you please come down to the station?”

The telltale sign of a migraine creeps into your head, lashing against your temples to weave around the base of your skull. A forced blink of your eyes while the words from the manuscript swim across your vision. 94th precinct… that’s, what Greenpoint? The fuck was she doing in Brooklyn at this hour?

"Is she alright?”

The officer sighs, “Ma’am, I can’t disclose personal information over the phone. But once you’re down here—"

Innately and intimately, you know something is wrong. Chrissy and Jason were leaving the city tonight, flying out of Laguardia and back to Indianapolis on the red eye, which should have left an hour or two ago. The officer prattles on about policy and regulation as you get your bearings.

"Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” A few pages scatter on the table in your haste to get up, “I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

"Officer Booker ma’am. I’ll let the front desk know to be on the lookout.”

The line drops dead and you lock your phone before slipping it into your pocket. A spring storm whipped through the city, rain falling in sheets outside your apartment window. Slipping into the Hunter galoshes at your door, you attempt to recall Chrissy’s latest missive.

Can’t wait to see you this summer! You and Ed better play nice OR ELSE

The doorman kindly hails you a cab and escorts you to the car, umbrella in hand. You thank him and rattle off an address you’d rather forget in Williamsburg. The ride itself is a quiet hum, briefly punctuated by your various attempts to contact said resident of the Williamsburg apartment which usually ended in a hushed, “Fuck.”

By the fourth attempt, you wonder why you’d ever bothered at all.

It’s not unusual for him to dodge your calls, though it was rare to initiate contact either way. But, rather, this was The Way you had operated since Chrissy posed you Iike her life-size Barbie dolls hoping for a happily ever after— the disastrous date was seared into your memory and played on a loop at the most unfortunate of times, i.e. the night before a big client meeting or during a relay of your Top Ten Greatest Mistakes. And closing in our top three humiliations is…

So, in short, no. No, you did not frequent Brooklyn, and you certainly did not cross the East River if you could help it. Working your ass off at one of the most acclaimed publishing houses did not afford you the luxury to gallivant through the burroughs all hours of the evening, especially not if you wanted to make partner and curate your own client list.

But, clearly, this fact couldn’t be helped tonight.

By the time you arrive in Brooklyn rolling to a stop in front of the brownstone off of Bedford avenue and pay the cabbie, it’s nearing 3 A.M. Dashing onto the stoop in an attempt to avoid the rain, you glance over the numerous intercom buzzers and realize, rather foolishly, that you have no idea which his could be. Luckily, someone is stepping out of the vestibule and you’re able to slip in before the door slams shut.

It’s a walk-up, of course, because this night couldn’t cut you one measly break, could it? The squelch of your galoshes haunts you up the flights of stairs, rain dripping in rivulets onto the steps below. You pause at the third floor, a heavy bass thudding from down the corridor like a siren’s call.

Your fist pounds on the door, punctuated by the clipped sound of your voice, “Munson, I swear to all that is unholy—"

The door opens quickly, and you nearly topple over the threshold. There’s a curl to his lips that tells you he wishes you had careened, tits over ass, in an unfortunate lack of poise, and fell to a heap on his floor. Fortunately, your hand collides with the door frame and finds purchase before any of that can come to pass.

"For Esmé—In Love and Squalor, as I live and breathe.” He drawls, all biting marks and bravado.

Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was a few things: a writer, a pretentious asshole, Chrissy’s high school BFF, the worst person you’d ever had the displeasure of breathing the same air as, and your arch nemesis— just to name a few.

“Well, if it isn’t the ice queen from the Upper West Side! What brings you down here to slum it with us plebs?”

Soaked from head to toe, the rain drips steadily down your face and body. Your mouth opens and closes intermittently, gaping like a fish. How do I say something like this? How do I tell him that Chrissy, our mutual best friend and her husband are in all likelihood dead? Do I tell him, or should I leave it to the cops down at the station?

Because, at this point, nothing has been confirmed. And it won’t be until you’re both at the precinct meeting with Officer Booker. All you had to go on was your gut.

And your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night. After all, there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Hellooooo,” He hangs on the door jamb, long limbed and impatient. “C’mon, if you came all the way down here to bust my balls you could’ve—“

“S-she,” You swallow audibly and try to correct your earlier statement. “They, they’re gone.”

Eddie straightens up. A furrow pinches between his brows. “Who’s gone?”

“Chris, Jason, they just—"

He quickly grabs a jacket and slips on a pair of beaten to hell docs before shutting the door. It briefly passes through your mind that he should get his keys, he’ll need his keys to get back in. But before you can say anything, Eddie’s hand curls around your bicep and steers you down the stairs.

“Okay, okay.” He soothes, guiding you onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going, hospital or precinct? We’ll need a cab or Uber, right?”

Eddie grabs his phone and pulls up an app before muttering, “Fucking surge pricing, what the shit.”

The rain falls steadily, on and on, in the cool spring night as you wait. A seemingly endless vigil for the pair of you, the dark sky blanketing a city that never sleeps.

The blip and wail of sirens increases the closer you get to the station. The cab ride itself had been silent, save for Eddie’s wallet chain jangling as his leg jostled up and down. You’d mostly gathered your wits on the drive over, knew what to do, who to find— your head was as clear as it could be for now.

Eddie pays the fare and nods to the cabbie in thanks as you turn to open the door. His hand finds your arm, fingers trepidatious against the damp fabric of your trench coat.

“D’ya think…”

A pinprick of pressure at the top of your sinuses, eyes blurring with newly minted moisture. A quick sniff to clear your nostrils as you slowly exhale.

”I hope not.”

You push the door open and stride across the wet pavement. An officer holds a door open for you with a tight-lipped smile.

”Hi,” You say, clearing your throat. “I’m looking for an Officer Booker?”

A desk jockey leads you both back to a small conference room and offers you a choice of coffee or water. You take him up on it and anxiously wait for Booker’s arrival.

”Hello,” A man greets, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Booker. You must be Esmé Vance. And this is…?”

”Eddie Munson,” He says with a cough.

Booker nods, as if he expected it. “Of course,” He takes a seat and places a manila folder on the table between you. He takes a beat, looking each of you in the eye, a tinge of sorrow precedes his next comment. “There was an accident, and it is with sorrow and regret that I inform you—"

And with that, the world drops dead.

A harsh buzzing, like static, fills your ears. Unwittingly, you clutch at Eddie’s hand, slotting your fingers together. Can’t bring yourself to worry over how cold and clammy your palm is against the dwarfing warmth of his. He squeezes your hand back, nods at whatever Booker is saying, something about finding your information as her I.C.E. contact on her phone.

"The first responders found it and we took it from there. But now we need numbers for the nearest next of kin, can you supply those?”

Big, wet tears fall silently down your cheeks and you can’t bring your vocal cords to work, to say something as simple as yes.

"Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies instead, accompanied by a violent sniff. “Her parents are back in Hawkins, Indiana— Peter and Ellie Cunningham.” He rattles off their home phone number as you watch, mesmerized, tremulous tears falling unabated down his face.

There’s scruff bordering on five-o’clock shadow peppering his cheeks and jawline, errant curls falling from the sloppy topknot on his head. He looks exhausted, as if the last half-hour has robbed him of sleep, bluish hollows like crescent moons underneath his eyes.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand.

No, he’s held it like a vise. As if it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“You said the car flipped? It—It flipped when it hit the…”

Booker looks at both of you, really takes a long, hard look.

Two kids, really. Early thirties, if he had to guess, and hopelessly floundering in the midst of a goddamn bitch of an unimaginable situation. Shit, he couldn’t tell which way was up at that age, and by then he’d had a badge and a gun.

Then, as if it’s dawned on you for the first time:

"They have a baby, w-who is she with now?“ You stutter out, dread curling low in your stomach. You clench Eddie’s hand all the harder.

The harsh whisper of your voice brings a halt to the conversation. Eddie gapes back at you, wide eyed and woebegone.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Booker says, rising to leave, “I’ll get a deputy to contact the parents and ascertain where the child is. Sit tight ‘til then.”

The door clicks shut.

And the wail that careens up your throat is enough to kick-start Eddie’s survival mode into gear. He pushes away from the chair to sit at your feet, one hand grasping yours while the other winds around your waist and presses you to his torso. Sobs wrack your body, loud and hiccuping, while his lips murmur softly at the crown of your head.

Nothing he’s saying registers. But he’s there and warm, one large hand trailing the expanse of your back, up and down and over again; it’s almost soothing. He’s taller than you, something you’d always known from his penchant to loom over you, but you don’t seem to mind it just now.

Tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest, it feels almost safe. His physical proximity and the way his body seems to mold around your own, protecting you from the sickening reality that she’s gone, and the sharp pain that kicks up in your gut, lends you enough comfort to make an attempt at processing this disaster. Chrissy and Jason, both gone in one fell swoop. Their daughter, Zoë, effectively orphaned and alone.

A beautiful, innocent little girl, a veritable copy of her mother, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Soft coos and footie pajamas, waiting for parents who would never return.

What would happen to her?

It’s that very thought that snaps you out of your tear-streaked state as Officer Booker returns. Eddie sets you back on the chair, hands patting along your arms to check that you’re okay, at least for the moment. Catching his eye you give him a small nod.

"The Cunninghams have been informed and are on their way. The child was with the nanny, but CPS has taken over her care for the time being.”

”What, why?”

Eddie’s posture has changed, what was once hunched in an uncomfortable precinct chair has now straightened up, his spine pulled taut with tension.

“It’s procedure until the next of kin can be notified.”

”No, that’s—" You stand abruptly, “We’ve gotta go. I mean, unless you need anything…?”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re free to go.” He stands and offers his hand to you once more, “My sincere condolences to you both.”

Leaving the precinct in a blur, you hardly realize you’re back on the sidewalk. On auto-pilot, you step out to hail a cab. Eddie, the lingering presence behind you, continues to silently brood.

As the cab pulls to the curb, a sharp jerk of your arm pulls you backward to collide with an oomph against him. You turn an apology on the tip of your tongue that vanishes at the sight of him.

For all you know of Eddie Munson, one thing is for certain, it takes a lot to render him silent. And while you were rapidly losing it in the station, he had held it together. But the second you mentioned Zoë, all the fight left him.

“Munson,” You croak, trying to draw him out from his racing thoughts. “We’re going to her, she’s not going to be alone, I promise you.” His eyes track your face in the light from the street lamps. “We’ll be on the next flight out, but we have to get in the cab first, okay?”

He nods, so subtle that if you’d blinked you would have missed it. You release the breath trapped in your lungs, a slow exhale as your hands settle on his forearms. Cautiously, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates, body as tight as a tripwire, before he settles against you. The slight weight of you reminding him that he’s not alone in this.

"We’ll figure it out,” You murmur, voice scratchy from all the sobbing.

And for a moment, you just hold one another in the crisp spring morning. Birdsong twitters from above as the gloomy clouds of last night’s storm begin to clear. Elsewhere, people are beginning to rise and greet the new day, coffee percolates and sheets rustle.

But in that moment, you’re able to forget all that— to push aside the fact that there are other people in the world and instead revel in the heartbreak you both feel, in the odd familiarity of each other.

Eddie uses the key Chrissy gave him to unlock the house in Loch Nora. It’s just after 6 A.M. of that same dreadful day and the house looks homey. A laundry basket propped up on a credenza, overflowing with burp cloths and tiny onesies. He flips a switch, and the entryway is bathed in a dull warm glow.

“No, no,” You continue speaking into your phone, as you shut the door. “What I don’t understand is why we can’t see her now? Ma’am, I know you have protocol but we’re the godparents, isn’t there a precedent for that?”

Eddie moves like a ghost through the house, finds himself wincing as he catches sight of the Carver family photos with Chrissy’s bright smile. As he moves further into the house, your voice falls away.

All business since the cab ride. You swept through his studio like an automaton, throwing things into a duffle and didn’t bother to shut dresser drawers either. It looked like a criminal had ransacked his bedroom for a paltry collection of clothing.

Eddie was tasked with packing his backpack, which he couldn’t muster up the effort to adequately do, and settled for tossing in his laptop, a few charging cables, and whatever else he swept off of the cluttered desk before zipping the bag.

Spent less than twenty minutes at your own place on the Upper West Side and returned with a neatly packed hardshell carryon and a leather tote bag, all the contents neatly organized and at the ready.

And, he had to hand it to you, the efficiency you deployed everywhere from check-in to the TSA Pre-Check line, to wrangling an upgrade for the plane ride itself, and now playing verbal chess with the CPS representative was… impressive. Albeit frightening.

But he also found it rather cold and unfeeling. Because, while yes, he had held you as you fell to pieces in the police station and witnessed your grief, since then you’d been too… together. Neatly packaged with a shiny bow on top, your sorrow packed tight and lying in wait underneath the glinting veneer of propriety.

The click of your heels on the hardwood floors alerts him to your presence.

“Yes, I’ll be at this number. Thank you, goodbye.” You huff and lean against the arm of the sofa. “They won’t do anything, not until the case worker arrives this morning, at least.”

Eddie nods, “I’m sure that she’s fine, Vance.” His voice is soft, tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep? The guest room is upstairs and—“

A shake of your head, as you bring the phone back up to your ear. “No, I still need to contact the lawyer for Chr— uh, the will.” You reply, unable to speak her name, a little uneasy at the fact that she had a will in the first place.

Eddie tsks, he lip curling in disbelief, “C’mon, are you serious? What lawyer is going to be in-office and answer the phone at this hour, Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe?”

Fixing him with a glare Medusa would envy, you purse your lips. “Then I’ll leave a message with their answering service. And,” You turn, tossing the last bit over your shoulder, “If it’s an attorney that Carver hired, I can guarantee they’ll call back within the hour.”

And, true enough, the offices of Mason & Finch returned your call within thirty minutes. But really, who was counting?

You find Eddie’s limbs sprawled all over the couch in the den, the tv light flicking against the pallor of his skin. Grabbing the remote, you catch sight of Katharine Hepburn swanning across the screen in Bringing Up Baby.

Tossing the remote to the side with a clatter, you accidentally (somewhat) wake Eddie.

“The fuck Vance?” He sounds groggy and confused, slightly alarmed that he was jolted awake by a piece of plastic to the face.

”The attorney has arrived.” You say in lieu of a greeting, “And CPS hasn’t called yet.”

He rises slowly, stretching as a cat might— arms flexing above his head causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and reveal a smattering trail of dark hair down his abdomen. With a roll of your eyes, you turn and walk back into the study at the front of the house.

Maxine Mayfield Esquire, junior partner at Mason & Finch, has made herself comfortable at Jason’s mahogany desk. Briefcase stowed at her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, loose in her haste to make this meeting on time. The sealed last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Carver sits at the center of the desk, ominous and forlorn.

Technically, she wasn’t on-call for estate cases currently. But when the secretary had phoned her to see who was available this week, the second Max heard the words “fatal collision” and “Carver”, she was up and out of bed. She knew she needed to handle this case, though the name the secretary gave her was unfamiliar: Ripley Esmé Vance.

Whoever this person was, Max knew Eddie wouldn’t be long behind.

Before she’d left for the Carver’s that day, Max had trusted Lucas to rally the troops for an all hands on deck situation. She couldn’t tell him much, or if Eddie was even in town yet, but she knew Lucas would see to it that he wasn’t alone.

Mason had briefed her over the phone on the drive over about the proceedings, what to expect from the beneficiaries, how to liaise with CPS, who to contact if Vance and Munson refused custody. Though, she didn’t anticipate needing that particular bit of information.

Rising to greet who could only be Vance, Max is nearly bowled over at the sight of Eddie. He looks haggard, which is to be expected, but it’s a stark contrast to the pristine image of his counterpart.

Esmé Vance oozes sophistication— black Tahitian pearls adorn your neck contrasting with the gray sweater and wide legged trousers you’re sporting. Not much taller than Max, the inch or two gained in whole part due to the heels that click against the floor as you go to greet her.

"Ms. Mayfield,” You say, with the husky voice of a silver screen siren, “Thanks so much for seeing us this early, we appreciate it.”

As you shake hands, the singular ring on your right hand catches Max’s notice. A clean and simple signet nestled on an elegant finger. Your nails are impeccable, a dark plum shade that Max makes a note to get the name of later.

In short, Chrissy’s best friend is just as the bubbly blonde had bragged— her polar opposite in nearly every way. Max wasn’t sure if she wanted her or simply wanted to be her, but she’d deal with that later.

"Hey Red,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

She excuses herself to wrap him in a warm embrace, professionalism be damned. He accepts it willingly, and she allows herself the luxury of inhaling the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and coffee.

"Hey Ed,” She replies, stepping back after a moment or two. “I’m so sorry about Chrissy.” She turns back to Esmè, eyes misty, “My condolences to you both.”

Soon after, they get down to brass tacks. Max reads the will aloud, the legalese meaning absolutely jack shit to Eddie, that is until:

"Joint legal and physical custody of Zoë Lux Carver is granted to Ripley Esmè Vance and Edward Waylon Munson—“

"I’m sorry, but what?” Eddie’s voice is louder than he intended, so distracted by the fact that he’s been granted custodial rights over an actual baby, that he completely misses that you don't even go by your given name.

It’ll come back to him later, sleep-addled and at wit’s end, no doubt.

Max pauses, noting the lack of reaction from you. Hmm, interesting. “Did Chrissy not discuss the guardianship arrangements with you?”

Eddie shakes his head, you decline to reply and turn to gaze out of the window. You’re quiet, which can only mean one thing.

"You knew about this Vance?”

"Well,” You hedge a reply, “I didn’t think it would necessarily come up. But… yeah, she mentioned it after Zoë was born. Though I didn’t know she meant joint custody.”

He turns back to Max, “What does that mean?”

"It means,” You supply, turning back to the conversation, “That we raise her together. Joint as in the two of us,” Your fingers gesture between the pair of you, “Not as in what your studio reeks of.” And then, you pantomime taking a drag from an imaginary joint, as if to prove your point.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke.”

Max watches, idly amused by the pair of you, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Right, so if you refuse custody, Zoë will be placed with another willing caregiver, preferably family, but if not, she’ll go into foster care.”

"Oh, fuck no!”

"Over my dead body!”

Your exclamations override one another, the volume of the conversation increasing for so an early an hour. Max desperately wants a coffee, maybe an Irish one.

“Okay, so you’re agreed on that, at least.” Max turns over to the next page in the document. “Everything else is pretty standard: all liquid assets are left to Zoë, kept in a trust until her twenty-first birthday, which you are both guardians of.”

She pauses for a moment, very much entertained that Chrissy, and by extension Jason, have left you both in charge of everything. A realization that has Eddie rolling his eyes beside you.

”You’ve also been given the deeds to the house in Hawkins, as well as the brownstone and, besides a few personal effects left to other people, everything within the properties seems to be yours.”

The redhead passes a copy of the document to each of you, along with her card. “When you have questions, you can reach me at these numbers and Eddie has my cell, too.”

Your mind is reeling, trying and failing to piece together the remnants of a life left behind. A puzzle that only you and Eddie can solve, or so it would seem. Before you can ask for confirmation or voice any of your concerns, Eddie’s voice rings through the room with an incredulous, “Properties? As in, plural?”

Max clears her throat, “Uh, yes. They want you to raise Zoë either here, in Hawkins, or—" She trails off to confirm the location of the other property. “New York. They closed on a property there earlier this week.”

"Huh,” He says, collapsing back into the club chair in front of Jason’s desk. “They never mentioned that.”

"Zoë.” You say once your tongue begins working again, “How do we— Where is she now?”

Max gives you a relieved smile. “Well, I’ve already arranged for her transfer. The foster family she was placed with last night will bring her to CPS. They feel that she’ll adjust best in her own environment. So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought here.”

“Right,” You say, rising from your chair, “Can you excuse me, for just one moment?” And walk, as calmly as you can, out of the study and through the house to the back deck.

It’s as if you can’t get enough air into your lungs, but the quicker you breathe in, the faster your heart beats. Your skin pricks with cold despite the warm morning sun.

”Ohmygod,” You heave out in a rush of air, “Ohmygod, ohmygod.”

There has to be a better solution than co-parenting with Munson. How Jason’s attorney even let Chrissy pair you together for the foreseeable future truly boggles the mind. The pair of you loathe each other, further compounded by one disastrous interaction after another. This was insanity, there was no way in hell it could ever work!

You brace your hands on your knees and will yourself not to throw up. Never knowing that at precisely that very moment, Eddie is doing the same in the front yard of the house, just as petrified as you.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fanfic #fic: eby #modern!eddie munson #stranger things fanfic

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absurdthirst · 8 months

Text

Kinktober 2023: October 6th

Day 6: Leash and Collar, Medical Torture, Sacrifice

Max Phillips x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Being drugged, chained to a sacrificial table, stripped naked, mentions of vampirism, DUB-CON, coercion?, vaginal sex, biting, drinking blood

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

If you had thought that the small, sleepy town that was locked away in the mountains was strange, you had tried to overlook it. Roads that don’t match the maps or GPS had brought you here and you were stuck until morning. Everything saved for one bar closed before sunset.

That was the operating hours displayed on most businesses; Sunrise - Dusk. Strange place, but you had managed to get a room in the one little motel in town. The seedy little operator looks nervous as he hands you a key and points across the street to the bar when asked where you could get some food. Your plan is to spend the night, wait until the gas station pumps are started again in the morning and then get the fuck out of here.

Sighing, you nurse the one beer you had told yourself you could have. Looking around the nearly deserted place and wondering if you had stumbled onto some kind of horror movie set. It was certainly creepy enough. Waiting for your food that seems to be taking forever and sighing softly as the door to the back kitchen swings again like someone had been about to come out but then changed their minds. You shake your head, frowning when you feel dizzy for a moment but then dismiss it. You’ve had half of a beer. There’s no way you are drunk.

****

“So you’re the lucky one.” You frown, your eyes feeling heavy as you struggle to open them, turning your head to where an amused voice comes from. “Looks like they found an outsider this time. Hmmm.”

Shivering, you feel an cool slide of something down the curve of your cheek, a presence hovering over you. If you could just open your eyes.

“Don’t like that they drugged you.” The voice tuts, making you panic slightly, trying to move, only to panic more when you feel the resistance in your arms and then your legs. “Makes for a heavy meal.”

Meal? That surge of horror and confusion gives you the strength to open your eyes, popping them open like the comical point of a movie, except there is nothing comical about the sight in front of you.

It looks similar to a man, but misshapen. The skin slightly mottled, as if rot was setting in. Amber eyes, with deep, heavy brows and bones protruding near the crown. Too sharp to be a man. More of a monster.

Until you see the teeth. Two perfectly, pointed teeth hanging down from the rest. Fangs that you have seen in movies, in halloween costumes, but never real life. A vampire.

“Oop, there it is.” The monster flashes an amused grin, and shakes its head. “Drugs are wearing off and the fact that you are a sacrifice is just starting to set in.” He chuckles, looking down at you again and dragging a finger down your body. “Let me guess, just passing through? Stuck here for the night?”

Your scream is loud, echoing as you start to struggle. Realizing that you are tied down to something and the sight of bare branches looming overhead like ghostly arms tells you those bastards in that creepy ass town dragged you out into the woods.

“Shhhhh, shush, none of that.” He tuts, looking almost disappointed by your reaction. “No need to scream. No one is going to come. That’s part of the deal.”

You’re still struggling, twisting and craning your neck up to see the chains around your wrists are keeping you tied down to some kind of hard stone bench. In the middle of the woods. It’s the stuff of nightmares and you are begging to wake up. “Deal, what deal? I didn’t make a fucking deal. Just let me go!” You scream.

“Not a deal with you, a deal with the town.” Again, he tuts, like he’s disappointed you didn’t come to that conclusion yourself but you are terrified and still feeling the effects of the drugs. “They give me someone to eat every now and again and I’ll try to keep from hunting in their town.” He shrugs. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Oh god, I’m dreaming.” You start to chant. “I’m dreaming, I have to be dreaming.” You have started to rub the skin around your wrists and ankles raw in an effort to free yourself. Oblivious still to the fact that you are completely naked.

“I am a dream, huh?” The creature hums, smirking again, although it looks wicked when he is so grossly formed. Demon-like in appearance. “But baby…” he whistles through his fangs. “You are a dream. Look at that smoking hot body.” He grunts. “Been a long time since I’ve had someone so hot chained up for me. Don’t know if I want to eat you or eat you.” Heavy brows waggle and it makes you scream again.

“Awwww don’t be like that.” He pouts, frowning at you and licking his lips. “Vampires are great at fucking. And I only sip when I’m balls deep. I don’t gorge myself. You’ll live longer that way.”

You shake, the chains around your wrists and ankles clanking as your body convulses involuntarily. Praying that you wake up from this nightmare. It’s got to be a bad dream. It just has to. Vampires aren’t real. And even if they were, isolated mountain towns wouldn’t sacrifice someone to the vampire.

“What do you say?” Apparently nightmares still talk and your eyes open again to find him looking down at you with an oddly expectant look on his face. “Wanna say you were pumped and dumped by a biter?” His teeth gnash together playfully.

“Y-y-you’ll let me g-g-go?” You stutter out, trying to understand what it is that this creature wants from.

“Absolutely, sugar tits.” He chuckles. “Let me fuck a warm hole, bite your tits and suck a little blood and you’ll walk up sore, a little chilly, but you won’t have to worry about STDs or getting pregnant.” He winks at you. “Swimmers are dead.”

Oh God…oh god, this might actually be real. “I-” You shake your head. Unable to believe you are about to agree to this, but surviving is your only goal right now. “Do I have a choice?”

The vampire snorts, rolling his yellowish eyes. “Blood is sweeter when you’re not fighting, sugar tits. Some like the acidic taste of fear, but it's too gamey for my tastes.” He shrugs and hums when you give a tiny nod. “You won’t regret it. Ol’ Max has a big dick.”

Max. The vampire is named Max. You don’t even register that the monster is shedding the clothes he had been wearing faster than humanly possible, naked and climbing up onto the stone that you are chained to.

He whistles again, his outrageously cool hands spreading your thighs and you close your eyes in embarrassment when he looks down at your cunt. “Fuck, look how warm that little fuck hole is. I bet you’re gonna feel amazing around my dick.”

You bite your lip, not wanting to upset him by screaming to just get it over with. Jumping when you feel something press against your clit.

“Shhhh, shhhhh, it’s okay.” He croons, making you shake your head. “Gonna get you wet before I just stick it in. That wouldn’t feel good, now would it?” He clicks his tongue and starts to slide his cock through your folds, making you whimper when the head bumps against your clit. “That feels good, doesn’t it, my little ketchup packet?”

You shiver again, nodding. You don’t want to piss off the demon that could kill you and because it does feel good.

He apparently likes his ego to be stroked because your little nod wasn’t enough. Rubbing your clit with his cock and sliding it down to your entrance until he gets you nice and wet, pulling soft moans out of you under the eerily bright moon.

He does it so well that you don’t even realize that he’s slipping inside until he’s halfway in. The filthy groan from the monster is one of pure bliss. Making your breath catch in a gasp when he keeps sliding, seemingly pushing inside of you forever until you feel like he’s in your throat.

“Told you I have a big dick.” He chuckles, his voice somehow changed and you open your eyes again.

He’s human. The face in front of you is startlingly human, impossibly handsome with a strong jaw and a nose that is sharp, but it’s well put together. No more contorted features, although the fangs still poke out from his lips.

“There we are.” He hums, starting to rock into you. “There’s those eyes. Pretty girl wants to watch me fuck her.”

You clench around him, making him laugh again as he starts to build up a pace that forces you to grunt every time he rocks forward. Slapping his hips against your ass, vigorously fucking into you harder than anyone else ever has. “Look at those tits bouncing.” He groans, ducking his head and you squeal when one of his fangs grazes your nipple before his tongue flicks over it and he sucks on it. Making your body warm up to his touch, his presence. Enjoying the way that he fucks into you like a rag doll.

“You know what?” Your cunt is nearly spasming around him, the pool of pleasure building and nearly ready to drown you.

“W-w-what?” You cry out, back scrubbing against the stone as he rails into you.

“I lied.” You can barely hear him over the sounds of your pussy, loud and sucking as his cock drills in and out of your even wetter hole. Fangs brush over your pulse for a split second. “I am going to eat you.”

Stars burst behind your eyes, even as you scream out into the empty woods. Fangs piercing your neck to drain you of your life’s blood as the town who had sacrificed you to the vampire huddle in their homes, safe and sound.

#pedro pascal #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #absurdthirst kinktober #max phillips #max phillips x you #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader #max phillips smut #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips imagine

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formula-fun · 1 month

Note

Pacific rim au snippet?? for us to live a little happier in coming days ksjadjshs? 👀

i am pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead

The day Sebastian Vettel descends on the Faenza Academy, four things happen.

First, a series of rumors fly across the entirety of base. Charles is ninety percent sure they’re George’s doing, but the way they telephone between the cadets is truly a modern marvel. In the morning the word is that Vettel is visiting to scope out the cadets to select his new copilot, never mind that none of them have ever even drifted in their lives. By noon the story has been transformed into a harrowing tale involving Vettel, a recent Kaiju attack in Cabo, and a torrid affair with Director Binotto’s wife.

“Did you hear about Binotto’s wife?” George asks during lunch, eyes wide.

“That was your rumor, idiot,” Alex tells him. “Obviously it’s not true. Binotto doesn’t even have a wife.”

By that afternoon, it’s rumored that Binotto lost his wife in a Kaiju attack in Cabo, where she bravely fought in a top-secret test jaeger as Vettel’s copilot.

The second thing that happens is training is suspended for a full day. Truthfully, Charles thinks this should be the real source of rumors, but they’re all so burned out none of the cadets want to question having a day off. It doesn’t mean they actually take the day off—they’re too bored for that, and they’ve forgotten how to do anything else than train relentlessly and occasionally study the odd K-Science journal.

Still, the Director, his assistants, half the training staff and Vettel all spend the morning locked in a conference room doing god knows what.

“They ordered pizza about an hour ago,” Alex tells him. He’s been pretending to read Jaeger Daily for two hours, sprawled out on a towel stolen from the bathroom while he pretends not to watch the Operations building from behind his sunglasses. “I heard you can predict a war based on how often the militaries order pizza. It means they’re planning something.”

“This is Italy,” Pierre says, unbothered, stripped shirtless and sprawled out in the sun a few paces away. “They order pizza literally every day.”

Alex hums. “And they got affogatos.”

“Affogatos?! Mon Dieu. Call the press.”

It probably means nothing, but it’s certainly strange—the conference, not the pizza. Vettel is a well-known face not just in the Jaeger program, but in the world. He was confirmed into the program just a handful of months earlier after having matched with some kid in Australia, and once their Jaeger goes into service he’ll be the first European ranger ever. It’s not a great statistic, seeing as there have only been six rangers in active combat in the history of the planet, but it’s still something.

The Faenza school is small, and often forgotten; most of the European academies are the same way. That’s why it’s even stranger that Vettel is here, of all places.

The third thing that happens that day is Charles kicks Max’s ass in the Kwoon. It’s not related to Vettel in any way, but it’s still funny.

Charles’ first impression of Max when they met eight months ago was that he’s too serious. His eyes are shaped like half-moons, clearly designed for laughing, but he frowns all the time. His lower lip juts out a little, petulant. Charles’ dad used to scold Charles for pouting like that when he was little, warning him his face would get stuck like that, and if Charles was too old for it at seven then Max is much too old for it at sixteen. It’s possible that his face is stuck like that, in fact, since the months that Charles has known him he hasn’t relaxed once.

He doesn’t relax while training. He doesn’t relax in the rec room. He doesn’t relax while eating—if anything he’s the least relaxed doing that, shoveling food into his mouth like he’s about to be called to attention at any second. His frown lingers as they run laps of the dusty base in Faenza, the sun beating down hot and unrelenting, and while he’s training on the sim: thirteen drops and eleven kills, a record that’s second best only to Charles’ own.

“Beginner’s luck, huh?” Max had said when Charles had stepped out of the sim for the first time, exactly one kill to his name. He doesn’t say that the second time, or the third, or the fourth.

Like Charles said. No sense of humor.

Max is good at Muay Thai, which pisses Charles off to no end. It’s not that Charles is bad at it, he’s just been a little shorter than Max and a lot more wiry for the entire time they’ve known each other. Max is gangly too, but his legs are stronger, a fact that Charles has learned on more than one occasion by catching a knee straight to the solar plexus—a blow which Max barely has to strain to deliver. They’ve sparred—fought, really—enough times now for Charles to know that no matter how quick he can be, Max still has a serious physical advantage.

“Teach me Judo,” he told his trainer the fifth time Max pressed him out of the ring during a training session—a fight—with a heavy offense and pointy elbows, the director’s assistant watching from the corner and taking notes on a clipboard.

“We don’t usually teach that,” Andrea told him. “You’ll never beat a kaiju by throwing it.”

“I want to beat him.” At Andrea’s hesitation he added, “I’ll train extra. I don’t care.”

So Andrea started teaching him Judo; and on the day that Vettel arrives at the academy Charles steps into the ring with Max, letting him get two swings in before grabbing his wrist, using his momentum against him and flipping him square over his shoulder.

Max hits the mat hard enough that the sound echoes through the empty kwoon.

“Judo isn’t on the training list,” Max gripes, pushing himself up and rolling over to clutch at his nose. “Fuck.”

“I’m just adapting to the style of my opponent,” Charles says flatly. “As any good ranger would do.”

“I hate you,” Max tells him, dabbing at his nose—entirely for dramatic effect, since there isn’t a drop of blood in sight and Charles is pretty sure he didn’t even hit him there—and then spins on the mat to kick Charles’ feet out from under him.

Charles goes toppling, landing with a grunt, which is the moment Max decides to try to wrestle him. A horrible decision, really. Max is shit at wrestling. It takes all of thirty seconds for Charles to pin him, catching his left arm in an ude-garami, which is the exact moment that the door swings open.

“Ah,” Director Binotto says. “Leclerc and Verstappen, some of the brightest in our youth program.”

“Let me up,” Max hisses through his teeth, his breath hot against his ear, but Charles just tightens his grip.

“You haven’t tapped out,” Charles replies, holding Max down with his own chest as he twists Max’s elbow. Max lets out a string of noises that sound very Dutch and very rude.

“They do look it,” someone says blandly, and when he looks up Charles is greeted by the sight of Sebastian Vettel standing over him.

He springs to his feet, snapping to attention. Max follows suit, albeit a little slower.

“Relax,” Vettel says. “We don’t stand on rank in the kwoon. I thought that was the first rule of training,” he adds, raising his voice a little.

Binotto shrugs. “We do things differently here.”

Vettel’s eyebrows flash up, then back down again. He ignores the director, giving them both an easy smile, and Charles and Max’s hands fall away at the same time. “I’ve never visited any of the youth programs, but I’ve heard great things,” he says. “How long have you been training?”

“Eight months, sir,” Charles says.

“Please, it’s Sebastian. You’ve been here since the opening of the academy, then,” Sebastian says, his mouth forming into a C shape. “And you’ve been training to be copilots?”

Charles looks at Max, who’s already looking back. His mouth is pouty again, his eyebrows furrowed. Too serious.

“Our cadets did not begin the matching process until last week,” Binotto says, stepping forward to take his place at Sebastian’s side. “We have been training them as a group in the hopes that compatibility would be demonstrated organically, and for the most part that has proved to be successful.”

“How so?”

Binotto lets out a little hum. “Some pairs we brought in together proved to be compatible—siblings, best friends. Other times this proved to be the opposite. And then of course, some compatible pairs just find each other. We had our suspicions, but neural aptitude tests only confirmed it.”

Charles frowns, a protest poised behind his teeth.

“And you two train on the sim together?” Sebastian asks them, his face open.

“No,” Max says. “We only train solo.”

“What are your scores?”

“Thirteen drops, eleven kills.”

“Thirteen, twelve,” Charles adds, and can’t bite down the smug smile when Max shoots a glare his way.

Sebastian raises his eyebrows, blowing out a breath. He looks to Binotto, who raises his eyebrows with a small smile.

“That’s impressive,” Sebastian says. “You both want to be rangers one day?”

“Yes, sir,” they say, and it unfortunately comes out in perfect unison.

Sebastian looks at them for a long beat, a serene smile on his face. “I’m not here at an official capacity. I’m just here to scope out the copilot matches in our youth program. You probably already had some idea that you’re drift compatible,” he says, which Charles was not aware of at all, and then while he’s still reeling from that piece of information, “but the tests last week identified you at somewhere between ninety nine point seven and ninety nine point nine percent.”

“That’s not right,” Max blurts out. “We’re not compatible.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows raise. “Neural tests prove otherwise. So do fighting styles and sim scores, from the looks of it.”

“But we don’t get along.”

“That doesn’t always mean something.” He tilts his head. “If this comes as a surprise, it might be helpful to know that compatibility is about balance as much as it’s about similarities. You might see differences in each other, but in a Jaeger those things will become complementary parts.”

Charles can’t hold back a tiny scoff. What’s supposed to be complementary about Max? His bullheadedness? His ability to eat food faster than the mess hall can produce it?

“Gentlemen,” Binotto says, which is another first—Binotto has never called them that in their lives. “The Jaeger Program needs cadets. Not just rangers, but mechanics, strategists, engineers, support coordinators, biologists, neuroscientists—we need personnel, and now that the academy is on its feet and more jaegers are going into service, it’s time to identify who is part of a viable drift pairing, and who would be better suited to a different division.”

At his side, Max sucks in a short breath, barely audible. Charles himself straightens. He knows a threat when he hears one.

“We’d like to start a project to test drift compatibility through a rudimentary neural handshake,” Binotto says, “and we’re going to be testing that project on you.”

And that’s how the fourth thing happens.

#dont @ me i know nothing abt judo #or muay thai for that matter #other than it seems to involve a lot of kneeing and elbowing and looks very scary #lestappen #pac rim au #writing tag #oh i need a title for this fic btw im open to suggestions

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