#*you just hear a cacophony of bad noises*

[pokeybananas]

Idk if this would work, but it sure would be funny if it did!

[pookalicious-hq]

no. 1 fan ... sukuna ryomen x reader

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - since when did sukuna ryomen have a girlfriend? and why is she so cute (and absolutely perfect for him)? tags: basketball!au, fluff, swearing, sfw <3 masterlist

The gym lights caught on the glossy surface, a faint shimmer bouncing with every shift of motion. Tiny flecks of glitter sparkled like distant stars, the edges glinting silver against the stark backdrop of the jersey. A burst of pastel pink contrasted sharply, the soft hue radiating a kind of innocent charm that felt entirely out of place.

It was a detail almost too small to notice—yet somehow, it drew eyes in, an odd juxtaposition against the chaos of the pregame atmosphere. The gym was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished wood, players stretching, and the low hum of excited chatter from the stands. Sukuna Ryomen, lounging casually in the middle of his team’s warm-up drills, was the last person anyone expected to have such a thing plastered on his shoulder. But there it was. My Melody, a sweet little bunny holding a basketball.

Satoru was the first to spot it, of course.

“Aw, how cute, Sukuna-chan. Didn’t know you were into Sanrio like that.”

Sukuna turned, narrowing his eyes at the playful teasing in Satoru's voice. “The fuck are you on about now?”

Satoru just pointed, smirking as all eyes followed his gesture. "Your cute little stowaway there."

And there it was—bold against the red and black of Sukuna's jersey, a sticker of My Melody, holding a basketball positioned perfectly as if to dunk it. It was so out of place, yet it felt strangely fitting. Its innocence danced in stark contrast to Sukuna's menacing aura, and the sweetness of the bunny somehow managed to coexist with the intimidating presence of the player.

Sukuna glanced at the sticker and then smirked, barely able to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. His eyes softened just slightly, knowing exactly where it came from.

“Guess it’s not that bad,” he muttered under his breath.

No one knew who had put it there, but there was no mistaking it—Sukuna wasn’t bothered in the slightest. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made him smile.

“He’s so weird, I swear,” Satoru muttered, squinting across the gym floor as he slouched against the edge of the bench. The air around them crackled with energy, the squeak of sneakers on the polished hardwood floor echoing through the arena as players warmed up. The thudding sound of basketballs bouncing, the low hum of excited chatter from the crowd, and the faint whistle of the referee adding to the chaos all buzzed around them.

Suguru, already feeling the weight of Satoru's nonsense, pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to focus, pushing away the mounting noise as he geared up for the game. "Satoru, shut up. He’s literally just smiling."

"Exactly!" Satoru gestured with both hands, his voice carrying over the cacophony like a loud bell ringing. “I’ve never seen him... like this. It’s unnatural!”

Suguru flicked Satoru lightly in the forehead, the sharp sound of his fingers connecting with the skin cutting through the background noise. “You’re lucky he can’t hear you, idiot. Besides, he’s allowed to smile. It’s not a crime.”

“It’s so creepy, though!” Satoru rubbed his forehead dramatically, leaning back against the bench. His voice was exaggerated, filled with playful disdain. “I’ve never seen him so... soft. Gross. Eugh. What happened to the demon we all know and love?”

The gym seemed to buzz even louder as the players amped themselves up, a couple of them tossing passes back and forth with fast, sharp movements that made the air feel electric. Sneakers squeaked and slid across the court, some heavy breaths echoing as bodies shifted into the final preparations for the game.

Suguru, however, was still fighting for some semblance of focus, trying to shut out Satoru's ridiculousness as his mind sought that familiar pregame calm. He tried to breathe in rhythm with the ambient noise—the rustling of the crowd, the sharp claps of teammates slapping each other on the back—but Satoru just wouldn’t let up. "It’s because his girlfriend’s watching today," Suguru said casually, as if the thought didn’t even require a second glance.

Satoru snapped his head toward him so fast it almost looked like he was about to knock over the water bottle on the bench. “He has a girlfriend? How do you know?”

“Yuji told me about her yesterday,” Suguru said, brushing it off as if it were nothing. He wasn’t quite sure how to process the idea of Sukuna with someone so... normal, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, letting his thoughts return to the game.

“What about me?” 

Satoru’s stomach jolted, heart skipping in his chest. “Jesus—fuck, Yuji, you scared me!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest as if Yuji had just jumped out from behind him in a horror film.

Suddenly, Yuji’s face popped up right next to them, grinning widely with that unapologetically boyish enthusiasm. “Oops, sorry! I just heard my name and wanted to make sure you weren’t shit-talking me! Haha!”

The two seniors exchanged a look—Suguru, contemplating the comment, and Gojo, mildly entertained—but as usual, the latter barrelled straight past it. “Anyways, we were just wondering about Sukuna-chan’s little girlfriend. She’s here?”

The sound of basketballs slamming into the backboard reverberated loudly around them, rattling the floor beneath their feet as a player went for a dramatic dunk across the gym. The high-pitched swoosh of a net followed. Yet, the small chaos of the game only seemed to amplify Yuji's carefree nature, his laughter infectious.

He gave a single enthusiastic nod, expression lighting up with pure, uncontained excitement. “She should be! She just called to say she found a seat.”

The three of them turned toward the crowd, scanning the packed bleachers. It was almost impossible to pick out individual faces among the sea of fans, but they didn’t have to wonder for long why Yuji could find you so easily.

“There!” Yuji pointed, practically bouncing on his heels.

All at once, they saw you.

You weren’t loud or over the top, but there was something about you that drew attention, like a light you couldn’t help but turn toward. Your eyes sparkled with a warmth that didn’t belong in a crowd this rowdy, your face alight with unguarded joy. You leaned forward, effortlessly engaging the little girl beside you in a cheerful conversation, hands animated as you gestured toward the court.

The little girl giggled, clutching a handful of skittles you must have shared. It wasn’t just the candy; it was the way you leaned in, nodded attentively, and treated the child like her words carried the secrets of pandora’s box. The moment was so natural, so disarmingly sweet, that even Suguru had to admit he could see the charm.

“She’s just... giving away candy to kids?” Satoru blinked, eyebrows raised as though the sight was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen.

Suguru’s smile slowly turned into a gape, crossing his arms. “And apparently making everyone within a ten-foot radius feel like they’ve won the lottery. What a menace.”

“She’s adorable,” Satoru hissed, ignoring the sarcasm. “There’s no way Sukuna convinced someone like her to date him. I mean, look at her!” He gestured dramatically, nearly toppling off the bench.

“She’s smiling, not performing a miracle,” Suguru deadpanned. “Relax.”

“But that’s what’s weird about it!” Satoru insisted. “She’s the sunshine’s asshole, and he’s... I don’t even know what he is, probably just the asshole part.”

The three of them continued to watch as you apologized to a student who stumbled near you, even though it was clearly no fault of your own. You placed a steadying hand on their shoulder, offering a bright, reassuring smile that seemed to melt the poor kid’s embarrassment on the spot. A moment later, you turned back toward the court, your attention zeroing in on the players warming up.

Then, a laugh as melodic as an orchestra bubbled from your lips, captivating everyone within a 20-foot radius.

Heads turned—not just Sukuna’s, but several others, curious to see who’d spoken. Sukuna, however, didn’t seem fazed by the sound. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the court like a predator waiting for its prey. A mere glance from a teammate was enough to send them scurrying in the opposite direction, but when he caught sight of you, his posture seemed to relax just slightly. His gaze softened, and for a brief second, he didn’t look like a demon—he looked... content.

“Holy shit,” Satoru muttered, leaning closer. “He’s smiling again. Suguru, this is unnatural. I don’t think I like it.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re just jealous someone actually loves him.”

“Jealous?” Satoru scoffed. “Please. I’m too fabulous to be contained by one person. It’s just—look at her! She’s pure, and he’s... him. Do you think she read his terms and conditions properly?”

Yuji, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear, his chest practically puffed out with pride as though her presence was his personal achievement. “Do you get it now?” he asked, turning toward the two seniors.

“Get what?” Gojo drawled, still squinting at her like she was a science experiment.

“Why she’s perfect for him,” Yuji said simply.

Satoru opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to argue, but Suguru cut him off with a raised hand. “You know what? He’s got a point.”

For a moment, even Satoru was quiet, his gaze drifting back to you. You were now laughing, your head tipped back slightly as the little girl beside her showed off her Skittles-stained tongue. The sound was bright, full, and utterly unrestrained—like you’d never learned how to hold back your joy.

Satoru sighed, flopping against the bench in defeat. “Okay, fine. She’s perfect. Whatever. But I still don’t get how he landed her.”

Suguru chuckled. “Maybe she sees something in him you don’t.”

“Oi, loudmouths—and Suguru. Get your asses moving.”

The voice that rang out was unmistakable: Sukuna, cutting through the chatter with his usual no-nonsense tone.

“Sir, yes sir!” Gojo saluted.

“God, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Captain!”

The gym was buzzing with the typical pre-game chaos, but Sukuna’s attention was elsewhere, drawn by the familiar warmth cutting through the din of the crowd. His gaze swept over the stands, and it didn’t take long for his eyes to land on you.

There you were—unmistakable. Even in the sea of faces, your presence stood out. The way your eyes sparkled when you caught his gaze, the playful curve of your lips as you gave him a wink.

Then, as if the universe had granted him a brief moment of peace in the chaos, you blew him a kiss. A simple gesture that made his chest tighten. He of course caught it effortlessly, bringing a hand to his heart in mock reverence, but it was the next movement that caused something unfamiliar to flicker inside him.

Without missing a beat, his hand dropped to his shoulder, tapping the My Melody sticker with a subtle grin. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sukuna, it was his unspoken reply to you affection.

The smile lingered on his face for just a moment longer before he wiped it away, a smirk taking its place as he stood tall, ready to head out onto the court.

Deleted scene:

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT WAS ALL BALL! OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EYES.”

Your voice sliced through the gym like a whip, sharp enough to make heads turn. Conversations stuttered, sneakers skidded to a stop, and even the referee hesitated for a beat before remembering he was supposed to be an authority figure.

On the court, Sukuna barely reacted—barely. His stance remained firm, shoulders squared as he glared down the ref with the same look that had sent weaker opponents scrambling. But for a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered to the stands, finding you instantly.

His girl.

You were on your feet, fury blazing in your eyes, hands clenched into fists at your sides. The tension in your stance screamed protective, and fuck if that didn’t do something to him.

The gym erupted as the ref made it official. Technical foul on number 20 - Sukuna Ryomen.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “A tech? For what? Looking too scary? Boohoo.”

Satoru’s whistle cut through the noise as he turned to Suguru, his grin lazy but amused. “Oh, this is fun. You ever see someone go feral for Sukuna before?”

Suguru hummed, watching Sukuna carefully. “Not like this.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Satoru mused. “Usually, it’s just people going feral at him.”

Yuji snorted. “Right? And he’s actually letting her.”

Which was the weirdest part. Sukuna hated when people stuck their noses in his business. If this were anyone else—even a coach—he’d have shut them down with a glare and a stay the hell out of it.

But with you?

He was letting you bark at the ref, letting you take up space in his fight.

And even worse?

He liked it.

Whistles blew. The opposing team’s bench erupted into cheers, and the ref signaled for free throws.

“Bullshit,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

“Damn,” Satoru mused from the sidelines, still watching you with newfound amusement. “She’s got more fight in her than half the guys on the court.”

Suguru hummed in agreement. “And he’s actually letting her.”

Yuji grinned. “Ah, shit. She’s really gonna go off.”

And he was absolutely right.

Because as the opposing player stepped up to the free-throw line, your voice rang out again—clear, unwavering, and loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

“Oh, come on! You’re calling that a foul? What, is Sukuna just supposed to breathe and get penalized now? Maybe we should just wrap him in bubble wrap and call it a day!”

Scattered chuckles rippled through the stands, but you weren’t joking. You knew how people saw him—how they wanted to see him. A villain. A monster. A player too aggressive for his own good, a walking technical foul waiting to happen.

They didn’t see the discipline. The precision. The sheer skill it took to dominate the court the way he did.

They didn’t see him.

The ref shot you a warning look, but you only lifted your chin, undeterred.

“Terrible call,” you sang again, just loud enough for Yuji to hear.

“Yeah,” he called back with a chuckle. “But that’s just how it is for him.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s not fair.”

Yuji just smiled. “He’s used to it.”

That didn’t make it right.

Back on the court, Sukuna set his stance, waiting for the rebound. He should have been focused—should have been calculating his next move—but instead, his gaze slid sideways, just for a second.

You were still standing. Still fuming on his behalf.

His lips curled.

The first free throw went up. The ball arced high, hit the rim—bounced once, twice—then rolled out.

The crowd erupted into noise, but you? You smirked.

“S’what you get for being weak,” you muttered under your breath, knowing damn well the shooter couldn’t hear you.

Sukuna did.

And though he didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it outright, something about the way he held himself shifted. Shoulders looser. Jaw unclenched.

He wasn’t alone in this.

You had his back.

And for a guy who’d spent most of his life being the villain, that was a weird fucking feeling.

The second free throw went in, but it didn’t matter. The moment the ball was inbounded, Sukuna was a force of nature, tearing down the court with single-minded determination.

And if, after scoring on the very next possession, he just so happened to glance toward the stands—seeking you out, locking eyes for the briefest of moments—well.

That was nobody’s business but his own.

And yours.

a/n: he's a huge red flag but i can't help but romanticize him... anyways sorry its been a while

mwah <3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit

word count: 4.1k

summary: joel agrees to go out to tommy’s favorite bar, where he watches you ride a mechanical bull and wishes you would ride him.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, no defined reader age or physical appearance besides outfits, alcohol use, joel getting slapped, tommy is a little shit, first date anxiety, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, praise, pet names, girl on top, couch sex, unprotected p in v, teasing, deep throating, more men whimpering and begging 2k23. let me know if any warnings are missing!

author’s note: look, i know i’m in the middle of my spooky specials but i saw two very specific tik toks that left me with the need to write this 😵‍💫 also this post layout is inspired by @bits-and-babs, whose works and aesthetic are chef’s kiss.

“Why did you pick this place?” Joel grumbles, hand wrapped around a sweating bottle of beer. People keep jostling him as they squeeze past, forcing him to keep his elbow tight to his side to avoid having his beer be collateral damage.

“You’ll see,” Tommy says with a cryptic wink. Joel rolls his eyes.

Tommy has dragged him out to a saloon style bar, complete with swinging wooden doors and longhorn skulls decorating the walls. Everything is shiny dark wood and western motif, down to the saddle style barstools. Most of the patrons have leaned into the theme, too — tassels, leather, cowboys hats, and ostentatious belt buckles.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” A man’s voice calls out over the speakers. “The show is about to begin!”

“Show?” Joel asks dubiously. Tommy only grins at him, dragging him by the arm towards the back of the bar.

He weaves through the crowd until they’re only behind a few rows of people that have gathered around a mechanical bull riding ring, of all things. The floor of the ring is inflatable and in the middle sits the brown bull figure. Joel catches his first glimpse of you, a gorgeous woman in denim cut offs standing beside the bull. Your black leather halter top plunges low to expose your cleavage and stops short of the waist of your shorts, a tantalizing strip of your stomach on display. The black leather of the top matches your black leather boots and the cuffs snapped around your wrists.

“One of Salty Saloon’s very own has stepped up to take the bull by the horns tonight!”

You lift a hand to wave, bright smile on your face as you take in the crowd. Your eyes land on Joel and for a brief moment he swears he stops breathing. He can’t hear anything the emcee is saying, all the noise around him just a dull buzz as he watches you swing yourself up onto the back of the bull.

“Alright, alright, alright! Our rider’s goal is to stay on for one minute using only one hand! If she falls before the buzzer, y’all get nothin’. But if she makes it, shots are half off for the rest of the night!”

A cacophony of cheers erupts around Joel and you straighten your spine, holding your hand out with a thumbs up. The music starts, some pop song he’s heard on the radio in the morning when he’s taking Sarah to school, and the mechanical bull turns in a slow circle. You have one hand twisted in a leather strap, the other raised above your head as the bull bucks and swings, your hips moving smoothly with the machine.

“Goddamn,” someone says from behind Joel. “I ain’t ever wanted to be a bull so bad in my life.”

Me, too, he thinks.

Your thighs press tight against the sides of the bull as it swings around, turning you to face the section of crowd Joel stands in. You release the hand grip, both hands in the air now as you rely solely on your legs and core to keep you up on the machine. When the machine turns again, you manage to lift your body and swing your legs around to reverse your position, now seated facing the back of the bull.

“Alright, ten more seconds!” The emcee calls out. The crowd starts to cheer your name and Joel can’t help but join in, eyes glued to you as you continue to swing and sway like all the movements are nothing but second nature to you.

“Three! Two! One!”

A cowbell goes off, signaling the end of your ride. The bull slows to a stop and you sit there for a moment to catch your breath, waving at the crowd. The bar owner, Johnny, comes out onto the crash pad with a huge grin on his face.

“Great job up there, kid. Now go sell some half priced shots,” he says with a good natured pat on your shoulder.

You return to the bar, where the other two bartenders scheduled tonight field the after-show rush, lining up shot glasses and filling them in quick succession with the requested liquor. When you get behind the bar, a familiar head of curly hair catches your eye.

“Tommy!” You call, excited to see one of you favorite regulars. He shouts your name as you stop in front of him.

“This is my brother, Joel!” He says, slapping the back of the man beside him. You’d seen him in the crowd, a handsome guy with broad shoulders stretching a dark blue t-shirt, warm tan skin, and messy curls that speak to the family resemblance between him and Tommy. You reach a hand across the bar, Joel’s calloused fingers dragging against your palm as you greet the man.

“It’s nice to meet you, Joel. Can I get y’all anything?” You ask. Tommy grins.

“Let me get this man a slap shot!” He yells.

You glance at Joel. “That okay with you?” You ask.

His eyes are comically wide as he nods. You step back to ring the bell behind the bar, your fellow bartenders whooping and cheering, a chant of “SLAP SHOT! SLAP SHOT!” echoing around you.

Haley sets a glass of water on the bar for you and you grab a pint glass, filling it with ice and two ounces of Jim Beam and amaretto. You smack the steel shaker on top, grabbing both glasses and shaking them vigorously over your shoulder.

You strain the contents of the shaker into a shot glass, amber liquid flowing to the brim. When you’ve got everything ready, you leave the back of the bar and squeeze your way through the crowd until you’re in front of the two brothers and can hoist yourself up onto the bar.

“Alright, Joel, are you ready?” You shout. He looks a little confused, brows pinched tight over kind brown eyes, but he nods anyway, holding his hand out for the shot glass. Tommy watches with a shit eating grin. “Three! Two! One!”

Joel takes the shot and you follow it with a glass of water to his face and a slap across his jaw in quick succession. Tommy is howling with laughter and Joel’s face is one of pure shock, red blooming across the skin of his cheek. He turns to his brother.

“Tommy, what the fuck!” Joel shouts. His hand wraps into the neck of Tommy’s shirt. “You little fuckin’ shit!”

You have the sinking realization that Joel wasn’t prepared for what a slap shot entails. You had just assumed this was something Tommy had told him about, having been to the bar so much the last few months.

Joel looks mad as hell, his shoulders tense and you worry he may actually throw a punch at Tommy. You hop from the bar and get between the two men, pressing a hand to their chests and pushing them apart.

"You, come with me," you say, pointing to Joel. "And you," -- you jab a finger into Tommy's chest -- "are on my shit list."

You take Joel by the hand and guide him to the back office, shutting the door and muffling the noises of the bar beyond it. His face is still dripping wet and the water dripping from his chin has gathered into a sizeable spot on the collar of his shirt.

"I am so, so sorry," you start, rifling through the storage cabinet for a bar towel. You hold it out to him, avoiding his gaze. "Tommy comes here so much that I just thought he'd told you about what a slap shot was. I should have told you, oh my god."

"Hey, it's okay. I ain't mad at you," Joel says, running the towel over his damp face. "Tommy, though. I'm gonna kick his fuckin' ass later."

"Still," you mumble, twisting your hands together nervously. "I'm sorry. Is your cheek okay?"

He rubs the towel over his head to dry his hair a bit, the action leaving him adorable mussed, curly strands sticking up in every direction. You're staring at him, maybe a little too much, but who can blame you? The man is hot.

"Yeah, trust me. I've had worse," Joel replies with a laugh.

"You get slapped by women often?" You tease.

"The number of times ain't just one."

"Oh, a bad boy. Mama warned me about guys like you."

He laughs again, long and low, running a hand through his hair. "Well, thank you for the towel."

"Right. And your next drink is on me. As an apology," you tell him.

"I'd rather get your number," he says. "You know, as an apology."

You raise your eyebrows at him before turning to the manager's desk, grabbing a marker and tugging the cap off with your teeth. You slide a hand down his arm, lifting his forearm up so that you can write down your number across the smooth, tan skin.

"I'm off next weekend," you comment when you've recapped the marker.

"I'll keep that in mind," Joel replies with a grin.

Joel's nervous as he waits outside of your apartment building in his truck, fingers tapping a nameless tune against the steering wheel. It's Saturday night and he's here to pick you up for dinner at a restaurant in downtown Austin, one that required he dig out the old black button down he keeps shoved in the back of his closet for parent-teacher conferences and funerals.

The front door to your building opens and you emerge, dressed in a pretty red wrap dress and black heels. Joel gets out of the truck and jogs around to the passenger side to open the door for you and he's surprised when you lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

"Hey," you say in greeting, climbing into the truck and settling into the passenger seat, your purse on your lap. Joel can't help the dopey grin that's surely stretched across his face.

“Hey, yourself. You look nice,” he replies. He shuts the door and jogs around the the driver’s side.

“You don’t look so bad either,” you tell him as he starts the truck up. He can feel his cheeks get warm and he hopes that you can’t see him the proof of his nerves in the dark cab.

At the restaurant, the host leads you both to a small table towards the back of the restaurant, pristine white tablecloth topped with a small vase of flowers and a flickering votive candle. A waiter in a white button down comes by to take your drink orders before disappearing the the kitchen, leaving the two of you regarding each other in silence.

“Look, I gotta be honest about somethin’,” Joel says, leg bouncing beneath the table. “I’ve got a kid. Sarah, she’s thirteen. Light of my life, you know?” He takes a deep breath before finishing with, “And I don’t think I’ve even been on a date since she’s been born, so this is just…a little new to me.”

“You have a kid?” You ask. For a moment Joel worries that he may have ended this before it could even get a chance to begin, but then your face lights up with a sweet smile and you ask, “Will you tell me about her?”

Joel does. In between ordering and eating your delicious meals, you and Joel discuss anything and everything. He tells you about Sarah and his contracting work, while you tell him about your full time job as a pharmacy technician, the gig at the bar a part time thing on some weekends. He nearly makes you snort your water out of your nose with a story about rescuing Tommy from the bathroom of the girl he’d been seeing when her long distance boyfriend, who Tommy didn’t know existed, showed up at her apartment.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim breathlessly. “And he just jumped out of the bathroom window?”

“To be fair, she had a first floor unit,” Joel confirms. “His royal pain in the ass still made me take him to urgent care because he thought he broke his ankle.”

“You’re a good brother,” you say with a smile. Joel feels the warmth of it in his veins.

After dinner, the ride back to your place is quiet, the comfortable silence filled with the low music from the radio. In a moment of bravery, Joel reaches over and lays a hand on your low thigh, just above your knee as he drives. He refuses to look over at you, but from the corner of his eye he sees you look down at his hand before looking back out the window.

He counts that as a win.

He pulls up the curb outside your apartment and kills the engine. You speak before he has a chance to agonize over what to say.

“Will you walk me to my door?” You ask.

He feels relief and anxiety in one fell swoop. He agonizes internally over whether to kiss you goodnight as he follows you up the stairs to your apartment, the buzzing in his brain momentarily silenced while he watches your hips sway as you climb the steps.

You stop on the second floor, guiding him down a long hallway to a door marked with a black metal number three. You turn to face him, looking up at him through your lashes.

“This is me,” you murmur. Joel swallows nervously.

“Right. I, uh…I had a really great time tonight,” he says.

“Would you…want to come inside?”

Joel’s brain short circuits. “Would I—? Yeah.”

You turn to unlock the door, pushing into your apartment and Joel follows you inside. The apartment is dark but you quickly turn on the lights as you move further inside, illuminating an open living room with a dining nook. There’s a door off to the right that he assumes is your bedroom and an open kitchen to the left. It’s small, but it’s cozy, bursting with colors and fabrics and mismatched furniture.

“Well, this is home,” you say with a shrug. You set your purse down on the small circular dining table. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’ve got beer, some liquor on the bar cart over there if you want to have a look.”

“Beer is fine,” Joel says, taking a seat on the comfy looking couch. You return with a bottle of beer, passing it to him before settling in beside him, kicking off your heels and drawing your legs up beneath you.

He takes a sip, fortifying his nerves. He wasn’t lying when he said it’s been a long time since he’s been on a date, but even sex has been a distant thought for the last year or so. He doesn’t want to mess this up.

“So,” you start, your elbow pressed into the back couch cushion while you lean your face into the palm of your hand. “You wanna know what I think?”

“‘Bout what?” Joel asks.

“You.”

“You got a report card ready for me already?”

“I think” — you take the beer bottle from his hand, setting it on the coffee table — “you’ve spent a long time being a caretaker. Right? You’ve got Tommy, who was already a handful. Your daughter, who’s obviously priority number one. You’ve got a business to worry about, workers to care for.” You shuffle closer on your knees, swinging a leg over his and settling yourself onto his lap. “This okay?” You ask.

“Yeah,” he replies, probably a bit too enthusiastically. His fingers curl into the couch cushions and he wants to reach up to wrap his hands around your waist but he’s not sure if he should.

You play with the collar of his shirt. “What do you think about having someone take care of you for a change?”

Joel’s stomach flips, cock jumping in interest as the blood in his brain rushes south and leaves him only capable of responding with a mumbled, “Oh?”

“I just think you deserve someone treating you real nice,” you say with a shrug. Deft fingers work at undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Especially when I was so mean when we met, slapping you across the face like I did.”

“Told you not to worry ‘bout that,” he replies, head dropping against the back cushions. “S’not like I didn’t like it.”

“You like to be roughed up a little, Mr. Miller?”

“Maybe.”

Your grin is wicked as you drag your nails down the now exposed skin of his chest. He hisses at the sting of it.

“Interesting,” you murmur. You lean close, chest pressed against his, hands coming up to frame his face. Your nails scratch through his beard now and he groans his appreciation.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. “Please?”

You respond by pressing your lips to his, chaste as first. Your mouths move together slowly, feeling each other out. It’s you that takes it deeper, tracing your tongue over his bottom lip and dipping it inside to tangle with his. He wraps his arms around your low back, holding you tightly in his lap as he consumes you, drunk on the feeling of your breath in his lungs.

You drags yours lips away from his with a slick sound, trailing them along his jaw and towards his ear. You nip at his earlobe, teeth gentle and breath hot before whispering, “Can I suck your cock, Joel?”

A whimper claws it’s way up Joel’s throat as he nods, already unable to form words. He’s no stranger to turning into a puddle for a pretty woman but he’s certain this must be a new record.

You slip from his lap and kneel on the floor, pushing his legs apart so that you can settle in between them. Your hands reach for his belt, tugging on the buckle and pulling it loose so that you can pop the button of his jeans and tug the zipper down, the metallic sound loud in the quiet room.

Your fingers curl into the waist of his jeans and Joel lifts his hips a bit to aid you in tugging them halfway down his thighs. His cock tents his boxers in an obscene way, a wet spot already staining the fabric. You run your palms up his thighs before bracketing his member between your hands, lightly running your thumbs up his length.

“Christ,” Joel says, teeth digging into his lip.

“That feel good?” You ask.

“Uh huh.”

You smile beatifically before leaning forward, warm breath on his covered cock as you press gentle kisses through the fabric. Joel’s hips twitch and he lets out a deep groan.

You tug the elastic of his boxers over his length, tucking it beneath his balls. He’s practically vibrating with need but you continue to take your sweet time, pressing more kisses along his shaft, tracing the tip of your tongue over the prominent vein.

“You have a pretty cock, Joel,” you say, wrapping your hand around the base of him to hold him steady. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open but he doesn’t want to miss the sight of your tongue lapping at the bead of precum gathered on his flushed tip, or the way your own eyes flutter shut as you let out a little moan of appreciation.

You wrap your lips around his cock, taking him inch by agonizing inch into your warm mouth and Joel feels any semblance of sanity disappear from his lust clouded brain. Your eyes stay fixed on him as take him in as far as you can, throat fluttering around the sensitive head when you swallow before pulling up, twirling your tongue around the tip, and plunging back down.

“Christ,” Joel groans, reaching out to cup your cheek. “You look so goddamn good like that.”

You lift off his cock and take it in your hand, moving it across your lips as you ask, “Like what?”

“Chokin’ on my cock, sweetheart,” he growls.

“That was nothing.”

Joel’s about to ask what you mean when you lower your mouth over his length once more. He can feel you flatten your tongue, your throat and jaw relaxing enough to take him to the very base, your nose tickling the wiry curls on his pelvis. He moans as you swallow around him, breathing through your nose and holding yourself there for a moment before coming up with a gasp, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes and spit making your chin shiny in the low light.

“So…I could keep doing this,” you tell him, “or…”

“Or?” He asks.

“Or…you could let me make us both feel good.”

You stand up, your hands untying the knot that holds your dress together so you can push it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You push your panties down your legs and unhook your bra, leaving you gloriously naked in front him, every inch of you like a piece of art meant to be admired. Joel’s hands, greedy and unfulfilled up until now, reach up to grip your hips and pull you onto his lap, your pussy hot and wet against his cock. He lets his hands wander over every inch of exposed skin, relishing the way your ass fits in his palms and the way you hiss when his thumb caresses a tight nipple.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he moans, his lips against your rapid pulse, teeth ghosting the thin skin of your neck. “Need you so bad, baby.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” you whisper, reaching between your bodies to hold his throbbing cock steady, notching it at your soaked entrance and beginning a slow slide down.

Joel is panting against your sweat slick chest, mumbling desperate words into your skin as you take him inside of you as slowly as you can, thighs burning with the effort. When you’ve finally seated yourself on his lap, his head drops back to the cushion, eyes squeezed shut tightly and fingers nearly bruising on your thighs.

“Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” he begs. “Oh, fuck, feels so good.”

Where he’s desperate for you to stay still, you’re already desperate to move. His cock is perfect, thick and long with a slight upward curve, pressing up against your g-spot with stunning accuracy. You’re certain this won’t last long for either of you.

You rock slowly, forward and back, little movements of your hips. Joel lifts his head, looking down at where your bodies are connected with dark eyes. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, tangling your fingers in his hair and giving it a sharp tug that has him hissing your name.

You start to move more quickly, rolling your body in smooth waves over his. He’s panting as he looks up at you, sweat gathering at his temple, and his hands grip your ass and follow your movement reverently.

“So fuckin’ good,” he moans, “you’re gonna make me come, baby, goddamn.”

You speed up, bouncing on his lap now. Your couch creaks the slightest bit, protesting your movements, but you don’t care — all you care about is the man beneath you and the desperate little noises spilling from his lips as you make good on your promise to take care of him.

“Touch me,” you command. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He’s a good listener, your Joel, his thumb immediately finding your clit and circling it with messy movements that drive you wild, that tension in your muscles coiling tighter. Joel’s hips flex into yours with each drop down his length, the room echoing with the lewd sounds of skin against skin and the chorus of whimpers that spill from both of you.

“Joel, Joel, Joel,” you chant. He wraps his arms around you, really thrusting into you now as your own movements falter and you collapse forward, head buried against his neck as you come, trembling with the strength of it.

It’s not long after that he goes still, cock pulsing inside of you as the aftershocks of your orgasm wash over you. You stay slumped against each other, catching your breaths and waiting for your racing hearts to come back down to earth.

“That was…,” Joel says with a breathless laugh that shakes his chest. His fingers play up and down your back, soothing and gentle. “Goddamn, that was amazin’.”

“Yeah?” You ask, lifting your head. You smooth his messy hair back from his forehead. “You weren’t so bad either.”

He nips at your neck in retaliation, making you laugh and squirm away from him.

“Do you have to get going?” You ask.

“No,” he replies. “Tommy’s watchin’ Sarah for me tonight. He owes me one. Besides, I’m ain’t done with you yet.”

“No?”

“Not even close, darlin’.”

Joel Miller masterlist

All masterlists

[apomaro-mellow]

Corroded Coffin ransoms Steve 4

Part 3

Steve's makeshift shackles were released and he honestly had half a mind to bolt. But in the end, he figured it was better to get this all over with. Eddie pushed Steve in front of him and he started towards the convenience store. The bell rang on the door as he went in. The cashier didn't even look up from his magazine.

Steve pretended to peruse the candy aisle as he scoped out the place. He didn't have a gun or a knife, so he couldn't be expected to stick up the joint and empty the register.

Bingo

Eddie was posted up by the magazine rack right by the door. Steve went towards the back where the drinks were. He grabbed a couple six packs and casually walked back up to the front. The cashier looked up then and Steve felt his heart skip a beat before he bolted for the door.

He could hear the cashier screaming at him. He could hear Eddie howling behind and yelling for the van to start. Steve threw himself into the back and the cashier had chased them outside. Steve's leg was still dangling out the door as Doug peeled out of the parking lot. Eddie pulled him further inside and shut the door.

The van was a cacophony of loud noise as they drove back to Gareth's house. Only when they got to the driveway and parked did it begin to quiet as they all caught their breaths.

"So", Steve spoke up first. "Trust me now?"

Eddie just shoved him. "It's a start. Let's talk about what else you can do for us."

In the house, everyone was either a full can or a can and a half into it. Eddie still wanted to hold out hope for their original plan.

"Can't we still ransom your folks? We could call 'em up from whatever resort they're all and demand the money."

Steve shook his head. "It's not gonna work. Your best bet is just taking some stuff from my house and pawning it."

"Works for me", Jeff said.

"Your parents really wouldn't give a huge payout for you?", Gareth asked, eyes narrowed.

"Well they didn't last time", Steve shrugged and then stood up, crushing his can and picking up his third can.

"Wait. Rewind", Eddie said. "This isn't even your first kidnapping?"

"Yeah and I gotta be honest. Compared to them, you guys are amateurs", Steve said as he cracked his beer open.

"When was this?", Jeff asked.

"Uhh, ten? I don't know, the whole things kind of a blur now. I just remember getting in a car, being in a room, talking with my dad on the phone and finding out he wasn't gonna shell out the money for me."

"...Jesus Christ", Eddie breathed out. "And I thought my dad sucked."

"Okay, it's kinda apples to oranges", Doug said. "Harrington's dad sucked. Eddie, your dad sucks in a different way."

"Why does your dad suck?", Steve asked, switching the attention off of him.

"Psshhh, where do I start? Never around until he wanted me to do something for him, was a dick to my mom, ditched me when cops came, all around scum of the earth." Eddie stood with a groan. "And the apple don't fall too far from the tree."

Steve rolled his eyes. "You're not that bad, Munson. I told you, you guys are third rate kidnappers."

"That's the one thing I didn't mind being being last in."

"You got anything you're first in?"

"You wanna find out?"

Eddie didn't realize how close they'd gotten, almost toe to toe before Gareth cleared his throat.

"Uhhh, do you two need a room?"

Eddie cleared his throat and took a step back. "So, you just let us into your house? And we take what we like?"

"Exactly", Steve said. "A lot of it's insured anyway."

"Dudes, we might be able to get more than just battle of the bands money", Doug said.

"You guys want something more than some band competition?", Steve asked.

"We can dream big", Jeff said.

"Like what?"

Gareth started immediately and Jeff spoke with his eyes, hinting to Eddie that they should both go to the kitchen. They did and Jeff wasted no time.

"Don't fall for Harrington's shtick."

"His shtick?"

"Yeah, his jock shtick. He's gonna get you with the things they do and you're gonna fall for it."

"Like what?", Eddie leaned in.

"Just stay metal, Eddie. Okay?"

Eddie snorted. "Yeah, whatever man."

They decided to just go ahead and do the job tomorrow morning. They stayed up until about midnight before figuring out they should probably sleep before robbing a house. Gareth also suggested they take turns watching Steve.

"I stole beer for you guys, where's the trust?", Steve bemoaned.

"You could still earn some more points", Eddie said. Then he saw how the others already declared themselves 'not it' by putting their fingers to their noses. When Eddie's face fell in realization, he groaned, eliciting snickers from the others.

Gareth slept in his room while Jeff and Doug took up the couches in the basement. Steve laid across the couch in the living room while Eddie got comfortable in the armchair right across from him.

"You're really just gonna watch me all night like some stalker?", Steve asked. "What if I wanna beat one off?"

Eddie shrugged. "If you wanna give the freak a show."

"It's weird to just watch."

Eddie wanted to choke on his spit. "'Just watch'?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Munson, you had to have done it once."

"Done what?"

Steve sat up and made a jerking motion with his hand. "I mean with friends."

"I'm afraid I'm unaware of that custom", Eddie squeaked. "You and the guys on your team just, what? Jerk each other off?"

"Don't make it weird. We do it to ourselves. We just...do it around each other. If you're gonna do it, might as well, right?"

Eddie remembered Jeff's words then. Harrington was either trying to entrap him now, or get him in a trap later. He was just dollar signs to Eddie and that's how it needed to stay.

"Get to sleep, Harrington. You can go one day without abusing yourself."

Part 5

Taglist

@tinyplanet95 @dammitjim02 @chaotic-waffle @missarte-beltane @im-sam-fucking-winchester

@persnicketysquares @estrellami-1 @spookycollectorcandies @chocolateraccoonlights @exasperatedsighohmy

@disrespectedgoatman @yesdangerpls @me-ig7 @imaginary-maggie-waggie

[carmenized-onions]

Tony, Terry, Tommy? | Walk-In Hotfix

synopsis; You get an unexpected call from an old friend in need of an emergency repair. Good thing: that's kind of your whole gig. Bad thing: You've been avoiding the Berzatto family for the past year.

tasting notes; hurt comfort? idk man, he's in a fuckin' freezer. this is gonna be a long slow-burn series. We don't use Y/N here and we've got a very preestablished storyline going on babes. Eat up.

portion; 3.1k+

possible allergies; SEASON 2 FINALE SPOILERS, I've started writing this before Season 3 comes out in June so we're going WAY off canon (unless I'm an oracle), Mikey is gonna be central baby, any tw you require for the bear-- you require for this.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns!)

I have not written fanfiction in 5-6 years and once again some goddamn pretty boy just YOINKS me back in. I'm making up my own season three here so I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants with this series, hopefully it turns out. If it doesn't... C'est la vie, I had fun.

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                    Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call from an old friend.

You stare at your screen for what feels like eons but it’s really just a few rings. It’s enough time to frantically search through blankets on your couch for your remote to pause your show— Which might as well be like 10 years of time. You’re heavily debating not answering; what if it’s something heavy? What if a mutual childhood friend died? What if it’s a love or murder confession? What if it’s about the money you owe her? The money she owes you?

Do you really want to take that kind of call? On what’s been a peaceful Friday night? That’s a rarity in your part of Chicago, c’mon. If it’s important, she’ll leave a voicemail... Who are you kidding, she doesn’t leave voicemails— Frankly, it’s bizarre and concerning that she’s calling in the first place instead of spam texting. …Alright, she’s let it get to the fourth ring, she’s probably dead or dying. You need to pick up.

“…Syd?”

She sounds infinitely stressed, but relieved to hear your voice.“Hey, hey, uh—”

There’s a cacophony of yelling, banging, and what you imagine are kitchen noises in the background. Guess she kept to her guns after Sheridan. That’s nice. Or maybe it’s not. Hard to tell.

“Are you good?” She can’t see the concern on your face or your free arm crossing over your waist— But she can imagine it in the worried lilt of your voice.

“Yeah, yeah yeah, yeah— I-I’m good— Well actually, no, I’m not good, that’s why I’m calling. Actually. Sorry. I know it’s been a minute, it’s fucked up to call only when I need something—”

“Syd.”

“Is your dad still a handy-man?”

Ah. Goodbye peaceful Friday night. Hello emergency hotfix services.

You click your teeth, “Oh, no, he retired. Got a case of… Getting fucking old disease.” But a part of you is relieved it’s a thing that’s broken, and not her. This is at least manageable— Whatever it is.

“Fuck. Okay. Fuck. Ha, yeah, my dad’s got that too— Well, okay, then I’ll talk—”

You’re quick to jump in. “I took over the business though. So, if you’re—" “We need help so bad right now.”

You can’t help but laugh at the speed of it, but immediately feel guilty hearing the desperation in it. “Yeah? Who’s we?”

You stick the cellphone in the crux of your neck, already walking across your apartment to throw on your jumpsuit— Dark navy blue, elbow length sleeves, dad’s old logo embroidered on your right breast pocket.

CHICAGO’S KINDEST ⚒ FIXERS & CO. It’s managed to grow on you.

There’s an egregious number of patches ironed or sewn onto the back and shoulders of it. All from businesses you and your father had either worked with or done odd jobs for. A NASCAR jumpsuit, but for nostalgia and small businesses. Something something ‘it all starts with your neighbourhood’. Your dad would say.

Syd continues, she hasn’t changed much. You hear her sharp dicing in the background, the rhythm seems to calm down into an actual flow instead of erratic speed. You figure either the dinner rush is starting to slow down or she’s relieved you’re coming. Who are you being humble for, no shot it’s the former.

“So, you know how I’m like— Like a chef and shit?”

 You hum the affirmative, putting her on speakerphone so you can pull out your tool kit with both hands.

“So like, I actually co-own this restaurant opening tonight.”

“Oh nice!”

“Yeah— Yeah, yeah, it’s really nice, but actually, it’s not, because it’s bad.”

“In the way I can fix?”

“In the way you can fix, yeah. Hopefully.”

“What’s the damage?”

“So, my co-owner uh, Carmen, he got locked in the walk-in. Like trapped.”

You take a beat, a confused one. Half-stepping, almost tripping. You stare at your tools, picking out what you’ll actually need for this— How the fuck— “How is he trapped in the walk-in?”

“So, he meant to call to get it fixed—” “And he didn’t?” “And he didn’t.”

“What was broke about it in the first place?”

“The doorknob on the inside, broke off. And right now, or, more like, 5 minutes ago, the handle on the outside broke off too.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.”

“Do you have the outside handle, still?”

“Yeah. Yeah, laying around somewhere— It snapped off though, like—”

“Clean?”

“Uh…. Y’know, I would check, but I’m actually kinda—"

“Can we run table 36, please, Chefs?!” Now that’s an uncomfortably familiar voice.

“Yes, Chef! …I’m kinda busy.”

“Right. Restaurant. Oh, what fucking restaurant? You said Carmen, that’s that fuckin’ Michelin guy, right?” Berzatto. It has to be. The smallness of this world is a personal prank on you.

“…How do you know that?” Son of a bitch.

“…I try to remember what you like.” It’s a good save, but that was too intimate for 3 years of no contact besides Happy Birthday texts, fuck fuck, recover— “Ahem, uh, Restaurant?”

“The Bear. Formerly The Beef. You do still live in Chicago, right?”

Berzatto. Confirmed. Bleh.

“Fortunate for you, I do. I know The Beef, I’m not far, I’ll be there in ten. Tell him to not have a panic attack, if you get a minute.”

“I will not get a minute. But I love the dream.”

And you’re off. Jumpsuit half zipped over what was supposed to be a sleep shirt but is now posthumously a work shirt. Nobody has to know you’re wearing pajama shorts under this. Carhartt jacket thrown over your shoulders— Your dad’s, so, a bit oversized. Toolbox in hand, utility belt on— Though you’re mildly sure if your hypothesis is right, you will only need your threateningly long sledgehammer.

Thank God for your car. CTA would not like you right now.

You pull up front. Oh boy. The sign change is making you feel a type of way that you were not expecting. Pride? Envy? All seven of the deadly sins? Maybe. No time to stew on it because there’s an older woman smoking and having an emotional spat with who you assume is her shivering son out front. So. Definitely going through the back alley instead of getting in the middle of that shit.

Alas, it’s not any better, because there’s Syd, vomiting next to a dumpster.

“Better to ignore or acknowledge you in this moment?” Is the response you decide is best, despite the question, you’re already by her side. You put your tools down (out of the splash zone) and rub her back with one hand, holding back straying braids with the other.

“I couldn’t—” More vomit. “Fuckin’ tell ya.” Syd takes a few deep breathes before standing. She considers going in for a hug, but remembers, the vomit. “Good to see you. I want to catch up, f’real, but—” “The bear in the walk-in?” “The bear in the walk-in.”

You nod, fishing through your pocket. You hand her a mini container of Tums. She waves it off, of course, and you double down, of course, “Who you acting tough for?”

“Fuckin… No one.” She grimaces, taking the box. She makes a show of taking one, like a fussy kid.

You refuse to take it back. “Keep it.”

“Never stopped being the mom friend, eh?”

You laugh, picking up your tools again. “Listen, there’s no telling what the night and your stomach holds. Lead the way?”

The Bear is pretty, or at least the kitchen of it is, so far. It’s clean. Cleaner than it used to be. The death trap walk-in is really the only eyesore for you. You stare at the broken-off handle in your hand, twisting it back and forth to look at all the angles. It’s honestly a pretty clean break.

Sydney’s left to talk to her dad, as she should, and the rest of the kitchen is either too busy to pay you mind or is just silently relieved to see you.

Tina— Who has thankfully opted to not say ‘Hey, good to see you, it’s been a year, what the fuck’—Taps the walk-in door and says to this elusive Michelin Carmen that she’ll be right back, that help’s here. He does not seem to register this at all. She gently slaps your cheek before rushing back to her station, regardless.

“Maybe I’m just not built for this, maybe, maybe that’s okay— Maybe that just is.”

You’ve never said his name to him, it feels heavy on your tongue. “Carmen.”

“Right? What the fuck was I thinking?”

Alright, he’s too far gone. You flag down one of the cooks that are just shadowing for the night. “Hey, can you hold this in place for me?”

You stick the handle into what’s left of the hinge still attached to the door, which is, not much— But hopefully, again, if your hypothesis is correct, it’ll give enough leverage. The cook holds it in place, a little terrified as your sledgehammer comes into view.

“Not gonna hit you, promise.”

“—I’m a fuckin’ psycho. That’s why. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”

You tap (bang) the hammer on the door, enough to stop his train of thought. For a second, at least. “Sweetheart, I need you to stand up for me, Carmen Chef Sir.”

“…Tony?”

“...Who the fuck is Tony?”

The meek cook beside you speaks up, “He means Tommy.”

And Tina is quick to yell from across the kitchen— hearing how? We don’t know. “It’s Terry!”

“I am none of these people.” You sigh, readying the hammer. “Carmen, can you stand up, and just tuck your fingers in the wedge of the door? If there is one?”

“Heard. Yeah.” There’s shuffling from in there, getting into position. Though the steps and the words seem dazed, as he’s forced out of a mental fog. “Here.”

“This isn’t a fix by the way. Your whole door is fucked after this. Not that it isn’t already, but, y’know.” You back up, teeing yourself up before running forward.

“Well, wait—”

You slam the mallet into the tip of the handle perfectly, forcing it way too tight into the gap of the hinge. You push the cook aside with your hip, now using the long handle of the mallet to stick between the knob and the door, using it as further leverage to pull it open. It is incredibly straining.

“Carmy!” Is it okay to say that nickname before you’ve even seen his face? Eh. You’re moving the boulder, he’ll forgive you. “You feel air?!”

“Holy shit— Yeah, yeah— Push?!” “Of course fucking push!”

And it becomes apparent in this exchange of force that this Head Chef must be significantly stronger than you, because it’s opening a lot faster now. Though, fast is a strong word for the snail pace this is happening at. But it’s more than the nothing that was happening a minute ago.

“Aye… Cousin?” Richie, in a… suit? Runs up to you, coming from front of house. He immediately grabs a free spot on the sledgehammer’s handle to help pull. He was shocked to see you doing, well, this, right now, but then upon registering, he’s just shocked to see you. Period.

You can only groan in response, sticking a leg up and putting your foot on the wall as if it’s gonna add meaningful leverage— Oh wait, it kinda is. “Y'clean up good, Rich— Opening going—Fuck— well?”

“Oh yeah, fucking peachy.” He can only manage to wheeze in reply. Investing his strength in yanking rather than reintroductions; thankfully it pays off.

The hinge shoots open, you would have absolutely fallen on your ass if Richie was not ready to stabilize you. The walk-in door cracks open. Just a bit. It’s not dramatic, it’s just a breath.

It’s so anti-climactic that Richie doesn’t mind walking off to cheer before Carmen even comes out. Clapping your back as he does. “That’s what I like to fuckin’ see, Cousin! Ingenuity!”

Though, to be fair, he’s moving to intercept a very sweet looking, worried girl. You look up at her, wheezing as you keel over slightly to catch your breath, hands on your knees. She’s saying something along the lines of ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Is he okay?’ Girlfriend? Probably. Richie seems to be coaxing her accordingly. You turn your head back to the door. Carmen hasn’t come out yet. That’s a red flag. With another wheeze, you stand up right, opening the door further, peeking in.

He's standing there, catatonic. Not looking at you, but straight forward, beyond you. He must’ve been by the door to push it open but now he’s stumbled against the back shelf. Every time his girl’s voice manages to ring into here, his eyes crinkle— Wince. His breath keeps hitching. He looks afraid. It is better to be caged right now than it is to be out there, doing whatever he could be doing, right now. Talking to anyone might be a death sentence, right now.

“I don’t need to provide amusement or enjoyment. I don’t need to receive any amusement or enjoyment. I’m completely fine with that.” He mumbles repeatedly. You can barely hear it over the buzzing of the freezer.

Whispering it just for himself, like some sort of fucked up mantra. Like it’s a state of inner peace to feel this bad. You doubt he even sees you right now.

You know you don’t know Carmy personally. Mostly just through hearsay.

He’s never met or heard of you, that’s for sure.

But you know Berzattos. Or. Knew the one.

And you know a downward spiral. Intimately.

And you know that right now, he’s fucking cold. He is shivering and making no move to leave that state. You think he thinks that’s the state he deserves to stay in.

Nothing to lose but a good first impression, right? You drop a screwdriver in the doorway as a doorstop— Because how fucking dumb would it be if you both got stuck? And. Extremely slowly, you approach him not unlike approaching an actual captive bear. In your eyes, you might as well be.

Standing right in front of him doesn’t stop his mantra. You slip your jacket off, half hugging him to drape it over his shoulders. “You’re just cold.”

“I’m a—” “You’re just. Cold.” You cut him off before he has the chance to self-deprecate again, smoothing out the sleeves on him. His eyes readjust to actually look at you rather than somewhere beyond.

You sniff. You’re already cold and it’s been 30 seconds. This poor thing. You rub your hands together, breathing hot air into them before touching them to his frigid fucking face. “Fuck you’re really cold. Like danger cold.”

Never being one for boundaries or hesitation, you hug yourself to him. It’s the fastest way to warm him up. You slip your hands under the jacket— Your jacket— And just engulf the Italian Popsicle Man before you.

Shockingly, he doesn’t push you off or suddenly reawaken to his senses and tell you to fuck off. He doesn’t flinch, if anything he leans in. His body doesn’t really have time for surprise, right now, it just takes what it needs. And what it needs is warmth and oxytocin. His breathing slowly but surely self regulates, and once you start to remember decorum you lower your arms— But. He opts to place his chin on your shoulder, like the world’s most gentle hook, and that alone is enough to keep you there.

It's a long, silent, liminal spacey moment before he speaks again. Both of you speak just above the decibel of the freezer's buzzing.

“You’re not Tony.”

“Terry.”

“You’re Terry?”

“No, Tina said Tony’s Terry. I don’t know who the fuck Terry is.”

“Terry’s the fridge guy.”

“You’re still going to need to call him; I did just make it worse.”

“That’s fine.” He swallows. “Who called you?”

“Syd.”

“Should’ve called you earlier.”

“Should’ve called the fridge guy earlier.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, but he makes no move to move, so you don’t either.

“You know Mikey too?”

Ah. The patch. The Beef. It's worn, but it sits proudly on the left shoulder of your jumpsuit. Your heart tightens and so does your posture.

“Yeah.” You sigh. It’s shakier than you’d like it to be. “Dad knew him, so then I knew him, so then I occasionally fixed shit for him. Shit that ‘Fak couldn’t?’ I think his name was?”

“Hm.” He hums. “He ever got locked in the walk-in?”

“Yeah, he really fucked it up, like waayy worse than whatever happened with you tonight. Like whatever happened. At least 10 times worse.” Your voice is coated with sarcasm, but it’s not entirely untrue.

You’re relieved, when Carmen laughs at this, a touch maniacally, but it’s something. Right now, any emotion from him besides regret and anxiety feels like a trophy. He straightens up, pushing his hair back, so you remove your arms.

“You’re fuckin’ funny, Tony.”

“Still not Tony.”

“Oh my god!” A blonde, very pregnant woman cracks the door open, relieved. “Are you okay, Bear?” You step aside so she can hug Carmen, holding his cheeks to look over him. Oh, this has to be—

“I’m good, I’m great, Sug.” He says this incredibly unconvincingly, hanging one hand on her wrist.

But what matters more in your brain right now is: That’s Sugar. Natalie.

And now you can put a face to both siblings you’ve been bitched about to.

Chain-smoker, means well, cringeworthy husband, too good for her family, incredibly judgemental, cares too much and worries more, loves to fight, her mother’s daughter, pushy, sticks her foot in her mouth, can’t take no for an answer, would lay down her life. Natalie Berzatto. Little sister.

Michelin Star retaining, big shot, sensitive, definitely a virgin, ball buster, sweats the small stuff, sweetheart, asshole, incredibly smart, flighty, coward, deeply loyal, whiny, screamer, show-off, fantastic drawer, shell, mister new york, annoyingly humble, undeniably the most talented. Carmen Berzatto. Baby brother.

Mikey’s words. Of course.

Nat turns her gaze over to you, “Thank you.” You can only bring yourself to nod in reply, a bit awkward— Lost in your rolodex of memories of the people you’ve never actually met until right now. It’s weird to feel parasocial about a normal person.   

“Our toilet, exploded.” She says.

Now that pulls out you of it, and gets a laugh out of you. You put your hand over your mouth. “Yeah?”

Sugar shakes her head, eyes widening like she’s just stepped in it, “I didn’t mean like— Like, you just did a job, right, that’s like tacking on another last-minute service—”

“That’s fine.” You put a hand up stopping her from continuing, still chuckling. “I’ll take a look at it tonight and try to fix it tomorrow?”

She nods, smiling bright, “Thank you, Tommy.”

Who needs to use Y/N when you have the fridge guy?

I so desperately hope you liked this first chapter. I've been stewing on this for like a week so I beg of you to reply/reblog/send me an ask (anon or not!!) telling me what you thought!! Unless it's mean!! In which case, do NOT!!!

And just a forewarning, as we step into uncharted territory where the walk-in meltdown was cut short, I need you to hold my hand through it bb. We're making this man's life better or we're gonna die trying.

Next Part

[killerlookz]

Your Problem | Heartbeat! AU drabble no.1

part of a series of supplemental drabbles that take place in the heartbeat! au, not intended to be full length fic material- just bits and pieces of lore to expand the universe <3

description: on a night out michael decides to be a major buzzkill and chastise you for drinking too much, joost attempts to talk some sense into him... or at the very least tell him off

warnings: michael (ew), toxic relationship, vomitting, excessive drinking, not proofread, rpf!!! do not continue if uncomfortable

Try as you might- but you simply cannot make sense of the conversation around you. A cacophony of conversation, and loud music- every sound, every syllable pierces your eardrums, the tingling headache you feel creeping up the back of your neck climbs higher, and higher, making you wince.

You had done it again. Drank too much. God on a week night too.

You sit at a table in the back of the darkened bar, head resting in your hands, all of your focus put into keeping yourself upright. Had you really drunk so much more than everyone else here? It had seemed so.

Your eyes widen, suddenly anxious as everyone at the table turns to you, it had seemed you had missed whatever conversation was at hand, one that you were currently the subject of.

"Wha-" You furrow your eyebrows, chin lifting ever so slightly from your palm. Your voice is meek, rich with confusion.

"Oh, no," You hear a familiar chuckle, lazily, your eyes move to the source of the noise, gaze settling to the man who sits diagonally from you. Joost stares at you, a smile on his face, clearly amused at your state, "Someone's had too much fun tonight."

Your eyes narrow, you suppose that someone is you. Though, you can't say you're having much fun anymore.

"I'm f-ine," Your eyes close, hiccuping, a small smile on your face. But soon enough the room feels like its spinning around you, and your eyes are snapping back open, and you force yourself to sit up straight. Its bad.

"Jesus Christ." A much less leart hearted voice comes from beside you, "How much did you have to drink?" You'd know that accusatory tone from anywhere, Michael, your boyfriend, ever the buzzkill.

You shrug, "A lot," Shaking your head, in no state to give an estimate of a figure. "Maybe- uh…. a lot."

"It's every fucking time you go out." You don't even have to look at Michael to know the look on his face, jaw probably tensing, cheeks bitten, so worked up over something so insignificant.

"Its'kay," You're too far gone to even worry about what he's saying, "Calm-hmm down." And you hope for the sake of the rest of the table he does, another argument in front of your friends is not what you needed tonight, after all the whole point of going out was to relieve the stress of your day, nobody, especially you, needed Michael stressing them out more.

"And how do you think you're getting home?" He asks, his voice forceful.

"Walking," You say matter-of-factly, like its a no brainer.

"Yeah right, I'd like to see you stand up without busting your fucking ass right now."

"Wo-hoa-" You giggle, eyes widening, "Language!"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Loud. And. Clear." You nod. Not really.

"Oh my god." Michael sighs, exasperated, and you can't help but laugh, just a little, at the ways he gets worked up over little things like this. If you had been more sober, you'd let Michael's tenseness get you stressed out too, but right now, it hadn't really phased you.

"Aww, c'mon, lighten up," You pout, placing a hand on his shoulder, "You're like alergic to having a good time." Your words are slurred, far from eloquent, but your point stands.

"Having to babysit you while you're belligerent is not a good time."

"Right," You roll your eyes, turning away from Michael, "God forbid you care about your girlfriend."

"And god forbid you have a little self control for once in your goddamn life."

"'Hey man," Joost interjects, "Calm down." He waves his hand, shaking his head, trying to emphasize how unserious the situation was, "She's fine."

Thank god, at least someone acknowledged how ridiculous Michael was being- unfortunately, not only would Michael never listen to anyone else, he'd especially never listen to Joost.

"Easy to say when you don't have to deal with this all night." Michael is having none of it, angrily gesturing towards you. You furrow your eyebrows, thankful the intoxication at least numbs some of the sensation of what he's hurling at you. Deal with? That's harsh.

"Dude, stop being such a dick, man." He's slightly more confrontational now, telling Michael off, "I've "dealt with" your girlfriend while she's been drunk more times than I can count, she's fine, bro, calm down." Joost throws up his fingers in quotations.

"Going out and getting her wasted doesn't really count as dealing with." Since the moment the two of them had met Michael had gotten some weird idea of Joost in his head, he loathed the fact that he had tattoos and messy hair, hated the way he dressed and the fact that he had chosen music over a "real job". In Michael's eyes, Joost would be nothing else but immature, irresponsible, reckless.

Of course, Michael had utterly oblivious to the many of nights Joost had spent taking care of you after you'd partied a little too hard, even the nights that had occurred while you'd been with Michael. Even post-breakup when you had just needed someone to come home to after a wild night out Joost had been the one to call, much more patient with you than you could ever dream of Michael being.

"Trust me, man, you don't know the half of it." Joost scoffs, unwilling to divulge more than he should, for your sake. If it had been up to Joost, he'd probably have bragged to Michael about all the things the two of you had done together, about all the things that he did that Michael couldn't, "You think all the times you flip out on her and leave after a night out she just miraculously finds her way home? And she just spends the rest of the night alone?"

"Well, then, enlighten me." Michael presses.

"Nah," Joost shakes his head, "Better left unsaid." If Michael knows what's good for him, he'd stop there, shut this conversation down and not continue on. But that couldn't happen, unwilling the accept that anyone could best him, much less Joost, he needed an answer, what was this half of it he was so clearly missing?

"No, no, you opened the door,"

Joost's eyes glance around the table, uncomfortable faces all glaring back at him, Apson, Alanis, Julie, Tantu, You- everyone knows but Michael.

"Look, bro-I'm just saying lighten up, okay, buddy? You're just being a shitty boyfriend." There's some effort to diffuse the situation, wanting to restore the peace at the table, but telling Michael he's a shitty anything is bound to get him even more riled up.

"Oh my god," You mumble, leaning forward, forehead resting in your palm, not ready for whatever is about to come out of Michael's mouth.

"Not wanting a girlfriend with zero self control, who spends most nights getting belligerent with her burnout friends isn't being a shitty boyfriend, I'm trying to get her away from this shit."

"You're just being mean, man." Joost says, matter of factly, "Like, fuck go home."

"Just what I wanted in the first place," Michael almost sounds relieved Joost told him to leave, apparently never having wanted to come to begin with. Yet somehow you doubt Michael's motives, part of you felt as if he had enjoyed hanging out with your friends, if for no other reason then to feel some fake superiority over them. He'd crossed the line tonight though, vague backhanded comments was really the worst Michael had done until now, outright calling your friends burnouts? How could you ever bring him around again?

"Come on," You feel Michael's hand on your shoulder, but there's no affection in his touch, it's merely to get your attention, "We're going home."

You lift your head, the room spinning once again, your head bobs up and down a few times, as you attempt to regain your stability, you don't know if you'll be able to stand up, your sudden movement making your far more nauseous than you had already been. You don't want to be here, but you certainly do not want to go home with Michael.

You're certain all the life has drained from your eyes by now, biting at your cheeks to fight back the uncomfortable, twisting feeling in your stomach.

"Hello," Michael snaps his fingers, "Can you hear me? Home."

You can hear him just fine, but truthfully, you have more important things to worry about now then catering to his every whim, like making sure your dinner doesn't end up on the table.

"Woah," You hear Joost speak once again, concerned, "Hey, alles goede?" You can see in your periphery he begins to stand up from where he's been sitting, probably aware of the sudden sick feeling that's washed over you. You look up at him, taking a deep breath, you squint your eyes tight, not good, you shake your head. He begins to make his way to your side of the table, "C'mon," and you're much more obliged to listen to him than Michael, reaching for the hand he's now stretched out, "Get some air."

Your legs are like gelatin as you attempt to stand up on them, wobbling before you feel Joost's arm around your waist to catch your balance, a bold show in front of Michael after just having told him off. Though you can't care much now, if Michael has anything to say you certainly aren't paying attention- barely able to focus on anything besides getting out of that bar.

Even with your lack of coordination, Joost is able to help you outside with relative ease, obviously no stranger to this. The cool breeze of the night air is nice for a mere second before nausea smacks into you once more, you practically push Joost away from you as your stomach acid burns your throat, closing your eyes tight- finally throwing up the liquor that had been making you so ill.

Truly embarrassing, if you had still had your wits about you you'd feel the full breadth of that shame, but for now, all you could do was sigh, mostly relieved of your nausea.

"Eugh, gross." You mutter, wincing at the taste in your mouth. Joost chuckles from somewhere besides you, clearly amused by your state. "Not funny." You stand up straight, the back of your hand wiping across your bottom lip, surely dragging some of your lipstick with it. You couldn't care less about how you looked now, more so concerned with getting home and some mouthwash.

"It's a little funny."

"Feel s'disgusting." You finally turn towards Joost, who's leaned up against the brick wall outside the bar, disgusting was right, the acidic sting remains on your tongue, the sudden realization of your situation somewhat coming to you, despite your impaired state/

"Awh, mijn arme meisje" He frowns, "Why don't we sit down." Joost cocks his head toward the curb. Usually you would vehemently sitting on the sidewalk, especially in Amsterdam, god only knows what has touched the city's streets, but you're certain if you attempt to stand any longer you'll fall, your brief moment of clarity quickly fading.

"Right," You nod slowly, rocking back and forth while you do so, "Siiit." You take a few, uncoordinated steps forward before Joost is once again grabbing you by the waist, leading you to the curb on the street corner.

"Here," Joost slips his grip from your waist and grabs onto your hand, for stability "Sit down," Your hand remains in his as you plop down on the sloped surface of the curb, his grip strong to keep you from falling over. "Feel better at least?" He asks as he sits next to you.

"Guess'so," You blink as you stare down at your knees, your legs bent in front of you, "Want to brush my teeth."

"I bet," He laughs, "We'll go home soon, ja? Just want to make sure you're good."

"M'fine." You shrug, before wiping at your mouth once more, suddenly insecure about how utterly disgusting you feel. Not just for getting sick, but for seemingly everything else tonight, disgusted by yourself fundamentally. You loathed that Michael had been right about you, that you couldn't handle yourself, that you had no self control, and look where it had led you. You hang your head between your legs, "I'm sorry." You whine.

"Sorry?" Joost asks, confused, "For?"

"I ruined everyone's night." In usual drunk, dramatic fashion tears begin to brim in your eyes. Perhaps you could see the humor Joost seemed to find in your situation if you had been more sober, but for now it had seemed like the end of the world, "I can't control myself, I ruined everyone's night." You repeat.

"Ohh," Joost coos, "No one's night is ruined." He snakes an arm around your shoulder, shuffling closer to you. You fall into his touch, letting your head rest against Joost's chest.

"Don't lie to me," You whimper, tears finally rolling down your cheeks, you sniff, "God everyone must hate me." Dramatic much? Definitely.

"No one hates you." Joost assures, his hand falling to your back, rubbing affectionately.

"My own boyfriend doesn't like me." You nearly choke at the realization, a sob escaping you.

"Michael's just a dick." Joost sighs, "Don't listen to him, hm?" Joost continues to rub soft circles to your back with his palm, tilting down slightly as he does so, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, "We all love you- even when you've had too much to drink."

"I don't deserve you." You sniffle, feeling utterly unworthy of Joost's reassurance.

"Silly girl." He scoffs, giving you another kiss, this one to the crown of your head, "I tell you way often you deserve more."

"Don't feel like I do." You slump down further in Joost's grasp, unable to hold your head up much more, feeling the strain in your neck, "Don't want t'feel like you have to deal with me."

"I like it," Joost's arm returns to holding you around your shoulders, giving you some stability as you rest against him, "Makes me feel like I'm doing something right."

"Stoooop" You mewl, "Make me cry more."

Joost hums, "Sooo sooorryyy," he lengthens each sound, crooning as he extends his sympathy.

His tone makes you giggle slightly, despite the residual tears that fall from your eyes. It had been at least a few weeks since the last argument you had gotten in with Joost, your relationship with Michael stealing all your energy of being mad at someone. If Michael was good for anything perhaps it was, at least for now, repairing your relationship with Joost.

"I need a cigarette," You groan.

"I got you, here, sit up real quick." Joost pats your arm, signaling you to move. And you do, slowly lifting yourself from where you rest against him, letting Joost get to his pocket, pulling out his favorites a pack of Camel blues. You watch as he opens the pack, taking a cigarette out, "Here, open." You part your lips slightly, letting Joost slip the cigarette between them. The small gesture brings a warmth to your cheeks, its intimate, especially as he moves to light the cigarette for you too. His face is close to yours now, tattooed fingers cupping the end of the cigarette, shielding it from the breeze as he lights your cigarette.

You're too busy staring you hardly notice when your cigarette lights, and Joost pulls away.

You inhale, feeling the prickly smoke fill your lungs, a small smile spreading across your lips, despite being a more than merely social smoker, there were few joys in life that could rival a drunk cigarette on a night out. You grab the cigarette, between your pointer and middle finger, turning your head over your shoulder to exhale.

You can hardly stifle the, ugh that leaves your mouth when upon turning around you notice Michael has made his way outside. Your heart sinks, pulling you back to the reality where Michael is your boyfriend and Joost is merely an ex. You wonder how much of everything he's just seen, not much probably, maybe just Joost lighting your cigarette, if that. But part of you just wishes Michael could have seen all of it, the way Joost held you as you cried against him, regardless of how utterly ridiculous the reason, the small kisses he placed to your head, you wish he could have heard Joost's kind, reassuring words.

"Why are you sitting on the ground, it's fucking filthy." Without missing a beat Michael immediately returns the negativity to the night, "Come on, get up, I'm going home."

"Not finished with this," You wave your cigarette in the air, unable to muster the strength to lift up your head to make eye contact with him.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, just get up I want to leave." Annoyance laced in his words, his hand flailing upward to beckon you up. "I've had enough of this for tonight."

"Just wanna finish my cigaret-"

"I don't care, stand up." Michael interrupts you, more forceful now.

"Dude, she's not gonna get up, just go home man." Joost interjects, "She obviously doesn't feel well let her chill."

"Fine," Michael throws his hands up, "She's your problem tonight. Have fun getting her home."

"I will," Joost hums, his voice matter of fact, "We always have fun."

"Yeah right, good luck." Michael scoffs, walking away. You can hardly feel bad about being called a problem, the relief of Michael finally walking away too great for the moment to be dampened.

Joost laughs slightly, clearly amused by Michael's histrionics,

"No one else I'd rather have as my problem."

[rainforestakiie]

mph funny and cute idea!

one day, lucifer suddenly finds that he can hear adam's thoughts, even though adam is in heaven. at first, lucifer is disgusted and annoyed, expecting adam's thoughts to be repulsive. but to his surprise, every thought that crosses adam's mind is innocent, sweet, and random. adam is like a cinnamon bun in hiding, and lucifer ends up genuinely enjoying hearing them. he finds himself smiling in amusement whenever adam's thoughts pop into his mind. most of the time, when he's in a particularly bad mood, just one of adam's innocent thoughts is enough to cheer him up.

One day, deep in the fiery heart of Hell, Lucifer was pacing restlessly, his wings twitching with irritation. He had been having a particularly trying time with his underlings, and the pit’s infernal noise wasn’t helping his sour mood. He loathed the never-ending cacophony. The silence he yearned for felt like a distant memory.

But then, something strange happened.

A thought whispered through his mind—a soft, almost innocent ripple that didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t like the usual voices in his head; it was different—quiet, unfamiliar, and far too... pure.

"I wonder if the clouds today are like cotton candy... I haven't seen one in ages."

Lucifer froze, his wings stilled mid-flap. That wasn’t his thought. He scowled. Who is this? His mind twisted in irritation. Heaven. The thought was so mundane, so detached from the endless suffering he was surrounded by. His first instinct was to crush it, to banish whatever foolishness had dared invade his domain. But then the thought continued, unbothered.

"I hope the flowers in the garden bloom well this season. I think they'd look nice by the river."

Lucifer’s brow furrowed. It was—sweet. Far too sweet. His lip curled in disgust. Heaven’s purity was repulsive enough, but this? This was beyond irritating. He had no use for innocence.

But no matter how much he tried to focus on his anger or hatred, the thoughts came back.

"I think I'd like a nap later. I’m so tired, but maybe I’ll read first."

Lucifer’s irritation deepened. Was this some kind of celestial trick? Was someone mocking him?

But then, something unexpected happened.

"Maybe I’ll find a new place to explore. There's so much in Heaven I haven't seen yet."

For reasons he didn’t understand, a strange warmth spread through him. He gritted his teeth. This can’t be real.

But it was. The thoughts kept coming, like the soft flutter of wings on a breeze. Sweet, random musings that seemed as harmless as they were odd. And in some twisted way, Lucifer found himself... enjoying them.

"I should probably tidy up my room today. A little organization goes a long way."

A small laugh bubbled up in his chest before he could suppress it. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the bitter, fiery vengeance he was used to. But as the day passed, more of Adam's thoughts drifted through his mind. Simple things. Little joys. It was like hearing a melody from a far-off place—soft, unpretentious, and oddly soothing.

"Do you think the birds in Heaven like singing? I hope they do."

Lucifer smiled before he even realized it. He couldn’t help himself. The thoughts made his heart ache, not with sorrow but with something strange, something he hadn’t felt in eons. It was peace.

By the time the day had ended, Lucifer was in a better mood than he’d been in for ages. Despite himself, he found himself looking forward to the next random thought that would float into his consciousness.

"Maybe I’ll find a nice quiet spot to think today. Just for a while."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Adam…you’re so weird," he muttered under his breath, remembering the way Adam’s thoughts felt like a hidden sweetness in a world of bitterness. Lucifer wasn’t sure what was happening, but he didn’t mind.

For once, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

The next day, Lucifer found himself wandering the desolate depths of Hell with an odd anticipation, as if something was waiting for him. And it was.

"I wonder why rabbits have such long ears. Maybe they can hear better than we can."

Lucifer stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. That voice—so soft, so curious—was back. Adam’s thought was simple, yet it carried with it a kind of innocence that made Lucifer’s scowl falter. Why would he even think of that?

"And why are turtles so slow? Maybe they're just wise and take their time with everything."

Lucifer blinked, momentarily distracted. The thought was bizarre in its simplicity, yet oddly comforting. The ridiculousness of it almost made him want to laugh. Of course, Adam would wonder about turtles, of all things.

He shook his head. No, he was not going to get soft. This was beneath him. But then, as if the universe was conspiring against his resolve, another thought drifted in, unbidden.

"Do whales have their own language? I bet they do. They probably have conversations we can’t even imagine."

Lucifer felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips before he could stop it. Language? The sheer wonder in Adam’s voice was so pure, it made Lucifer’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain. Whales. Conversations. It was like hearing a child ask about the stars, and Lucifer... liked it. Far too much.

"I wonder if the stars in the sky are actually like little eyes, watching us."

Lucifer paused, a slow chuckle escaping him. Stars are watching us? It was such an innocent, bizarre thought that it almost felt like Adam was reaching through Heaven to try and touch Lucifer’s soul. It was an odd, comforting sensation, like the warmth of sunlight on a cold day.

The thoughts were never anything grand or profound. They weren’t about power or war, not about the universe's deep secrets. They were simple, fleeting musings on the world around him. Yet, Lucifer found himself listening to them more eagerly, and his heart was lighter than it had been in centuries.

"Why do cats always seem to sit in the sun? Is it because it feels nice? I bet it does."

Lucifer's brow furrowed, an unexpected chuckle escaping him. Yes, Adam. It feels nice.

What was this? Was he—enjoying this? The simplicity of it? The purity? The odd randomness of it all?

"I wonder what it would be like to fly freely. Just spread my wings and feel the wind."

Lucifer blinked. This time, the thought lingered longer in his mind. Flying. For a brief moment, he remembered the feeling, the freedom of wings soaring through endless skies, the wind rushing past him. A feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to recall in centuries. The thought of Adam wanting something so simple, so human, stirred something in him

"Do birds ever get tired of flying? Or do they just like it forever?"

Lucifer shook his head, feeling something like a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. What was Adam doing to him? His thoughts were like soft tendrils, wrapping around the edges of his dark heart and softening it. He wanted to hear more. And more. He found himself longing for Adam’s next stray thought, even as he loathed how it made him feel.

"I think it would be nice to find a big, fluffy cloud and just lie on it."

Lucifer closed his eyes, the image of Adam lying on a cloud—peaceful, content, drifting without a care—filling his mind. How absurd. How sweet. He let the thought linger, letting it fill him in a way he couldn’t describe. For just a moment, he was almost at peace.

Then, as if he’d been shaken from a dream, he snapped back to reality, glaring at the fiery landscape of Hell surrounding him.

"Do fish ever get lonely, I wonder? Or are they always happy swimming around with their friends?"

Lucifer’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought made something inside him stir—an unexpected, almost painful ache. Lonely, Adam had thought. Lonely.

Lucifer didn’t want to admit it, but he felt that word more deeply than he ever thought he would.

"I hope all the animals in Heaven are happy. I think they are."

With that final thought, a quiet peace settled over Lucifer. It wasn’t something he could fight. It was as though Adam’s innocent curiosity had become a balm to his weary soul, soothing the wounds he’d carried for eons. A cinnamon bun, Lucifer thought absently, his lips twitching upward again at the absurdity of it all.

The grand hall of Heaven was filled with the usual celestial chatter. The soft glow of ethereal light shimmered off the marble pillars, and the air was thick with the sound of archangels and lesser beings debating matters of judgment, order, and the fate of the souls. But Lucifer was no longer paying attention to the flow of the conversation. His gaze was fixed not on the grand assembly but on Adam, who sat at the far end of the room, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he listened to someone—likely Sera—speak.

Lucifer hadn’t expected to feel so drawn to Adam’s presence. After all, Adam had always been the naive, loud-mouthed child of Heaven, clumsy in his optimism and reckless in his attempts to bring peace. The angels often mocked him for it, his innocence treated as weakness, but now… now Lucifer found himself listening intently, not to what Adam said, but to what he was thinking.

Adam’s thoughts, as always, were strangely random. They buzzed through Lucifer’s mind like little bursts of light, soft and unbothered by the chaos of the world around him. It was the little things that Adam wondered about, the trivialities that Lucifer never even considered.

"I wonder what crystals the table is made out of… it looks shiny. Maybe it’s marble, but it’s too shiny for that."

Lucifer blinked, his eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. The thought was so… innocent. He couldn’t help but smile a little. He was supposed to be the prince of darkness, the ruler of Hell, and yet Adam’s curious musings had a way of making him feel lighter, as if all the weight of his kingdom, all the weight of the war, could be forgotten for just a moment.

"Why is Sera’s chair always the biggest? I guess it’s because she’s always so serious. But it doesn’t look very comfortable. I bet she’d rather have one with more cushions.”

Lucifer felt a chuckle escape him before he could stop it. More cushions? Adam's endless questions, simple as they were, were like a breath of fresh air in the oppressive atmosphere of the council hall. It was amusing, almost absurd, how much he cared about things no one else even thought twice about.

He turned his gaze to Sera, who was speaking now, her words as cold and sharp as ever. Adam’s thoughts, however, remained as soft as ever, floating through Lucifer’s mind like little clouds.

"I think Charlie only ever wears red because it’s her favorite color. She should wear more blue though. It’d look nice on her."

Lucifer’s lips quirked into a smile. Blue? Even in Heaven, in this grand meeting of celestial beings, Adam was thinking about clothes. He could almost picture Adam’s wide-eyed wonder as he glanced around, observing everything with the kind of innocent curiosity that was impossible to suppress. He was still, as ever, a cinnamon bun in hiding. How charming, Lucifer thought.

He let the thought drift away, but then, Adam’s next thoughts tugged at something deeper.

"I hope Charlie succeeds. She’s been working so hard. I want her to do well, for the sake of the sinners, and for the baby human souls too. They need someone like her. I hope she knows that."

Lucifer stilled. Charlie? His gaze flicked toward his precious daughter, who was locked in an increasingly heated argument with Sera. The two were debating—loudly, as usual—about the fate of the sinners, but in the midst of their quarrel, Adam’s thoughts cut through the noise with surprising clarity.

"She’ll figure it out," Adam thought, "She always does. She’s strong, and she cares so much. She takes after Lucifer a lot. I like that."

Lucifer blinked. That was… unexpected. Adam’s thoughts were never this focused, this dedicated. The thought of Adam, the same naïve Adam who couldn’t seem to think beyond the next cloud, holding such admiration for Charlie, was a revelation. But hearing him like this, hearing him offer such simple encouragement to Charlie—his genuine desire for her to succeed—it was… unexpectedly moving.

"I hope the sinners get a second chance," Adam thought, his mind filled with a quiet, unshakeable hope. "They deserve a chance to be better. I’d really like to see them have one. I think they can do it."

Lucifer’s heart twisted, and for the briefest of moments, his vision blurred. A second chance? The words hung in his mind like a song he couldn’t escape. The thought of redemption, of forgiveness, it cut through him with a bittersweet sting.

Adam, Lucifer thought. He had always underestimated Adam, seen him only as a naive fool. But these thoughts—this raw, untainted hope for the world—told him more than any words ever could.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. There was something in Adam’s thoughts—something so pure, so unlike the cynicism that had hardened Lucifer's heart—that for the first time in a long while, he felt a strange, undeniable pang. A hope that was not his own.

As the debate between Sera and Charlie grew louder, Adam’s thoughts remained soft but insistent, a quiet undercurrent of love and encouragement. Lucifer stayed silent, sitting in the midst of it all, listening to Adam's musings, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn’t feel the urge to crush it, to silence it.

Instead, he let it wash over him, like a cool breeze through the inferno.

Lucifer hoped he would never lose this new connection with Adam.

Adam’s thoughts drifted again, and this time, they were softer, quieter, as if he were trying to keep them to himself. Lucifer leaned in, as always, drawn to the subtle hum of Adam’s mind. He could sense the shift in tone, the wistful yearning that always preceded the more personal, fragile thoughts. The noise of Heaven—the clatter of voices, the squabbles, the endless debates about the fate of souls—was growing louder around them. But it didn’t drown out Adam’s quiet reflection.

"I miss Eden."

The words rang through Lucifer’s mind, simple and poignant. There was no grandiosity in Adam’s voice, no deep philosophical pondering, just a raw, almost childlike longing for something that had been lost.

Lucifer closed his eyes, his chest tight, feeling a familiar ache gnaw at him. Eden. That garden. The days when everything had been… simpler. When it had been just the two of them.

Adam, sitting by the crystal-clear waters, asking endless questions about the animals, his eyes bright with wonder as he wandered through the lush gardens. Lucifer would watch him, always amused by Adam’s childlike curiosity. The world had been full of peace then, before everything changed.

Adam’s thoughts continued, drifting through the silence like soft winds rustling the trees of Eden. His thoughts were scattered but persistent, as if he couldn’t help but return to it over and over again.

"It’s just too noisy here now. Everything’s a mess. I can’t hear myself think. I miss the quiet of Eden."

Lucifer’s jaw tightened, the words striking a chord deep within him. He didn’t realize how much he longed for those days until he heard Adam’s thoughts. How much he missed the stillness, the gentle cadence of life before the war, before everything had been broken.

Everything had been right in Eden. They’d walked through the gardens together, side by side. Lucifer had been his guide, his protector, and in those moments, there had been nothing but peace. No wars. No rebellion. Just the two of them, with the world unfolding in harmony around them.

"It was just so… peaceful," Adam’s thought lingered in Lucifer’s mind. "Why is everything so hard now?"

Lucifer’s heart clenched at that. He knew that feeling all too well. Why was everything so hard? It was a question he’d asked himself a thousand times. Life had never felt like this before. Confusion. Noise. Struggle.

He thought about the long conversations they used to have—those quiet, deep talks beneath the shade of Eden’s trees. About everything and nothing at all. They had been so close back then. So… uncomplicated. But now?

Now, Lucifer could barely remember the last time he had shared a moment like that with Adam. It was hard to remember what peace even felt like, let alone trust it again.

Without realizing it, Lucifer muttered aloud, the words escaping his lips before he could stop them.

“I miss Eden too.”

For a moment, the words hung in the air, and it took Lucifer several seconds to process what he had just said. His eyes widened in sudden realization, as if a barrier had cracked open in his chest, letting something long buried spill out into the open. His heart skipped a beat. He had spoken without meaning to. He had shared something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for so long.

Adam stared at him.

[korgidorgi]

I LOVE YOUR WINGED READER STUFF.

At the end of your HC with Mel, you mentioned that Reader and Mel see each other after the fic with Ambessa. So, and hear me out, Singed turns Reader into a giant monster to fight in the war‼️

Mel Medarda x Winged!Reader - new plot idea (thanks anon :3)

I actually already have a plan for the next bit of the story, but I really do love that idea! So I’ve maybe kinda added an alternate timeline for you :)

This was actually super fun to write, thank you so much for the prompt! I’m so glad you like my series!!!! I didn’t really do the giant monster thing, but I did practically get rid of everything that makes King Raven King Raven >:3 (lmk if you really want the big scary monster reader and I’ll write another one this was so funnn)

Idk when I’m posting this, but I wanna post it now bc all I’ve been doing the last few days is writing writing writing for this Winged!Reader series thing. The hyper fixation is hyper fixating and I can’t stop it. Gods I need to learn patience lmaoooo (I lied I wrote for 6 hours and now I’m posting)

Lowkey, this can be a follow up next chapter to the Ambessa fucking hates you fic. Like, it actually flows and that one makes this all make sense. Nothing feels better than puzzle pieces putting themselves together for a project you never thought would be a project. Like, I’ve had this fucking character in my head since before season two came out and this just let me put it all together and develop this story for myself. (Maladaptive daydreamer much?) Anyways, I’ll stop ranting and raving, I just actually lost myself in writing this wsjjkanjsidfiwj.

Oh my gyatt this is a long one…

Warnings: Violence, cursing, mind control?, blood, injuries, angst

Summary: basically the above ask.

Ambessa still has you in her possession, hidden away from the world. Singed runs the final ‘treatment’ you’d failed to receive three years ago when he first had you in his lab, when he first made you into his creation. Under Noxian control, possession, and guard, you remain close to his needles and his concoctions. With the help of the Herald’s existence and the relationship with Singed’s work, your mind becomes entangled with thoughts that are not yours. Commands slip into your head, your body obeys. Flashes of what’s happening feel like a dream, or a bad trip. Sound is a whirr in your mind, blending together in a cacophony of noise. You’re unable to make out what is producing them, let alone be able to separate them. Your mind is barely present, pushed down by whatever concoctions Singed has pumped into you once again. Trying to fight the loss of control is painful, a way to keep you compliant, keep you beaten back and unable to defy your destiny.

Flashes of large ships stain your mind, just barely in focus. The harsh clinking of metal, chains, waves against a hull, people shouting, Ambessa barking orders. It’s a blur. The only thing crystal clear in your head is the orders you’ve been given by Singed and Ambessa. It’s hard to focus on anything but your orders, even then, you blindly follow, unable to stop your own body from moving on its own accord. Your body is wrapped in red and metal. Noxian war garments. A new, metallic mask adorns your face, a twisted version of a falcon with sharp edges and a dark aura. Your hands grip the weapons in your hands; a Noxian war spear in one, and a close combat heavy blade gauntlet in the other.

The boat lurches, and the utter of a single word sends you into action. Your wings spread, beating quick and sending you into the air. Dodging projectiles, you use your weapons expertly, fighting with horrifying swiftness and strength. Piltovian’s stand no chance against you. You’re stabbing, slashing, swinging, wrestling with anyone you come across. Each face your eyes focus on only reveal the same sinister face that put you in this position, the face that causes agony whenever you see it. Rage boils in your blood, activating the Shimmer in your body. Pain surges through your body and your mind, forcing you to continue and discouraging any urge to disobey.

You’ve flown past the enemy lines, far into their territory. Your objective to clear a path to the Hexgates at any means necessary. You slaughter your way to the building, leaving so much blood in your wake. Stepping up the staircase to the front doors of the building, you wipe the blood from your weapons, revealing the shimmering steel beneath the red liquid. The heavy doors are locked, but it’s not a problem for you. One swift, Shimmer-fueled kick to it breaks the locking mechanisms. The doors uselessly swing open slowly, groaning as the hinges protest. More enforcers are inside, opening fire the moment they see you. You move quickly, dodging most of their fire as you rush them one by one. Blood splatters across your form with each enforcer you take out, staining your red drapes, your feathers, and your armor. Only a few stray bullets hit their mark, but only to just end up grazing you. Small tears in your outfit build up, showing the others how much strength you wield against them despite each injury you sustain. None of your injuries slow you down, your body moving like a machine. Your movements are automatic, calculated, the end goal to remove everyone who stands against you. The Shimmer in your veins helps to begin closing the wounds, keeping you moving towards your objective.

His face is everywhere. No matter how many times you rid your vision of him, another version of him pops up, another sting of pain paired with it. You close in on him, quickly slashing his throat with your spear before he can fire at you. Another version of him fires at you from down the hall. Your eyes snap over to him and your body moves on instinct, quickly closing in on him. You thrust your spear into his chest, easily slicing through his blue armor and quickly staining it a dark red. He falls from the tip of your spear, only for another version to take his place further down the hall. It’s a nightmare you can’t wake from. The only way forward is to fight, to kill until you stop seeing his face. You remove the blade from another body, huffing as you do. Confusion, rage, panic, it all flows through your system, your mind. You can feel that something is wrong with you, but you’re so disorientated, stuck in this twisted nightmare that feels so real with the pain searing through your body.

You turn your attention back to the task at hand, focusing on clearing the way to the Hexgates. One more figure stands in your way. Singed stands at the end of the hall, donned in a white cloak, a hood over his head. There is no weapon in his hands, only the golden threat of pain swirling around him.

His words are muffled, making your vision blur more. You shake your head, trying to clear your vision. You can barely make out what he’s saying. It’s so similar to his voice, but there’s another element to it. Something gentle.

“Get out of my head…” You seethe at him, your grip on your weapons increasing as you begin to take strides towards him.

With a wave of his hand, a wave of golden pain rushes towards you. You swiftly dodge it, beating your wings to get an advantage above him. Before you can get too high to make your move, two golden tendrils wrap around your ankle, pulling you back down to the ground. You quickly adapt, swiftly closing in on him to land a strike against him. You miss. He’s too quick and sends another wave of gold at you, his mottled voice ringing out yet again, this time his tone is a bit more desperate. Only a few of his words stick in your mind.

“I… …not… …r— enemy—“

His voice is barely understood, fading in and out of your mind, but it doesn’t sound like him. It’s something softer. Familiar.

Despite it, you don’t stop your objective. Your body moves against your will, continuing to strike out at him. Your body and mind are still driven by fear and illusions, working like an unstoppable, well-oiled machine.

With each golden wave of potential pain sent your way, you fight harder. It’s a very balanced face off. But you don’t let the golden waves touch you. Who knows how painful he’ll make you. You can’t get close enough to land a hit on him, but neither can he. It doesn’t seem like he’s fighting very hard to stop you, but hard enough to keep you at bay.

“Fucking fight me you coward!” You urge him angrily, rushing in to try to land another hit.

Before you can reach him, another golden wave comes at you from the side, sending you into the walls of the hall. You let out a grunt at the contact, your mask flying off your face and landing on the floor with a metallic clatter.

Something jostles in your mind. Now your mind can’t make up if your looking at him, or Mel. That’s impossible. Mel is still missing. She can’t be here. Not with Singed.

You shake your head, trying to clear your vision and your mind. You let out a growl, fighting against another golden wave that tries to pin you to the wall. He speaks again, the voice muffled, distorted. Like there’s two people talking at the same time. He approaches you, a hand outstretched to keep you at bay with his golden magic. The closer he gets, the more confusing everything becomes. You’re seeing two faces on the same body, sending waves of intense emotional distress, polar opposites. It’s overwhelming, causing pain to shoot through your mind. You lash out again, trying to keep him away, to end him, to stop the mental torment. Mel is gone and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Please!” He pleads with you, sending another wave of energy to keep you against the wall. “Remember!”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” You scream at him, your vision flicking between Mel’s face and Singed’s.

You fight against the golden energy, but it’s stronger than your body, keeping you in your vicinity as he approaches you. You shake your head again, trying to right your mind and your vision, to try to make sense of this nightmare. Despite how unreal everything looks and sounds, the pain and emotion surging through your body and mind screams otherwise. You can’t tell what is what anymore, if anything is even real.

You break free of the golden energy, rushing him again with unparalleled speed. You manage to push him back, pinning him against the wall on the opposite side of the hall. You hold your blade against his throat, your body freezing as you pin him to the wall. Your mind can’t make up who you’re looking at. You can’t bring yourself to hurt her.

“What did they do to you, my Dove?”

The first cohesive sentence uttered since your mind got thrown into a blender. Your chest feels like it’s being squeezed, but your body remains frozen. Singed would never know to say that. Despite your mind flicking through the two different faces, one thing that remains constant is the eyes. Full of concern and sorrow, holding a tenderness only one person has ever shown you. Your breaths come out in ragged huffs, your mind erupting in pain as you try to piece everything together.

A hand comes up to gently move a piece of hair from your face, the touch gentle, so gentle. The longer you look, the more clear her face becomes, the illusions beginning to fade from your mind and vision. A soft, warm, golden glow emanates from her hand, her face slowly coming into focus, the illusions of Singed’s wrinkled, bandaged face slowly fading. You blink, shaking your head slightly before focusing back on her.

“Mel…?” You ask so softly, your voice breaking.

Your grip loosens on her, noticing the heavy blade you have against her throat. A stab of guilt washes over you, sending a small electric shock through your chest. Slowly, you come to your senses, but the pain in your head begins to increase. Your face contorts into one of pain as you try to fight it, trying to believe that Mel is here. And you almost killed her.

You back away from her, your body trembling from the emotional and reality whiplash. Your weapon drops to the ground with a loud clatter, echoing through the hall. Your hands move to your head as the pain increases. The room begins to spin, sending you stumbling back as you try to right your bearings. Pained cries leave your lips, both from the physical pain and emotional overwhelm. Tears streak down your cheeks, both from pain and intense anguish. You can’t bring yourself to look at her again, backing away from her. You glance down at the armor you’re clad in, noticing the blood staining the metal and soaking it the cloth.

A soft hand rests on your shoulder, pulling you back to the present. You flinch from her touch, backing away from her yet again. Your eyes meet hers, wide with fear and anguish as you finally see her face. The pain in your head is intense, making it hard to focus. Mel just takes another couple steps to you, placing both of her hands on each side of your face.

“My Dove…” She murmurs softly, her eyes taking in your physical and mental torment. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She presses her forehead against yours, her eyes closing softly. You lean into her touch, your body losing the strength to continue with your orders from Ambessa. It’s like a filter has been removed from your mind, or maybe placed in to filter out the filth that’s been clouding your mind. Everything is still confusing, you’re still trying to piece together what you’ve just done, what you’ve been seeing, acting upon.

A choked sob leaves your throat, your knees becoming weak under her touch. The way she so quickly forgives you. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you against her as you cry, apologies tumbling from your mouth as you cling to her.

“Its okay, Dove.” She reassures you, her voice soft, smooth like silk. “You weren’t in control. It wasn’t you.”

You try to compose yourself, remembering the war that’s happening outside. After a few moments, you pull back, gazing at her, taking in the golden markings that adorn her skin. Your hand comes up to cup her cheek, your thumb gently stroking across her skin, tracing over the gold.

“I can’t believe you’re really here…” You murmur softly, your voice threatening to break again.

“I’m here, Y/N,” she reaffirms to you, giving you a small squeeze to emphasize her statement. “I always will be.”

“We can’t stay here.” You speak again, pulling back from her, albeit reluctantly.

“I know.” She replies solemnly. “We have to stop Viktor from getting to the Hexgates.”

“Yeah,” you confirm quietly.

She takes a step towards you, not allowing you to pull away from her.

“He’s not in the sphere.” You reveal to her, trying to remember the flashes of Ambessa’s plans. “It’s a diversion.”

“Then where is he? How is he getting to the Hexgates?” She asks, concern evident in her tone.
“I don’t know, exactly.” You admit, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I wish I could be of more help to you.”

“Don’t apologize,” she brings a hand to your cheek again, gently guiding you to look at her again. “You can only do what you can.”

••• ••• •••

The telltale sound of a rifle firing rings from the other side of the door. There’s a glow about Mel, a physical manifestation of her magic. The large doors of the building swing open as Mel approaches them, sunlight bathing the hall in its warmth. She approaches Ambessa, lowering her hood.

You look out at the terrace from behind her, seeing Caitlyn kneeling on the ground, a body collapsed right next to her. The slew of Noxian soldiers awaiting Ambessa’s orders, red flags waving in the wind.

“If you care for me at all, spare their lives.” Mel speaks as she strides out onto the terrace of the building. “There is nothing to gain from this senseless bloodshed!”

Ambessa rolls her eyes at Mel’s appearance. “Still a fox.” She scoffs before calling out to her soldiers.

Her soldiers weapons raise, broad shields protecting their bodies. Mel glances around at the army before her. A distant approaching sound of music echos through the city, an airship rounding a corner and setting off explosions as it enters the airspace. People on hoverboards launch themselves from the craft, descending on the soldiers. Everyone’s attentions are on the cacophony above.

“Fire!” Ambessa orders, taking a swing at the Firelights as they swoop in from above.

Chaos erupts as the soldiers follow her orders, attacking the firelights as they close in. Some of the soldiers engage Mel and yourself, the two of you defending yourselves against the soldiers. The scuffle ends quickly, however. The ground shakes as a large block slams into the cocoon like sphere, smashing it into pieces. You immediately rush over to Mel, using your wings to wrap around her to shield her from the blast. Mel also shields the two of you from the debris with her magic, a golden shield appearing between the two of you and the impact. Once the dust settles, you step back from her, glancing between the diversion and Ambessa.

Ambessa smirks at the two of you, glancing at Caitlyn’s fallen face. Her soldiers move to create a ring around you, a sort of battle ring.

“Mother, look at the price of your ambition.” Mel speaks again, glancing around at the chaos of the city, taking another step forward. “You’ve sacrificed everything. Rictus, Kino, the city I built for this family.”

“If it was for us, you wouldn’t have fought me.” Ambessa sneers at her.

Mel scoffs at her mother. “You are no Medarda.”

“You remember your—“

A sudden blow from Caitlyn cuts Ambessa’s response off. “Shut up and fight!”

Caitlyn grabs an unattended spear from the ground, readying herself to take on the warlord. Without words, Ambessa picks up her own spear before launching it at Caitlyn. Mel deflects the spear with her magic, the weapon ricocheting off the shield and embedding itself into one of the Noxian soldiers surrounding the terrace. Ambessa doesn’t wait before sending her foot into Caitlyn, breaking the hilt of her spear and sending her stumbling back. She puts on her own helmet, preparing for a fight against the three of you. Between Mel’s Magic and Caitlyn’s desperation, Ambessa continues to hold her own. Caitlyn and Mel trade attacks, but are unable to do much against the warlord. Mel’s magic just gets absorbed by runic stones wrapped around Ambessa’s arm. The woman fights through a slash to her leg by Caitlyn, easily taking the younger woman down. Mel moves in for a close quarters attack, still using her magic against her to almost no effect.

You stalk around the other side of Ambessa, waiting for a good moment to strike. While she’s distracted with Mel and Caitlyn, you quickly move in, raising your own weapon to take a slash at her. She senses your attack, pushing Mel back before turning her attention to you and colliding with you, flipping you over her shoulder. Her attention is divided by the three of you, but she’s good at staying on top of your movements. You scramble to your feet again, ignoring the searing pain in your abdomen, beating your wings and going in for another attack, this time from above.
Ambessa flips Caitlyn onto the ground again, using her stones to simultaneously block another magical attack from Mel. Before you can land a hit on the warlord, she dodges, grabbing one of your wings, and throws you to the ground once more. She doesn’t let go, bringing her foot down on it with a snap. She lets out a smug scoff at your cries of pain, enjoying the way you remain somewhat under her control, even if you’ve broken through the mental force of it. She sends her boot into the side of your head, finally dropping your wing at the dazed expression on your face. She stalks towards Caitlyn, who grabs a broken spear. She moves in for her own attack, but Ambessa quickly reverses the roles, holding the blade dangerously close to Caitlyn’s face. A golden shield tries to prevent the the blade from touching Caitlyn, but in the end, Ambessa’s blade hits his mark, slicing through Caitlyn’s face.

Ambessa stands, triumphant over Caitlyn as she watches the blood gush from her face and onto the ground. She pulls her mask off.

“You fought well, child.” She speaks down to her, watching the blood drip from Caitlyn’s eye.

Her eyes finally catch the small blade in Caitlyn’s hand, the stones on the ground, and it dawns on her.

“Now!” Caitlyn shouts back to Mel.

You glance from your dazed position, over to see Mel rise from the ground, her eyes boring into her mother’s.

“A wolf has no mercy.” She speaks, her hand landing on a thick necklace.

Your vision begins to fade in and out, the combination of the pain and injuries you’ve sustained beginning to take a toll on you. You try to rise, your strength sapped from you from the fight. Pain shoots through your wing. It’s bent at an angle it shouldn’t bend in, in an area that doesn’t bend. Your chest heaves at the pain and exhaustion, but your grit through it, focusing on folding your wings and sealing them back in the ink of your back tattoo. It’s an agonizing process with the damage done to your wing. You no longer feel the pain in your wing, but in the ink embedded in your skin where they’re stored.

When you finally gain the strength to sit up a bit, you look over to see Mel approach her mother. She catches the taller woman, gently bringing her down to the ground and cradling her in her lap. It’s hard to watch. Despite the life the woman had led, she was still Mel’s mother.

You force yourself to your feet, pushing past the pain of a multitude of injuries. As the adrenaline wears off, the pain becomes more pronounced, even revealing injuries you hadn’t realized you’d sustained. You limp over to Mel, lowering yourself to your knees at her side. Your hand rests softly on her shoulder, a small gesture of comfort if she’ll accept it.

That’s when the strings from above latch themselves to every single person, Noxian, Piltovian, Zaunite. Linking them— you— to the Arcane, to Viktor. It feels almost identical to what Singed had done to you, the magic of the arcane flowing almost the same as the Shimmer in your veins.

It doesn’t last long, an explosion from the top of the Hexgates sounds off. The strings are destroyed, dropping everyone back to the ground.

It aggravates your wounds again, your blood pooling on the ground more than before. The feeling of soft hands on your face and shoulder encourage you to open your eyes. You meet Mel’s eyes, concern etched into her features. She looks over your injuries, wincing at the sight of you all beaten up, your blood pooling on the ground beneath you.

You raise a shaky hand to rest on one of her wrists, your fingers gently wrapping around her. She can see the pain in your eyes, and you hers.

“I’m okay…” You try to reassure her, forcing a small smile. “Are you… are you okay?”

You look over her for any injuries of her own before she guides your face back to look at her.
“I’m unharmed.” She replies softly.

“Mel… I…” You try to speak, but you’re almost at a loss for words.

Her thumb brushes across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry about your mother…” You finally speak, leaning into her touch, your eyes closing again.

“Don’t be.” She responds, her voice soft but firm.

She doesn’t say anything more. She just pulls you closer to her, embracing you gently.

[valentiyne]

Ashton with a tattoo artist! Love interest. Maybe he goes in to get a tattoo then immediately takes interest in them, going back fo stupid reasons like touch ups, recommending anyone to get tattooed there, just being down bad in general

𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗒𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 ꕥ 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗇

Ashton Irwin x Fem!Reader Summary: Requested! Ashton makes a last-minute booking with coffee made just right. Warnings: N/A Word Count: 1.4k Copyright © 2024 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

"Are you guys still open?"

It was a cacophony of sounds, with the buzz of the tattoo guns overlapping with the hum of conversations. The other artists' voices were raised over the noise, and the air was thick with the smell of ink and antiseptics. I could hear the sound of the machine moving, the soft thud of the needle on the skin, and the occasional gasp of surprise from a customer.

My boss, Jocelyn leaned over to me with a smile, "I'm off the clock, you're up."

I look up now, trying my hardest to not mean mug the person who ruined my chances of an early freedom tonight. He stood in the doorway, his messy brunette hair pushed back behind his ear and his hands fiddling with the sleeves of his white sweater. His hazel eyes scanned the room before they landed on mine.

"What were you looking to get done?"

"Oh!" he stutters and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. From the looks of it, it was worn down and ripped in a few places but he hands it over proudly nevertheless.

I inspected it for a while, nodding to myself, "Is it a.... dog?" I quirk an eyebrow, looking up to match his eyes. He nods, a loose strand of hair falling down perfectly on his face, "it's a greyhound, yes"

I nod my head and hand him a clipboard to sign in, inspecting the loose piece of paper once again before heading to the printer. I printed numerous sizes, unsure of how big he wanted it to be.

After all was said and done, he was sitting in my chair and I was nervous checking to make sure I had everything I needed.

Tattoo gun, ink caps, gloves, tattoo gun, ink ca-

"I like the room", He speaks up, motioning to the shelf of miscellaneous items hoarded on them.

He slips the white sweater up and over his head, bundling it in a ball next to him. I make an effort not to stare at his tattooed body, my cheeks flushing up as I keep my back turned.

Obviously I was never like this with any of my other clients, but something about him made me lose my focus. It was unprofessional and unlike me- but god is he hot.

"Thanks, this is basically my second bedroom since i'm here so much" I took a deep breath, sliding my gloves on, and turning towards him. His stencil was already prepped and on his arm, and I stepped towards him slowly.

"You're here often?" He questions, watching as I dip the needle in the ink.

I nod, stretching his skin with my free hand "Yeah, all seven days of the week, unfortunately.... It'd be a little easier if I had any coffee today"

He's silent for a while, my eyes wandering up to see him staring off at the shelves that littered the walls surrounding us.

"Any reason you chose a greyhound?" I attempt ti make conversation, suddenly embarrassed of my trinkets. Not that there was anything wrong with them, I just didn't want him judging me for my childlike interests.

I laid the needle to his skin, hearing him take a deep breath before speaking, "it's for my new album"

I nod in response, dragging the ink down as I trace the stencil. "looks like we're both artists in a sense" I tease, earning a chuckle from him.

Over the next two hours, I learned many things about the boy in my chair. His name was Ashton, he was a musician, he owned a lemon tree and he could hold his breath for a minute and a half. He apologized throughout the course of the night, telling me he wouldn't have stopped in and got a tattoo if he knew we'd be closing soon. I reassured him numerous times, telling him it genuinely wasn't a big deal. He was nice and a great person to talk to.

But after all was said and done, I wrapped his arm and after leaving a hefty tip- he was gone.

I didn't see him for two months after the fact, every time the door would jingle, I found myself snapping my head up to see if it was him

Each time it was not...

"I'm telling you, he came in here and left me a $500 tip, Joss. it was bizarre! I couldn't even find his stupid profile anywhere" I groan, smacking my head down on the desk dramatically.

She giggles at my hopelessness, her hand patting my head kindly, "Maybe he has a girlfriend?"

The door swinging open made me groan louder, lifting my head up with half-lidded eyes and a fake smile.

"Hi sorry we're closing soon, you can book an ap-"

"Closed so soon, sweetheart?" His voice rings out, a stifled laugh following after. I open my eyes quickly to see him standing there, his journal tucked under one arm and two coffees in the other.

I giggle loudly, standing from my chair and walking towards him. "Ashton! where have you been?"

He hands me the coffee, giving me a side hug before pulling his journal out from under his arm. "i'm looking to get another tattoo, and who else would I trust but my sleep deprived tattoo artist"

I try to hide the blush creeping up my face, turning around to show Joss who I've been talking about for weeks. Her mouth is hung open, eyes wide as she looks between the two of us. "That's Ashton....?" She takes a deep breath before shaking her head quickly, "Miss Y/n has been talking my ear off about you since your last visit"

I turn around quickly, shooting daggers as I give her a nice tilt of the head to get lost. She raises her hands in defeat and snatches her coat from the chair I was previously in before waving goodbye. Ashton waves back with a smile before I cover my face in embarrassment.

"Seems like i'm the talk of the town?" He teases and I grab his forearm, leading him to my studio.

He hops up on the chair, sliding off his cardigan and showing me his healed greyhound. I analyze it carefully, smiling up at him. "It looks amazing!"

"Wonder who did it?" He teases, poking my side playfully. I roll my eyes and flip through the notebook, passing by song lyrics, doodles, and other random scribbles before I pause at a drawing on the last page.

It was a scribble of me hunched over tattooing his greyhound. my tongue poked out to the side with a look of pure concentration spread across my face.

My cheeks grow red and I look up at Ash, a look of confusion and admiration painted. "Wha?"

"To be fair, I came for a touch-up on a few older pieces but... Also to ask if you'd like to come to dinner with me tonight?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, internally I was squealing like a little girl.

"I would love to."

[sluttyminghao]

make him cry ♡ c.sc

♡ pairing: domestic!seungcheol and female!reader ♡ w.c.: 2.1k ♡ genre: smut ♡ this fics contains: sub!seungcheol, dom!reader, use of a vibrating cock ring, use of handcuffs, mentions of a ball gag, overstimulation, seungcheol crying from pleasure, pet names (good girl, sweetheart, baby), cum eating (only one small scene) ♡ synopsis: seungcheol had a bad day at work, and his one request was for you to make him forget about it. challenge accepted. ♡ a/n: enjoy some submissive seungcheol &lt;3 ty to @sluttywonwoo for proof reading mwah feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare numbly at the television, hoping that the monotonous show you had unconsciously decided to switch on would provide even a crumb of serotonin. After the day you had had at work, you truly just wanted to put your feet up and watch television until you fell asleep on your couch.

Seungcheol wasn't home yet, which only made you feel slightly more deflated, as he was your go-to for emotional and physical support. Just the thought of him and his pouty lips sent butterflies erupting throughout your chest and stomach, and a smile spreading across your tired lips.

You couldn't help but let your mind wander to a couple of nights ago when he had you pinned to your bed, his cock slamming into you with every thrust as he let out his frustrations from his day at work. 

“Such a good whore for me, taking my cock like a good girl.” His breathy sighs are coupled with his thighs slapping against your own, and mixing with your own whines and moans, it creates a cacophony of sound that would otherwise sound horrible but at the moment is like a beautiful symphony that sends you spiralling into your orgasm quicker than ever.

The door to your apartment creaking open is what draws you out of your thoughts, and your head whips around to observe an equally exhausted Seungcheol trudging through the doorway, his feet dragging along the carpet with an unpleasant scraping noise. You cringe at the noise and make a mental note to call him out on it later, but when he finally emerges into the room, you stow that thought away and immediately pull the blanket away from your body so he has room to slide in underneath.

He doesn't attempt a conversation just yet but fully accepts your warmth under the fuzzy blanket and snuggles right into your side, a content sigh leaving his lips. Your hand reaches up and courses through his dark, fluffy hair, only recently having been permed again. You had to admit, you loved when his hair was permed.

“How was work today, baby?”

He grunts and turns to face you, a pout and slight frown becoming prominent on his features. Your simple question had him reliving the dragging day, getting screamed at for things out of his control, and unreachable deadlines needing to be met. 

You can see the gears in his head turning, and it’s visibly stressing him out even more as he thinks about it. An idea sparks in your mind, and a mischievous grin pulls across your lips as you try to work out how to bring up your idea, which you'll label as “stress relief” to him.

“Work was shit. I don’t even want to go back tomorrow.”

“Well, what if I take your mind off it right now?” Your question makes him raise his head and stare at you quizzically, the gears in his head now turning for a completely different reason. His eyes urge you to continue, gleaming under the lights like there are twinkling stars encapsulated within his irises. He looks so cute when all his attention is directly on you.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Seungcheol immediately throws the blanket off of you both and is quick to follow you to the bedroom only a couple of feet away like a lost puppy. You can hear his socked feet thumping lightly against the linoleum flooring, and it makes your heart skip a beat at the fact that this man would follow you to the ends of the earth.

Upon entering the bedroom, you wait for him to enter behind you and then close the door. He watches you bounce towards your walk-in wardrobe and walk out again seconds later with a bright pink box in your hands and an evil grin on your features. He can feel his pulse quicken as you set the box on the bed and turn to face him.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

Your sudden dominant aura has him choking and spluttering out, only receiving an eyebrow raise from you. He suddenly feels small as he removes his shirt, your eyes burning into him and drinking in every inch of exposed skin. Now he knows how you feel when he gives you the exact instructions.

Seungcheol quickly removes his sweats and boxers, leaving him bare in front of you with a half-erect cock. He can feel his face begin to burn and he has the sudden urge to cover himself up, but he knows you’ll just scold him. You continue to stare at him until he remembers what you said and he crawls onto the bed, sitting directly in the middle and waiting for your next instruction.

You stare at him with a grin on your features, and you can see his cock twitch in anticipation. After a quick glance into the box and rummaging through the various items in it, you finally pull out what you were looking for, and simultaneously make Seungcheol gasp at the sight of it.

“You know what this is, don’t you, baby?”

He nods meekly and spreads his legs out so that you can get between them to attach the object. The black rubber fits snugly over his now fully erect shaft and settles nicely at the base, a small whimper escaping Seungcheol’s lips at the tightness of the cock ring encapsulating his cock.

You hadn’t even turned it on yet and you could see Seungcheol’s cock beginning to leak precum, and his breaths have grown slightly shallower. He’s getting so worked up already and you haven't even started. Cute.

“Baby, tell me what you would like me to do.”

He glances up at you, doe eyes and pouty lips more present than ever. You can see how flushed his cheeks are, how his curly hair is beginning to stick to his forehead in strands, and how his beautiful skin looks like it glows under the light of the lamp. Your eyes travel further down and observe his toned body looking like it had been carved by gods. By now his cock is angry and red, the tip leaking precum. 

“I-I wanna feel good…”

“I know that sweetheart, but what do you want me to do to make you feel good?”

Seungcheol can’t even maintain eye contact with you, his eyes avoiding yours at all costs and instead choosing to remain trained on the pink box with mysterious items inside. Who knows what was in there, he hadn’t even really seen it before, and he wondered how long you’d actually had it for.

“Baby?”

“Oh…sorry…I-I wanna be overstimulated… don’t want to remember my horrible work day…” his voice goes soft as he finishes his sentence, his fingers intertwining with themselves to keep himself occupied. All you can do is smile softly and pull a couple more items out of the box and place them on your vanity out of harm's way.

“I’ll make sure the only thing you remember is my name, sweetheart.”

He gulps at the sentence and feels his cock twitch once again at the pet name. He isn’t normally one for pet names, but with the state he was in it didn’t even register in his mind. His mind had basically turned to static, but even more so when you quickly flick the switch on a small remote, bringing the cock ring to life.

At first, the vibrations are low and only small pulses, not quite enough to cum but definitely enough to get him riled up. You can see the way his stomach tenses and his lips drop into an ‘O’ shape as the pulses begin to course through his shaft, and slowly the sensations spread to his entire body.

“Feel good baby?”

“...mhm…y-yeah feels s’good…” his soft whimpers had your own arousal flooding your underwear and you feel your body warming up while you see him squirming. You knew he could handle more vibrations, and with a smirk you change the dial on the remote again, bumping it up to the third highest setting.

“O-oh fuck!” Seungcheol’s body crumples at the intensity of the vibrations, and his body falls flat against the mattress, hands fisting the sheets and his legs spreading widely. You know he won’t last very long, so you decide to bump up the settings once more to the highest vibrational setting.

At this point, you can hear him gasping and hiccuping. Tears are beginning to stream down his face from the sheer amount of pleasure his body is facing. The lower half of his body is struggling, his hips bucking up and thrusting into nothing and his fingers just about ripping the sheets.

With the way his body is twitching and his abs are contracting, you know he’s close to his orgasm but you also know he will try to stave it off for as long as possible. His cock is leaking precum in a continual stream, and you know of one thing that will make him cum immediately.

“Cheollie, are you gonna cum for me?” Your voice has dropped an octave and he peeks at you through his tear-covered lashes, thrusting up into the air once, twice more before he’s letting out a loud sob and cum is shooting from his tip. You watch in awe as the cock ring milks him for everything he’s got, his cum coating his stomach and thighs while your name rolls off his tongue like a mantra.

You bring the vibrations down to the lowest setting for a while, letting him recover in his post-orgasmic haze. A grin covers your lips when you see him twitch and his death grip on your sheets loosens slightly. 

“God…felt so, so good,”

You grin and lean over to peck his nose, and teasingly run your hand over his stomach. He watches you eagerly as you scoop up some of his cum off his skin and swipe it onto your tongue, swallowing the salty substance eagerly. Although it was such a small and simple gesture, he can’t help but feel his cock twitch and begin to grow hard again.

“Glad you felt good baby, say, how do you feel about another round?”

He glances at you curiously, eyebrow raised underneath his sweaty bangs. You chuckle and move to your vanity, pulling up the items you had pulled out of the box before. Seungcheol’s eyes grow wide at the sight of the handcuffs, nipple clamps, and a ball gag. The gears are turning in his head again, you can tell, and you’re not quite sure how he feels about the toys.

“I don't want to use the ball gag.”

“Okay, well don’t be a brat then and we won’t need to use it.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen again when you place the ball gag to the side and immediately lock his wrists into the handcuffs, making sure they are placed around one of the poles on your headboard for security. You also take care to place a pillow underneath his arms to make sure he’s comfortable.

You take one look at him and feel your body grow hot again; he has dried tear tracks on his face, cum drying on his thighs and stomach and his cock is angry and red once again from your dominant actions. Everything in his body is going into overdrive, and it doesn’t help when you begin to strip off your own clothing, taking your sweet time doing so.

“I’ll never get tired of seeing your body, fuck you look so good.” Seungcheol groans when you have stripped bare and are standing naked in front of him, your body in its full glory and all for him to enjoy. The only thing he doesn’t like at this exact moment is that he can’t feel your supple flesh under his fingertips, mapping out your skin with his fingers.

You smirk and get yourself settled between his thighs, turning the cock ring back on when you get comfortable. He whimpers at the feeling, the overstimulation seeping into his system once again but not complaining, especially when you shuffle over his thighs and move your body over his own, hovering over his cock.

His heart rate quickens when he feels the warmth of your body, and he just knows that you’re going to milk him for everything he’s got, especially with the smirk that’s plastered on your features as you bump up the vibrations on the cock ring one notch and repeat what you had told him earlier.

“I’m going to make sure you only remember my name, sweetheart.”

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[thetriumphantpanda]

Hiii Charlie, hope this helps with the writing funk a little!

❛ i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making. ❜ + Frankie Morales 🥵

Thanks in advance for blessing us with whatever you give 🙏🏻🫶🏻

Ahhh anon thank you so much for sending this in! I love Frankie and this is SO perfect for him!

Pairing | Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Word Count | 594

Warnings | Another basic porn without plot. Oral sex (F), mentions of overstimulation, begging, dirty talk and a lil bit of unprotected PiV.

Send me a Pedro Boy & a prompt!

You’re a mess and you know it. Your hair is stuck to your forehead by sweat, your hips are aching where they’ve been kept wide open by Frankie’s broad shoulders for what feels like hours, and where there was once only the sting of pleasure, there’s now an added sting of pain as his tongue flicks across your clit relentlessly.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come tonight, it’s like a challenge every time the two of you are together, can he give you one more than last time? Well, he’s well and truly smashed his record tonight, working you into nothing but boneless, pliant and begging for more and for him to stop all at the same time.

His fingers are pressed deep inside you, curling up into the spongy spot that makes your back arch, whilst his mouth closes around your clit and sucks - a cacophony of movements almost always guaranteed to fling you over the edge, but you’re so worked up, so sensitive, that it makes you cry out instead, hands flying to his hair to tug him away, but it’s a feeble attempt.

“F-Frankie, p-please.” But it comes out as a moan when his tongue flicks just perfectly across your bundle of nerves, you try again, after letting out another moan, legs jerking in time to the movement of his mouth, “P-please baby.” You manage to fight out, tugging on his hair again.

He pulls his mouth off you, giving you a moment of respite, looking at you with his lips glistening with your slick, “What that’s baby?” He asks, teasing, “I can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making.”

Your chest is heaving, trying to suck in as much oxygen as you can. He’s been at this for so long and you’ve caught the movement of his hips rutting against the bed, you know he must be hard as a rock for you, and all you really want right now is for him to sink his perfect cock right into your cunt.

“F-fuck me, please Frankie, I w-want it so bad.”

You watch him closely as he moves, pushing himself up on his palms, letting his naked body cover yours. You feel his cock slide through your soaked folds, one of his hands reaching down to the base, guiding it right where you want it. You can feel the head nudging at your aching pussy, but he won’t move, eyes trained on his.

“Ask nice for it baby,” He coos, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, “Beg for it.”

“Please,” You whine, because it’s the only word that comes to mind, “Please Frankie, please I want it so bad.”

You feel him gently press forward, tip of his cock only just pressed inside you, “That what you want?” He asks, moving his hips slowly so it’s dragging out of you, but never moving further in.

“M-more,” Your hands are gripping at his broad shoulders now, nails digging in, “Please, more.”

So he does, he feeds another inch into you, then repeats his question. It carries on like that until he’s made you beg for every single inch of his cock until he’s pressed fully inside of you

“Frankie,” You whine again, hips moving into his, “Please just fuck me.”

“Only if you promise to make all those pretty sounds for me again.”

[vamp1reheart]

Cacophony 03

Synopsis: Your life has never been easy. Your everyday problems and constant anxiety have always made you someone people don't want to be around. But everything changes when you save a cute boy from a bully, And now he and his brothers are devoted to you. And now he and his brothers swear extreme loyalty to you, And only to you.

Notices: Violent and sexual content! Reverse harem! Bullying, depression and anxiety! Ot7 x reader! Supernatural au. I do not own BTS! This fanfic is my own! English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes! Yandere Themes! :)

Chapters: 01, 02, 03,

-------> third person pov<--------

Jungkook was furious.

Who does that remnant of an abortion think he is to talk to you like that? Has he lost his mind? What Jungkook wanted most at that moment was to rip out that incompetent teacher's tongue and make him eat it.

But you don't need to worry, he will find a way to make those who insulted you pay for their sins.

You have him and his brothers now. You don't need to worry.

God, he can't even bear to think about how much you suffered without them. But now they are here, and they took such good care of you.

--------> first person pov <---------

One of the things I hate most is holding back the urge to cry.

It's a horrible feeling.

And even though I say I don't care anymore what people say about me, I know I actually do care, but I try to hide it because it hurts me.

People never remember when they hurt you, but you never forget. And that's always been one of the biggest reasons why medicines aren't working anymore.

I'm not strong, and I'm far from it.

I'm so tired of all this.

I just lay my head on my desk and cross my arms. My head drowns out the voices around me, turning them into simple muffled noises.

My intention wasn't to fall asleep, but apparently that's what happened when I was woken up by a simple caress of my hair. It's good, it's comforting, like it's saying everything is going to be okay.

When I open my eyes I see Jungkook's big bright eyes. He notices that I'm staring at him and gives that beautiful bunny smile again.

"You fell asleep. It's time for break."

That's right, I promised his brothers that I would eat with them. It may be selfish of me, but I have no desire to eat, especially with these boys. They may be cute and all, but they're strangers, and I'm too tired to deal with strangers.

Despite that, I just nod at him and stand up. A voice in the back of my mind telling me to ignore him completely and run home.

The room was already empty, we were the only ones there.

"Okay...let's go"

If he notices that I'm not feeling well, he doesn't say anything. That's good, I'm not really in the mood to talk right now.

All I want to do is go home, sink into my bed, and cry myself to sleep.

I must be really tired, because I didn't even realize that I was holding hands with Jungkook. I don't know if I was the one who held his hand or he held mine, but he seems happy just by the touch.

Up ahead, Taehyung waves at us as if we were a well-known celebrity.

God, he's ridiculously cute.

When we got close to them, Jimin stared at us. His eyes are dark as night, he doesn't look happy at all. It's extremely intimidating. And considering I barely know them makes it worse.

"Jungkook why are you grabbing her like that?"

Both Jungkook and I looked surprised at his question. His voice was husky and simply low, under other circumstances I would have found it extremely sexy.

"I'm just holding her hand hyung. Is there a problem?"

Jungkook lowers his voice to match Jimin's tone. They're not going to fight, are they? Aren't they brothers? Is this normal behavior? I can't help but feel bad.

Taehyung looks at me for a long moment, the square smile on his face long gone. His eyes shift to his brother.

He grabs one of Jimin's shoulders, pulling him slightly and whispering something in his ear. I can't hear what he said, and I don't know if I even want to know. But curiosity takes over my head when Jimin looks at me again, his gaze softening immediately.

Taehyung pulls away and Jimin smiles at me. I'm not the biggest expert, but I know the vein pulsing in his neck is a sign that his smile is a fake.

Swallowing my saliva as a sign to kill my curiosity right there, I let go of Jungkook's hand and walk past them, entering the cafeteria full of people.

God, I hate crowded places.

Before I could whine any further, Taehyung pulls me into a corner. With a simple hand signal, Jungkook and Jimin nod and walk ahead of us.

"I'm sorry about Jimin. He didn't mean to scare you."

I don't know if I was good enough to be able to hide my fear, or good enough to be able to look at Taehyung's face and say...

"I'm not afraid of him!"

He just looks into my eyes, squeezing my shoulders lightly. Then he starts talking again, I could be wrong, but I don't think he believes me.

"Jimin has some problems with his friends. He always thinks that his friends might abandon him when they meet his brothers. He always thinks he's not good enough to have friends. Please forgive him. He's trying to change!"

He's practically begging.

"God Taehyung, it's okay, it's okay! No need for all this! Let's go!"

I didn't like this conversation with Taehyung.

Why should my opinion matter so much to Jimin?

They met me today, and they already consider me a close enough friend to be jealous?!

I don't know them, I don't know what they're capable of. I should just agree and ignore anything they say.

After all, you can already see that they don't have all the screws in their heads, I don't want to know what happens if I contradict them.

-------> third person pov<-------

Out of all 7, Taehyung considered himself one of the calmest.

But the anger and despair he felt at the little scene Jimin made in front of him were too real for him to let go.

What was Jimin thinking?!

Being jealous of Jungkook like this?! Jungkook was the one who found you first, they agreed on this, so why is he having a jealous fit.

Taehyung knew it was Jimin who wanted to meet you first. But he should have calmed down when the hyungs denied it.

He expects you to believe the cheap excuse of insecurity he gave you.

Jimin was far from being insecure, in fact he was very confident about his appearance. But now he must start acting like an insecure little bunny in front of him until the plan is finalized.

Otherwise he would tell the hyungs that his brother had a jealous fit for not holding his hand first, and almost ruined the plan.

He would love to see Jimin be completely taken away from you, but he's not that cruel. He'll give Jimin another chance.

Just hoping he doesn't fuck it up.

But tomorrow your hyungs would be here, and everything will be fine.

So he waits.

Continued...

[steddieasitgoes]

made in the a.m.

this was written purely to celebrate the wonderful @henderdads birthday! And okay, maybe also to push the Steddie as boy dads agenda! Hope you enjoy it Cass! wc: 2.2K+ | rated: T Read on ao3

Steve’s an early riser — always has been and probably always will be at the rate he’s going. It’s not that he likes getting up before the sun starts to rise, but he’s never been able to shake the habit engrained in him since he was a kid. He’s learned to embrace it over the years — allowing himself to savor the quiet moments where he can just be before ultimately dragging himself out of bed to go for a morning run. 

Eddie on the other hand is not an earlier riser — never has been and never will be if the last decade and a half together have taught Steve anything. In fact, if Steve doesn’t wake him up in the mornings after he’s finished his own morning routine, he knows Eddie would happily sleep until one or two in the afternoon. 

And yet, when Steve sleepily blinks himself awake at the ungodly, even for him, 4 am hour and rolls over on his side, he finds Eddie’s side of the bed is empty. Stretching his hand out, he runs his palm against the sheets expecting it to be radiating with Eddie’s warmth but they’re cool to the touch. Too cool for Steve’s liking. 

Not wanting to send the world spinning, Steve slowly pushes himself up into a seated position and gives his eyes a minute to adjust to the pitch-dark room. When he’s certain he’s not going to launch himself into another vertigo episode, he looks towards their ensuite bathroom. 

The bathroom is pitch black too which doesn’t really mean anything. Eddie has a bad habit of peeing in the dark in the middle of the night. A habit Steve hates with every fiber of his being because of the mess he often wakes up to. Eddie’s aim is shit when he’s tired and it’s even worse when he’s tired and can’t see. It doesn’t matter that the toilet hasn’t moved in the nearly two decades they’ve lived in the house, Eddie still manages to miss. 

Steve keeps his eyes glued on the open door, patiently waiting for his husband, in his eyes, not the law, to return to bed. A second turns into a minute which turns into two and Steve can feel the anxiety start to set deep in his bones as he realizes that Eddie’s not in the bathroom. 

The sudden spike in anxiety knocks Steve out of his sleepy, slightly delirious state and straight into full consciousness. He doesn’t jump out of bed and reach for the bat like he still keeps tucked safely under their bed — a product of years of therapy and some healthy compromising on his therapist’s part — and instead keys into his other senses, hoping they’ll help him find Eddie without sending himself into full-on panic mode. 

It takes a minute for his ears to adjust to their natural white noise, but then he hears it. A cacophony of distant noise. The clattering of pots and pans, the muffled laughter of their four-and-a-half-year-old son, Eddie’s own slightly too loud whispered voice. 

Steve glances at the clock again to make sure he read it right a few moments ago and yep, it’s now 4:13 in the morning. Far too early for anyone to be awake, even Steve, let alone be goofing around in the kitchen. He knows Jackson’s been having trouble sleeping lately — the dreaded night terrors have taken a toll on his little body, but Steve also knows that Eddie would have waken him if he managed to sleep through Jackson’s crying. So it’s not that. 

It could be that Jackson wandered into their bedroom looking for a snack and Eddie, never one to turn down a late-night snack or two, entertained the idea and carried him down the stairs and into the kitchen. But a late-night snack doesn’t involve pots and pans, at least not in Steve’s eyes which means he’s back and square one wondering what on Earth his boys are doing at such an early hour. 

Just as he’s about to get out of bed and investigate for himself, it clicks. He glances over at the fancy clock on his nightstand that confirms the date. February 26th. Eddie and Jackson aren’t in the kitchen at 4:25 in the morning for themselves, they’re in the kitchen for him. Because today’s Steve’s birthday. 

Steve doesn’t need more confirmation, but it comes anyway in the strong whiff of bacon that makes its way into his room. His stomach growls and his mouth practically salivate at the thought of fresh, crispy, hot bacon but he doesn’t pull himself out of bed. He’s supposed to be sleeping still — a fact he knows Eddie is banking on given the loud shush that leaves his lips when Jackson lets out a pretty hearty laugh for a four-and-a-half-year-old. 

It’s hard to fall back asleep when he knows that chaos is unfolding in his kitchen and the fact that his internal alarm clock will be waking him up in half an hour anyway, so he doesn’t drift back to sleep, but he does sink back into the mattress and let himself rest. 

He supposes he could turn on the television and fall victim to those silly infomercials that used to be his lullaby when he was a twentysomething-year-old still dealing with the aftermath of everything they’d gone through in Hawkins, but he doesn’t want to ruin Eddie and Jackson’s fun by letting them know he’s been awake this whole time, so he lays in bed trying his best not to wonder what is going on downstairs. 

It’s harder than it looks, though, especially when the bacon smell gets overpowered by the sharp aroma of something burning and Eddie lets out a slew of colorful curses that Jackson will no doubt be repeating at some point in the week, but Steve manages to stay put.

Just as the sun is starting to rise, sunlight forcing its way through the slots of their blinds painting their bedroom in the softest yellow light Steve’s maybe ever seen, he hears footsteps making their way up the stairs. 

He shuts his eyes quickly and sinks his head further into his soft pillow. When the door creaks open, he lets out a few, albeit slightly dramatic snore noises, to really seal the deal. Judging by Jackson’s soft giggles, it works. 

“Daddy!” Jackson whispers yells from the side of his bed. “S’your birthday! Wake up!” 

Keeping up the theatrics he’s learned from Eddie over the years, Steve makes a show of slowly opening his eyes. The soft smile that pulls the corners of his lips isn’t fake, though. No, that’s as genuine as it can be as he takes in the sight of Jackson. He’s in the same dinosaur pajamas he helped him into last night, hair still a mess of curls, and eyes slightly droopy as the early hour starts to set in but his smile is what really does it for Steve. That gap-tooth, gummy smile that has Steve reaching over and hosting Jackson up in a matter of seconds. 

“It is my birthday? I thought that was tomorrow,” Steve teases. 

“No,” Jackson giggles violently shaking his head. “S’today! S’why daddy and I made you breakfast. See!” 

Jackson throws his entire arm in the direction of Eddie and Steve follows it before biting the inside of his cheek to keep his lay at bay. If Jackson is a tired mess, Eddie is exhaustion personified. His own curls are just as unruly, never calming with age. His threadbare shirt has a grease stain smack dab in the middle and his pants are slung very low on his hips, threatening to fall any second now if he doesn’t pass Steve the tray and hike them back up where they belong. And the bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but none of that distracts Steve from Eddie’s own megawatt smile. 

“Not just any breakfast, Jackson,” Eddie says, taking a careful step forward so he doesn’t trip over his pants and send their hard work flying. “Breakfast in bed.” 

“Daddy says that’s the most special kind of breakfast,” Jackson nods. 

“It is,” Steve confirms before scooping Jackson into his arms again. He kisses the top of his head before gently setting him down beside him, clearing his lap for the tray that Eddie wastes no time setting in front of him. “Wow! This looks delicious!” 

Steve catches the way Eddie bites his lip to keep his own laughter at bay. There’s an impressive spread on the plates in front of him, but delicious might be pushing it. The toast is burnt to a crisp, it’s a miracle it hasn’t disintegrated yet. The bacon is unevenly cooked, crispy on one side and fatty, and soft on the other. The yokes in his sunny side eggs definitely cracked during the cooking process and the hashbrowns are definitely still thawing from their time in the freezer but Steve doesn’t care. Not in the slightest. 

To prove it, he picks up a piece of bacon and happily chomps away, complimenting both of them on their skills in the kitchen. Jackson cheers gleefully, stealing a piece for himself as Eddie joins them on the bed, sandwiching Jackson between them, before swiping an oddly sliced bit of a banana. 

“Daddy burnt the toast,” Jackson says, watching with furrowed eyes as Steve tries to drag butter over the chared bread. 

“Hey,” Eddie whines, playfully nudging Jackson. “You said you weren’t going to tell him!” 

“S’hard not to tell him,” Jackson giggles. “It’s pretty dark.” 

“That’s okay,” Steve says, smiling as he carefully lifts the bread to his lips. “I like my toast dark.” 

Jackson wrinkles his nose as Steve takes a big bite that he instantly regrets. Still, he manages to chew and swallow it, chasing the dry and very burnt piece of toast with a big gulp of orange juice. 

Eddie sticks his tongue out, before lunging toward him, “Tickle Monster!” Jackson squeals, trying his best to scoot away from Eddie but Steve blocks him. The cup of orange juice nearly topples over in the process, but Steve doesn’t mind a bit of a mess as long as Jackson’s having fun. And judging by his laughing as Eddie tickles him mercilessly, he’s having tons of fun. 

“No fair! It’s my birthday, I want to be the Tickle Monster,” Steve says, a playful pout pulling at his lips. 

“There can never be too many Tickle Monsters,” Eddie says, moving his hands so his tickling efforts are focused on one side of Jackson’s belly. 

Steve carefully sets the mostly empty tray on the floor beside the bed before lunging at Jackson, joining in on the fun. Jackson’s laughs are loud and infectious, causing both Steve and Eddie to break out into giggles of their own as they watch him squirm beneath them. They keep it up until Jackson tells them to stop, respecting his wishes even when they’re playing like this. 

Once he calms down and catches his breath, he snuggles up between them again. It’s only a matter of seconds before his eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens out.

“I can’t believe you woke up so early just to make me breakfast,” Steve says, glancing at the clock. It’s twenty minutes passed Steve’s usual wake-up time now. Usually, he’d be out of bed, dressed, and working on tying his laces for his daily run, but there’s no way he’s moving right now. Not with a full belly and the warmth of his boys next to him. 

“Neither can I,” Eddie yawns, before smiling softly at Steve. “But it was worth it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, without any hesitation. “S’the least we could do. You’re always making our birthdays special figured it’s time we returned the favor.” 

“You always make my birthdays special,” Steve teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Might have to put a rain check on that gift this year,” Eddie teases. Steve playfully scoffs and reaches over a sleeping Jackson to nudge his shoulder. “Hey, it’s your fault I’m so tired! If you woke up at a normal hour, we wouldn’t have had to wake up so damn early to surprise you!” 

“You could have had breakfast waiting for me after I finished my run.” 

“Didn’t you hear Jackson? It’s the breakfast in bed part that makes it special.” 

“I’m just teasing,” Steve says, leaning over Jackson to steal a kiss from Eddie. It’s short and sweet, their questionable breakfast and morning breath lingering on their lips, but it’s the first kiss Steve’s ever gotten as a 36-year-old and that’s what really makes it special. 

“I know,” Eddie says, yawning again. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Steve says, letting his own body sink back into the warmth of the mattress. 

“You’re not getting up yet?” 

“I think I’ll stay here a little longer. Cuddle my boys,” Steve says, reaching his arm out across Jackson’s small body and towards Eddie’s awaiting hand. Their fingers curl around each other instantly. “Who knows, maybe at 36 I’ll finally learn to sleep in.” 

“Jesus H. Christ I hope so!” 

Steve can’t help but laugh and doesn’t even bother muffling it into the pillow because Jackson is just as deep of a sleeper as Eddie is. 

“Get some sleep, Eds.” 

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” Eddie whispers, practically slurring as sleep comes for him. 

True to his word, Steve stays in bed. He listens to Eddie and Jackson’s soft snores and watches their bodies rise and fall with each steady breath they take. He soaks it all in. The quiet stillness with his boys, the warmth radiating from them, and the love he feels so deep in his bones. It’s perfect. The best birthday morning he’s ever had. 

[artbychromo]

(little comic + 1.7K words, inspired by chatting about timezones + @swbookerr's fics uwu)

To be honest, Ace had partly forgotten about the Den Den Mushi. It sat on its own little table outside the Spade Pirates’ galley, and the thing hadn’t been touched since Shanks gifted it to him a few weeks ago. It also hadn’t rung yet, and Ace wasn’t certain what was appropriate grounds for calling the Red Force, anyway. 

Maybe it was only meant for emergencies? That had been Ace’s assumption. Meaning, he was startled when the thing first let out its odd, burbling call around dusk one day. He ducked out of the kitchen—he’d been helping Deuce and Skull prepare that evening’s supper, but now the two of them peered after Ace from the doorway.

Heart in his throat, he lifted the receiver. 

Sounds of chaos blared out from the little creature. Ace’s pulse raced even faster. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, until finally, the cacophony resolved itself into songs and shouts—and above that, a slurred, cheerful drawl. 

“Angel! Hello, angel? Are you there, gorgeous?” 

Ace’s nerves transformed into appalled heat, sensing the start of Deuce’s laughter from behind him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he managed. “Shanks, what’s going on?”

The other captain let out a meandering whoop. “I just missed you, baby! Wish I could see your smile so bad. How am I supposed to dance, when you’re not here in my arms-s-s-s—arm?” 

On his end, Ace wondered if the Den Den actually replicated the waft of alcohol, or if it was just his imagination. At least no one was in danger.

Shanks went on, “The boys here got me thinking about you—”

“More like,” a voice interjected, “he wouldn’t shut up about your ass.” 

Ace flushed, hearing Skull’s chuckles join Deuce’s. It only got worse when Shanks replied, “It’s a lovely ass, I’ll have you know.”

“I didn’t mean his literal ass, Captain, though I’m sure it’s wonderful—”

“It is! Abs-o-lute heaven!” 

“Shanks!” Ace yelled (cutting off the man’s claim of “To die for!”). Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Ace was chagrined to find Skull with a hand slapped over his mouth, trying to remain composed, while Deuce had fully given up on standing and was now doubled over against the galley wall. 

Before he dealt with them, Ace had to address the matter at hand. 

“Look, we’re a little busy here,” he said tightly. “Anything else you needed to say? Otherwise, I’m gonna have to talk to you later.”

After a moment without response save for some shuffling, Ace added a cautious, “That alright, old man?”

Finally, Shanks let out a dramatic sigh. “Stars, but I missed your voice.” The background noise from the other side grew muffled, as if he’d at last found a spot away from the hubbub of his crew. He went on, drawn-out and wistful: “I don’t mean to keep you, sweetheart. Just wanted you to know I was thinkin’ about you all day, and I’ll be dreamin’ about you all night.”

Ace cursed himself for flushing further. Turning away from the galley (and the growing sound of cackling), Ace mumbled, “You’re drunk as fuck, Shanks. …Don’t go falling overboard tonight, okay?” 

“In vino veritas, little flame,” Shanks said with dignity. Then, more groggily, “Or, in sake veritas?” 

Ace put his head in his hands, but couldn’t stop the wobbling, frantic smile pulling at his cheeks. 

“Gods. Good luck with your hangover.” Then, in a rushed breath—because this whole situation was bizarre and new, and his heart was racing, but he was also so, strangely happy—Ace said, “Love you.”

Actually, this situation might be too bizarre and new: Shanks was taken off-guard. Ace heard a swift intake of breath, and then in a flood of boozy admiration, he swore, “Oh, baby, I’ll sail to you tonight! The boys’ll listen—I’ll follow the moonlight off the water, we can be together by dawn—what do you say, angel? We could spend all day together, having just the filthiest, crazed-animal se—”

Ace hung up.

—

Ace sagged against the doorway of his quarters. Even though most of his crew had retired for the day, he could feel his insomnia acting up like a jitter in his limbs. He probably wouldn’t land a good night’s sleep no matter what he tried. 

The issue wasn’t helped by his swirling thoughts. For the sake of restocking supplies, the Spade Pirates had docked in a town with some heavy anti-pirate sentiment. Somehow, the crew hadn’t been particularly bothered. Ace, on the other hand, was on edge the whole time, tensing up whenever he felt anyone’s eyes lingering on him too long.

There was no way anyone knew the truth about him. Even so, he couldn’t help superimposing faces from the rundown taverns of Goa onto those of the locals. Ace could feel the old, familiar unease simmering in his veins, like everyone had just finished hiding a sneer from him; like a knife was waiting to catch him unaware at any turn. 

But he was on his ship, now. Safe. Ace took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, yet the tension remained. A night like this one was better spent in the open air of the deck. He was just about to make his way out, when the Den Den Mushi reflected a hint of moonlight, catching his eye. 

After a moment of hesitation, Ace gathered the little thing in his arms, and took it with him to the bow of the ship. He stared contemplatively at where he’d set it on the rail. Since that first fiasco, he and Shanks had used the device a few times; their calls made it clear that he didn’t need to wait for some emergency. Still…

Watching starlight glint off the Den Den’s metal trim, he wondered what time it might be where Shanks was. The last time they’d talked, Shanks had been about half a day ahead of him. Who could say if they’d kept pace since then, though.

Stealing a glance at the crow’s nest—he was pretty sure Finamore was on shift tonight—Ace’s hand hovered over the receiver. His thoughts roiled. The tranquil rocking of the ship and the peaceful glow of the moon should have soothed him, but for some reason, they just made Ace more agitated.

He finally thought, Fuck it.

Ace waited, feeling suspended in time as the call went out. Then, he heard a click. 

“Mm… Hello?” 

Ace’s mind stalled. He was thrown off, watching the snail mimic a very sleepy Red-Haired Shanks. It was amusing at times to see the creature capture the other man’s expressions, but a little unsettling for this call; Ace directed his gaze out toward the ocean instead.

“Shanks?” he ventured. “Um. Morning?” 

There was a yawn. Then, “G’morning, little flame.” The cadence of Shanks’ voice was even slower than usual, syllables softly melding into each other. “To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetheart?”

Ace’s mouth quirked, impressed at the immediate smooth-talking. He was also, undeniably, taken in by the calming lilt of Shanks’ words. Ace twisted and untwisted a ringlet of the Den Den Mushi’s cord. 

“It’s nothin’ important, just… checking in.” Ace was unable to keep himself from adding, “What time is it there? I can call back later.” 

He heard a gentle sigh. 

“It’s never too early for you,” Shanks said. “A bit ahead of when I usually wake, but…” he hummed, exceedingly smug. “It’s cute, how you just can’t wait to hear my voice. So precious, baby.” 

Ace rolled his eyes toward the starry sky. “Yeah, I’m hangin’ up.”

Shanks let out a laugh. “Wait, now, come on. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It’s just… been a long day.” After a few moments of curling the cord tighter, Ace asked, “Actually, could you talk about your day? What’ve you been up to?” 

A thoughtful hum came over the line, followed by a snort. “You should’ve seen the damn mess Yasopp got us into yesterday. There we were, perusing a market, when the man starts haggling…”

Ace sighed. It was nice, listening to Shanks describe the people he’d run into, the locales he and his crew had explored. Really, it would’ve been nicer to be there at his side for it all, but… the timing wasn’t right. Not yet.

Still, Ace could imagine it. He laid his head in his arms, and let Shanks’ voice carry him over the water.

Finally, as Shanks murmured about dishes they could try “just a few islands over,” Ace felt his eyelids drooping. He gave himself a small shake.

The nighttime breeze was cooler now, biting against his skin. Ace noted the hazy ache of tiredness beneath his eyes; the rhythmic lap of the ocean and its vast, ceaseless waves. Domed above him, the crispness of the stars only added to his sense of the world being yawningly immense. It would have left him unsettled… if not for the sound of Shanks’ steady breathing over the line: a tiny, precious tether in the dark. 

Ace cleared his throat. 

“Thanks, Shanks.”

His conversation partner snickered. “Good rhyme.” 

“Yeah.” Ace smiled. “I mean it, though. For this, and… everything you’ve done. For being you.”

Ace hesitated, stomach churning at his trite words. The night’s darkness helped mute his embarrassment, though; same as the blush on his cheeks. 

“It means a lot,” he finished, voice soft.

There was a brief, yet heavy silence after that, like Shanks was lingering in the pause between one breath and the next. Finally, he murmured, “We’re lucky bastards, aren’t we? I mean—” He waited a moment, so Ace could finish chuckling. 

Then he said, “I’m grateful too. To have found you.”

Ace blinked, staring out into the moonlit night. All he could offer was an agreeing hum. 

After lingering in the contented silence a moment longer, Shanks finally gave a soft laugh, and said, “Guess you should give sleep another go.” 

“Ugh. Yeah.” Ace wiped a hand down his face, but turned toward the Den Den Mushi with a smile. “Alright. Love you.” 

“Love you too, little flame. Goodnight, Ace.” 

He grinned. “Good morning, Shanks.” 

Shanks’ laugh was just crackling out when Ace replaced the receiver. He heard enough, however, to be flooded with warmth on the way back to his quarters; and as he laid in bed, easily welcoming sleep.

[xxtha-blog]

The Dark Side of Ace's Illusions

It's a bad idea to get on Ace's bad side. Ace's illusions, though not typically used for this because he's too much a narratively driven kind of performer, can be used to just completely just someone down by overloading their senses in ways paramount to total torturing.

Excluding any immediate pain, he can cause someone's vision to distort and flash colours in ways more violent than even the most psychedelic of drugs. He can turn their vision upside down and make it buzz like static and make colours grind and meld and weave together like neurons are firing a random hexcode at every pixel in their field of view. He can make people hear noises like nails bristling down a chalk board so loud they can't hear anything else. He can make them hear violent cacophonies of high pitched squeeling and ringing. He can make them feel their nerves start to light up throughout their entire body. Their teeth tingle. Their body itch all over. He can make people smell revolting decay that makes them gag and double over, but there's nothing they can do to make it stop. He can fill their mouth with the taste of puke and bile and mold. And he can make each sense pulse and flare up all at once, then snuff completely out, over and over and over, coming in and out of existence, from the most extreme, to nothingness. He can make people convulse from the sheer mental strain of it all. Though it's not exactly pleasant for him to conjure such things either, it will never be anywhere close to the level of the person he's controlling.

He doesn't have to make someone hurt to send them to their knees. He has control over your perception of the world and he can make that perception hell.

But lucky for you, he much prefers setting up the scene instead! Which means instead of all that, you'll just be watching yourself freefall into an airplane turbine instead.

[bogwaterparasite]

Stalking

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Paring: Miles Morales-42 x Reader

WC: 2.1k

CW: None

A/N: Third chapter and oh lord… no wonder this project was abandoned LMFAOOOO, uhm, well!! I hope you guys enjoy this? I practically rewrote the entire thing but kept the whole plot I had in mind at the moment, so you might see a change in the writing. It seems like I also only had 3 chapters, and honestly? I don’t know where to take it from here.

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Growing up teaches you a harsh reality that not many are able to accept, days off are a myth. Even when you're supposed to be relaxing, there's always something demanding your attention. For high school students like me, "free time" is just another opportunity to study, to prepare for the next exam, to keep that perfect grade that might not even matter in the grand scheme of things. Weekends become a continuous cycle of burning words and numbers into your brain, hoping to maintain that elusive 100 on a piece of paper.

This particular weekend, I found myself drawn home to study, seeking some undefined comfort in family proximity. Looking back, I'm not sure it was the smartest decision.

The cacophony of my family home crashed against my already frayed nerves. My mother's music battled with the construction-level noise of my younger nephews, her occasional disciplinary yells cutting through the chaos. The two earbuds wedged in my ears offered minimal protection, more a psychological shield than an actual sound barrier. Typically this wouldn’t have bothered me, my family is huge and the years of being in this exact position should’ve made me immune to the noise, but no. Stress has a way of amplifying every sound, every movement, until the world feels like it's pressing down on you.

When my nephew's cry pierced through my music, something inside me cracked. I needed to escape before I joined him in tears.

"Alvaro Deja eso ah- Mija? Where are you going? Do you have practice today or something?"

My mom paused her cleaning, lowering the vacuum's roar and dimming her music. I fumbled with my shoes, leaning against the wall for support as I struggled to slip on the boots.

"No, I'm gonna head to the coffee shop for something to eat. I'm craving a croissant," I replied, managing a light chuckle.

She rolled her eyes. "Tu y esas cochinadas.. Be back before dinner, alright? And don't fill yourself up with food, it's bad for you!"

"Yeah yeah, I know."

After finally getting able to get the shoes on my feet, I proceeded to pick up the bag on the floor, quickly slipping it over my shoulder before walking to her side, giving a quick kiss on her cheek, and practically bolting through the door.

Brooklyn's streets were a symphony of urban noise - horns honking, construction drilling, people chattering. But with my earbuds firmly in place, the world transformed. As corny as it sounds, the music became my runway, and suddenly, I was more than just a stressed teenager. I was a model, head high, stride confident, face stoic. It was a momentary escape, a fantasy that I fabricated to escape the reality that haunted me, a fantasy that lasted right up until the mortifying thought of someone reading my mind would snap me back to reality.

The familiar cafe welcomed me, a sanctuary of warmth and routine. In the corner behind the counter you could see, and hear, Linda and her husband, an elderly couple who'd run this place for decades, who continued their eternal love story. They laughed like teenagers, their connection a beacon of hope in a world of fleeting connections and situationships. Some part of me hoped someday I would be able to have something like that, a relationship so full of love despite being together for so long. But during this day and age? It’s highly unlikely

I took out the earbuds from my ears, pausing the music from my phone as Linda greeted me with her usual brightness. We chatted about school, her children, their latest adventures. Talking with her was like a breath of fresh air, a small moment of genuine human connection that could lift even the heaviest mood.

After our conversation, I settled at a window counter, laptop out, diving deep into my studies. The world around me dissolved. Sounds became a distant buzz, my focus laser-sharp on the screen, analyzing every word, every detail.

"Weirdo..."

The coffee shop had always been his sanctuary - a place of quiet study just blocks from home. Today, however, something felt different. Different, because *she* was also there.

Miles caught sight of her hunched over her laptop, that distinctive hairstyle instantly recognizable. A smile crept across his lips before he could stop it. He'd never considered himself particularly social. Just days ago, she was just another face in his biology class - someone who existed out of the corner of his eye, boring and easily ignored. So why couldn't he stop thinking about her now?

Grabbing his usual drink, Miles approached her table with a casualness that mimicked his usual demeanor. He sat down besides her, avoiding any direct interaction with her. Don't seem desperate. Don't seem like you're trying

The window became his focal point, the shield against his confusing emotions. Each sip of his drink was calculated, each glance carefully measured. But concentration proved impossible. Ten minutes passed, and she remained completely absorbed in her studies, unaware of his presence.

An unfamiliar restlessness grew inside him. Irritation? Curiosity? His emotions tangled themselves into something he couldn't quite name..

Finally, he turned. His cheek rested against his knuckles while studying her profile. *Should I say something? Would she even notice?* The internal debate felt ridiculous. He, Miles Morales, was overthinking an interaction with a classmate who’s name he couldn’t even remember… ironic.

When she finally looked up, the shift in her expression was fascinating. Initial confusion transformed into recognition, surprise prominent in her face. His own lips quirked into an unexpected smile, a small laugh following afterward.

"I was wondering how long it was going to take you," he found himself speaking first, the words coming out more confident than he felt. "You need to be more aware of your surroundings, especially in public spaces. Someone could've stolen something, and you'd have no clue."

It was a deflection, really. A way to cover the fact that he'd been watching her, wondering about her, trying to understand this sudden fascination that seemed to consume him whole these last few days. His friends would never believe this. The guy known for his stoic demeanor, practically staking out a spot just to sit near someone who, mere days ago, he'd found merely tolerable? It was ridiculous.. laughable, and that just made him feel even more ridiculous.

"Are you stalking me or something?"

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could fully comprehend the situation. Before the day he lost his sketchbook, he could be compared to a ghost. A person I only saw during biology, but now? He was everywhere!! The library, the hallways, the goddamned coffee shop that I frequented.. it was only plausible to assume he was doing it on purpose!

To my surprise, he laughed at the accusation. Not a small chuckle, but a genuine, full-bodied laugh that seemed to surprise even him. His usual sharp features softened, revealing a vulnerability I'd never seen before. This all just made it contagious, a smile tugging at my lips before I started to laugh as well.

“I think it should be me asking you that question.. suddenly you’re everywhere I go. It’s getting creepy” he spoke, his laugh diminishing yet leaving a small smile remaining on his lips.

“Let me remind you that I was here first” I answered, resting my elbow on the table and leaning my cheek against the palm of my hand, “and besides, I am not the weirdo that sat there staring at an oblivious person for god knows how long”

My intentions were to tease him, however, his reaction made me realize that it indeed wasn’t the way it played out. His smile faded, his eyes falling on the window once more as he coughed to clear his throat. My smile slowly faded as well, looking away sheepishly. Maybe I’m getting too comfortable too soon? I mean, we just started talking to each other not too long ago.. I’m definitely being weird.

“Anywho..” Imitating his actions, I coughed to clear my throat. Shutting my computer close and stuffing it back into the bag. “I was already done either way. I’ll get out of your territory now”

As I was about to stand up he reached over for my bag, yanking it away and looking up to meet my eyes once again

“Chill ma, I didn’t say you had to leave” he replied nonchalantly, placing the bag back on the floor next to the bar stool where I once sat “what test were you studying for?”

As we talked, the initial awkwardness I had created dissipated. He wasn't just the intimidating boy from biology class anymore, he was something more like… a friend? I couldn’t quite place what I could associate him with. He spoke passionately about his art, his hands moving expressively, his eyes lighting up with each story. I found myself captivated, not just by his words, but by the way he revealed layers of himself I'd never imagined existed.

My gaze drifted, tracing the lines of his face - his long braids, those sharp yet soft eyes, the subtle curve of his lips, simple and minuscule details I hadn’t ever taken the time to notice. Part of me felt regret for not seeking out a relationship with him before, despite all the opportunities that I was given at the time.

Those thoughts consumed me whole, given away by the fact that I continued shamelessly staring. When he caught onto the fact, I quickly looked away, heat rising to my cheeks.

"Hey, are you even listening?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I zoned out," I mumbled.

“Figured.” He replied quickly, taking out his phone from his pocket and checking the time “it’s getting pretty late out. You should head home soon”

Checking my phone, I realized I was well past my mother's expected return time. Panic seized me.

"Shit... I've got to go!"

I gathered my things in a whirlwind, promising to see him at school, leaving Miles alone in the cafe.

Miles found himself trapped in a dangerous dance of denial. He was spending time with someone he'd previously dismissed, and the very thought made him uncomfortable. People had always seemed to speak about her fondly - mentions in passing during lunch, casual comments about her wit or intelligence, even his own friends had made a few comments about her in some of their classes, but he'd never paid attention. To it

When she sat back down, a strange mix of relief coursed through him, straightening himself out for a moment before returning to his typical relaxed stance

The conversation was typical of those who were just beginning to meet each other, casual comments about their classes, stuff at school.. but then the inevitable topic slipped from her lips. Art.

His whole life, art had become somewhat of a lifeline for him, an escape from a world that could either be your worst enemy or your best friend. He began talking about his passion, the way colors blended, how a single brushstroke could tell an entire story. His hands moved animatedly, revealing a vulnerability he rarely showed. Each word was a piece of himself, carefully being unwrapped and presented to her with an ease that seemed to amaze even himself.

But something was off. Her gaze seemed... different. Not quite listening, but not disinterested either. She was looking at him with an intensity that made him simultaneously uncomfortable and exhilarated.

'Am I boring her?' The thought crashed into him like a tidal wave, a new sense of nervousness beginning to rise within him. Stopping mid sentence, he began eying her carefully. Her gaze was fixed on him, her attention also focused on his being, yet not really his words. Something about her stare felt different. Admiring? Analyzing? The distinction blurred.

"Hey..? Are you listening to me?"

The spell broke. She apologized, something shifting in the air between them. He had planned to ask for her number, to formally start... something. A friendship? More? But before he could gather his thoughts, she was gone.

The walk home was a wind whirl of emotions. His mind battled with the newfound sense of intrigue that overwhelmed him whenever she was around. The questions circled like vultures, offering no resolution to his problem.

His home greeted him with a familiar emptiness. "Pa, Ma, I'm back!" The words echoed through silent rooms. His father was perpetually chasing a promotion, his mother working endless hospital shifts. Loneliness was a familiar companion.

Dropping into his chair, Miles pulled out his books. Study materials stared back, a reminder of why he'd gone to the coffee shop in the first place. Yet all he could think about was her - the way she looked at him, the conversation they'd shared.

"Stupid"

Hi hi!!! I hope you enjoyed this one last snippet, just as I was finishing with the edits I remembered some of the original story that I was gonna go with! Yet, I don’t really find the whole plot line of the female character becoming Spider-Man very interesting… I know a lot of yall don’t comment, but if you have been enjoying the story so far and decide that’s something you would like, please let me know! Otherwise I have a few alternatives to it.