#and let's talk about the knife just a second. it was a pocket knife! like. a tiny ass Swiss pocket knife too?? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luveline · 10 months ago

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Hi, I’ve never actually sent a request before so hopefully this is okay, but maybe Hotch’s adult daughter calling him dad for the first time when she’s in trouble or hurt which could also open up an opportunity for Hotch to see her mother for the first time since he found out about her

You’re gonna throw your pants in the trash when you get home. The blouse is a loss —getting blood out of champagne material is a pipe dream. But the pants were unscathed until now.

“Can you look at me?”

You lift your pounding head. The EMT cups your cheek, her lips quirked into a deep frown as she raises a small flashlight to your eyes. “Just gonna check your pupils again,” she murmurs, shining the light in your eye.

Each flash has a heated knife of pain slamming into your brain. You moan in pain and tip your head forward, wanting more than anything to lay down.

“What can I do to make you more comfortable?” the EMT asks.

“I want to go to the hospital,” you say. Surely they can fix the carving agony behind your face.

“I know. As soon as the ruckus upstairs is clear, we’re going to take you there.”

“I don’t want to sit here.” You grimace at the clammy stone under your legs. The subway is not a good place to touch things.

“It’ll be over soon. There’s a heavy police presence. You’ll be okay.”

“Got blood on my shirt,” you mumble.

“I’m sure someone will wash it for you.”

“My dad,” you say without thinking.

If you asked, Aaron would wash the blood from your shirt. He could buy you a whole new wardrobe and he would if you let him, but he would just as happily stand at the sink scrubbing away your stains.

“Ah, Mr. Hotchner,” the EMT says. “I’ve heard about him, I think we all have. He’s a very important man.”

“He’s just my dad,” you whisper.

You’re not really talking to her anymore, the thumping pain behind your eyes a wave you can’t get past. It hurts with every breath. When you hold out your hand, the EMT knows without asking that you’re going to throw up.

She’s more alarmed after that. “Okay, I’m gonna take you upstairs now, okay? I’m sorry there’s no gurney, but we just have to get to the top of the stairs.”

Each step sucks. You taste blood and vomit alike on your tongue, the daylight is too bright as you ascend the steps, and the EMT isn’t taking enough of your weight. You moan something incomprehensible even to yourself on the second to last step and cover your eyes, aware of the sirens, the roaring crowds, glass shattering at your feet.

“Shit,” the EMT says.

You search for your phone blindly, your hand lost in a pocket full of gum wrappers and tissue. “I don’t have my bag... I want my phone. Need to call my dad.”

“It’s okay,” she says, giving you an encouraging jostle to look out at the clearing sidewalk. “I can see him.”

Aaron is speed-walking through the crowd. He’s surrounded by people in Kevlar vests, but he himself wears nothing more than his usual suit and tie. His face changes when he sees you from glaring to a strange flitting panic.

“Are you all right?” he asks, jogging those last few metres to take you by the elbows. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

Your eyes are tired. “Somebody hit me,” you say.

“I know.” His sympathy is warm, his hand smoothing up your arm as he turns on the spot. “Morgan, can we get better access down this street?”

One of the Kevlar vests doubles back the way they came. You’re trying to make sense of who you’re seeing, and what’s happening, but the confusion since you got hurt is enthusiastic. You can’t make sense of anything but the splitting pain in your head.

Aaron’s talking five miles a second and ushering you up those last few steps, a gentleness to his touch that’s absent in his barked commands.

You’ve never heard him shout like that. You can’t help staring at him.

“This is an attempted insurrection. The aggression is only going to get worse. JJ, see if you can coordinate with metro PD, make sure there aren’t any other injured civilians in the subway. Dave, I need you to run the operation while I go with her.”

“Aaron,” you say, watching his frown deepen.

“Reid, you’re with JJ. Prentiss, I want you to find who laid hands on her–”

“Aaron,” you say again, shocked.

He gives your arm a placating squeeze.

“They could still be here.” Everything he says is unarguable. He’s suddenly a monolith, and he’s freaking you out, and you’re no closer to being in the back of the ambulance than you had been ten minutes ago. “Have Garcia pull the security footage–”

“Dad,” you say in a short breath, your hand grasping weakly at his arm.

He falls silent for a moment. The agent you’re unfamiliar with becomes the man who brings you teddy bears at dinner and sends encouraging missives in the morning.

“What, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks. Not gentle, but hushed.

“I think I’m gonna be sick again.”

The EMT passes you a paper bag.

—

You could hear a pin drop in your hospital room. Your broken nose has its own heartbeat, but that’s a feeling, rather than a sound. Aaron hasn’t spoken in a long time, he just sits there with his hand on your arm, waiting for a cue you don’t give. You’re so embarrassed about calling him dad you’ve decided to never speak to him again.

His hand occasionally comes to life, giving your arm a soft up and down.

It’s strange to suddenly have a father, but not bad. His paternal caring is a comfort with all the pain, and it doesn’t feel stilted. With Aaron it never has, he found out you were his and he immediately began to act like it, though you suppose you’ll never know how he would’ve loved you as an adult if he’d known you as a child. This feels genuine. Careful, but genuine.

“Time to take it off,” he says.

You meet his eyes.

“The ice pack,” he explains.

You drop it onto your leg, and he takes it and sets it on the rollover table instead.

“You can come and stay with me for a few days,” he suggests quietly.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Your mom’s working. I can take the time off.”

You give him a dubious look. “And then you’ll get called away and it’ll be just me and Haley in the house. That won’t be awkward at all.”

He shakes his head. “You’re hurt. You’re gonna feel dizzy for at least another day, and that’s not thinking about how hard it’s gonna be to breathe for a while. I’ll stay home, and you can get familiar with my guest room.”

“You don’t have to look after me.”

“But I want to.” He holds your wrist. “I know we aren’t a conventional father and daughter…” His brow furrows, and he looks at your hand just below his rather than your face. “I want the chance to look after you. How many times were you sick as a kid? Hundreds of times. Mostly colds, a runny nose. Maybe you– maybe you broke your arm, I don’t know. But I wish I did. I owe it to you to take care of you now.”

You give him a small smile as he raises his head.

“Just think about it,” he says, “we’ll be here all night anyways.”

“You can go home.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he says, his sincerity swapped for teasing as he stand. “I have to go find you something to eat.”

He stoops to give you a warm hug across your shoulders. You should want it to be over quickly, you smell like blood and sick and sweat, your clothes are ruined, and you’re not used to him seeing you like this, but let the feeling of his hand on your back persuade you into closing your sore eyes.

“Okay?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay. I need to do a lap before your mother gets here anyhow. I might… be more unkind than I plan on being, otherwise.”

You laugh at his half-joke and hurt your face. He is very sorry.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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urmum-lovesme · 3 months ago

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The way you write toxic rafe is👨🏻‍🍳💋!!!!!!im obsessed need moreee🫶🏼

He's actually psychotic. (I'm in love...)

The kitchen lights shone above them, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the growing tension between the two. The house was eerily quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator, the air thick with unspoken words. Rafe had been on edge ever since the phone call with Ward- he had tried to brush it off, but his anger was festering like a wound that wouldn't heal. And Y/N had been the one closest to him, trying to ease his mind. But tonight, her efforts had only seemed to make him angrier.

“Can you stop fucking bitching in my ear?”

Rafe spat, his voice sharp, laced with annoyance. Y/N stepped forward, her face flushed, her arm folded trying to remain calm. She spoke back, her voice steady, though she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

“I’m not bitching in your ear, Rafe.”

Rafe shot her a look, eyes narrowing, and he took a step toward her. “You don’t get it, Y/N. You think you can just fix everything with a few fucking words? It doesn’t work like that!”

Rafe’s jaw was clenched tight as he stood by the kitchen island, pulling a small baggie from his pocket. With practiced ease, he tapped a line of white powder onto the cool marble countertop, his movements sharp and unbothered. He sniffed once, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before leaning down, inhaling a sharp drag of the powder, his shoulders tensing as the rush hit him.

Y/N’s stomach twisted at the sight. She hated this- hated watching him do this to himself. Without thinking, she stepped closer, reaching for his arm. “Rafe, stop,” she pleaded, trying to pull him away from the counter.

“You don’t need this.”

“-don’t start Y/N,”

He muttered, sniffling as he rubbed at his nose, his fingers gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding him up. He barely acknowledged her, shrugging her off with a roll of his shoulder.

“Rafe, I mean it,” she pressed, her voice firmer now. She grabbed at his wrist again, trying to pull him back.

“This shit isn’t helping you—it’s making everything worse.”

“You think you know what I need HUH!?”

His voice was cold, sharp like a knife as he slammed his hand down onto the counter with a loud BANG, the sound reverberating in the silent kitchen. He let out a harsh laugh, finally turning his head to glance at her, his pupils already blown wide.

“You think you have any fucking clue what it’s like?”

Her breath caught in her throat at the look in his eyes- wild, unpredictable. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled away from his skin cautiously. She said softly.

“Please- let's just talk about it . . .”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Because in the next second, his face twisted, his expression darkening as his body tensed even more. He took a step toward her and his hands curled into fists at his sides, for a moment, she thought he might punch straight through the marble of the counter.

“Talk to you?” he scoffed. “What the fuck do you think you can do for me, huh?”

“Rafe—”

“What?”

“You need to stop caring about what your dad thinks,” she said, her voice cautious but firm.

“It’s eating you up, Rafe. He treats you like shit... he’s an asshole.”

Rafe’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with anger. His expression shifted completely as he turned to face her, his muscles tensing. He bit out, his voice low but filled with malice,

“Don’t fucking talk about my dad like that,”

Y/N stood still, folding her arms, her eyes never leaving his. Rafe’s jaw clenched so hard she thought it might break. “You think you know everything-” he snarled, taking a step toward her. His anger was palpable, almost suffocating.

“You think you can just tell me how to deal with my family?”

She flinched slightly at the tone of his voice. Rafe’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his body moving towards her, now merely a few feet away. He growled, his breath coming heavier now.

“Don’t you dare tell me how to handle my shit.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened as she urged, her voice shaking with a mix of frustration and concern, "I just think that-"

“Don’t fucking lecture me, Y/N,”

Rafe spat, his voice rising as he took another step forward. His body was radiating heat, fury in his eyes. Y/N’s chest tightened, her words slipping from her mouth before she could stop them.

“I’m not trying to lecture you, I just—”

Before she could finish, Rafe’s hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist with a force that made her gasp. Without another word, he shoved her harshly against the counter, her lower back hitting the counter hard enough to make her gasp. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her spine, but the look in his eyes scared her more than anything. She stumbled back slightly, eyes wide in shock as he hissed out.

“You think I need you to save me from my own fucking life?”

Y/N’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she stared at him, realising just how far his rage mixed with the addicting substance now sprinkled over the counter had taken him.

“No… I just want to be here for you—please listen to me-”

Rafe didn’t move at first. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling with sharp, ragged breaths. Then, his eyes flickered to the counter beside him. The sound of metal scraping against the marble sent a chill down her spine. Her stomach twisted as she glanced down, her blood running cold when she saw what he had in his hand.

A knife.

Her breath hitched. The blade caught the dim light as he lifted it slightly, his grip tight around the handle. He took a slow step forward, angling the knife slightly, not lunging, not threatening outright—but letting her see it. Letting her understand.

“You think you know how to fix my family, hmm?”

He murmured, his voice eerily calm now. Her feet stayed rooted to the ground, every muscle locked in place as he took another step closer. He tilted his head as he ran his thumb absently along the handle. Her throat was dry, words failing her as she forced herself to meet his gaze. He wasn’t looking at her like he wanted to hurt her. No, it was worse than that. He was looking at her like he wanted to prove something. Like he needed to see the fear in her eyes to remind himself of something. She whispered, trying to keep her voice steady,

“I never said that. . .”

“But you fucking think it.” His grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles going white.

“You think I’m weak?”

She shook her head frantically, her hands trembling at her sides as she spoke out desperately,

"No, Rafe. I don’t— I swear—”

“Don’t lie to me”

He cut her off sharply, his voice dark and unforgiving. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her body tense, watching his every move. He tilted the knife slightly, just enough to catch her attention again.

"You know what’s funny, Y/N?"

He let out a breath of amusement, though there was no humour in his voice. He took a slow step forward, the weight of his presence suffocating. Y/N barely dared to breathe as the tip of the knife grazed her bare arm, trailing lightly over her skin. A shiver ran through her, her pulse hammering beneath the delicate scrape of cold metal traveling up her arm slow and deliberate. He paused before the blade traced the curve of her jaw, featherlight yet impossible to ignore. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her body frozen, trapped in place by his touch.

The tip pressed against the centre of her neck.

A single, calculated tap.

Her breath hitched. She didn’t move, didn’t dare flinch, she couldn't as she was routed to the spot in pure terror. Rafe’s lips curled into something almost resembling amusement, though his eyes were anything but playful.

“I could do anything right now. I could do anything I fucking wanted, and no one would stop me.”

She couldn't breathe.

Because he was right, no one would stop him. No one would hear her scream. No one would come running, no one would burst through the doors to pull her away. If he wanted to, he could. The terrifying truth was she wasn’t scared because she thought he would do it, she was scared because she knew that if he did… there would be no one to stop him. A tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly blinked it away, trying to steady her voice.

"Rafe… please, just put it down.”

His lips twitched, like the very idea of listening to her pleas was laughable.

Then, without warning, he let out a sharp exhale and dropped the knife onto the counter with a loud clank. He muttered out, his voice quieter now, a calm settling in as he wiped his hand across his face.

“Don’t ever talk about my fucking family again”

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iamred-iamyellow · 7 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Don’t Prove I’m Right - [Part 4]

♥ prev

♥ series masterlist | main masterlist

♥ pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

♥ series synopsis: you didn't think twice about the dj you hooked up with until you found out you were pregnant. turns out the man wasn't just some dj but a famous formula 1 driver.

♥ chapter synopsis: after his reckless decisions, lando attempts to make it up to you. it took some convincing from oscar but you eventually gave in and had a conversation with him.

♥ smau + written - fc: girls on pinterest - none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: its been MONTHS since the last chapter I am so sorry lovelies!

liked by logansargeant, lilyzneimer, lilymhe, and 120,538 more

yourusername ever since @/logansargeant and @/oscarpiastri got camila these plushies she’s been obsessed with them

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yourbestfriend please don’t tell me the deer is being replaced 😔

yourusername camila would never

lilyzneimer shes just too cute to not spoil

user1 haven’t seen lando in any of her posts recently 😕

user3 they did JUST get back to Monaco so I wouldn't be worried

user6 they're not dating either so I don't see why he would be

user4 we need a godfather reveal

logansargeant it’s me

oscarpiastri its me

carlossainz55 … it’s probably not me 😕

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

It had been a couple of days since your last conversation with Lando and a knock on your door drew your attention away from your phone.

A giant box was sitting on the doorstep alone with no sender information. You hesitantly brought it into the living room and grabbed a pocket knife to cut through the clear strip of tape. The box quickly burst open from the pressure of the deeply packed objects—about a dozen jellycats and an apology note placed on top.

It was clear to you that this package was from Lando, and it was a very sweet gesture. He’d clearly seen the post you made the previous day and was trying his best to make up for his mistakes. You sighed and folded the note up, setting it on your couch. You pulled out a soft pink bunny from the box causing Camila to squeal and hold her arms open.

You still hadn’t checked your texts from Lando, but Oscar was right. You couldn’t ignore him forever. Lily offered to take you out for the night in order to clear your head. You were extremely grateful for Lily’s support and generosity ever since you met her. She had truly become one of your best friends throughout this experience.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by lilymhe, carmenmundt,, and 102,843 more 102,473 more

yourusername girls night

tagged; @/lilyzneimer

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lilyzneimer <3

user1 we love a self care queen

user2 she’s so pretty

alexandrasaintmleux we should all hang out together <3

francisca.cgomes i second that

yourusername i’m so there

user7 i love that the wags include her 🥹

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

You sat next to Lily with a glass of white wine in your hand, conflicted. Of course you were. Like Oscar said, you had to confront him at some point, but it was going to take a lot for you to trust Lando again. You pulled your phone out of your purse.

You got the response pretty much immediately.

You sighed and turned to Lily, "I'm gonna go talk to Lando."

"Good luck," she said with a smile, and took another sip of her drink.

You picked Camila up off the couch and bundled her up in a small yellow blanket.

You were at his apartment in about twenty minutes. You knocked hesitantly, tapping your nails on the case of your phone and jangling your keys in attempt to reduce your anxiety. Lando opened the door in silence, letting you into the room. He sat back down on his couch and you followed, cradling your daughter in your arms and choosing to stand up as you spoke.

“Listen Y/n, I know what I did was-“

"I'm not going to take your child away from you,” you stated, cutting him off. “You said you want to be in her life, but you have to keep that promise."

He nodded and ran his hands across his face. You wanted to get straight to the point with no excuses. You had heard all of his apologies already.

"Lily talked to Kmag and found her a babysitter, so we're good on that end. But, you still have to earn back my trust to be alone with her and if anything like this happens again I won't be nice."

He looked back up at you, “It won’t ever happen again, I swear. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

”I agree.”

There was some awkward silence as you gently sat on the arm rest of the couch.

You looked down at your daughter, “She may not fully get it yet, but you’re her dad and she loves you,” you locked eyes with Lando again. “You chose to raise her with me, so you need to take responsibility.”

He nodded, “I understand.”

"Good," you responded, standing back up and stepping towards the front door. You paused without turning your head back towards him, "Good luck in Imola.”

With that you were gone.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: this was short, I am aware! there was originally supposed to be more to this chapter but I decided to turn it into its own whole part lol :) I've already started working on it so stay tuned!

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starshoyo · 2 months ago

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YAKUZA’S WIFE ★

PAIRING Sakusa Kiyoomi x fem!reader

WARNINGS Mention of violence

TAGS Wife AU, Yakuza Leader AU, possessive behavior, jealousy

IN WHICH Sakusa is the most feared yakuza leader in Japan, who would do anything for you, his wife. And sometimes, he tends to get a little jealous

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒/𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

THERE WERE UNWRITTEN rules in the yakuza business; an unspoken code of conduct that everybody in the industry followed. But there was one rule that was valued above every other rule: Don’t fuck with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He was known as a calculated, wise man who did everything with complete and utter focus. All of the decisions he made were thought over a thousand times. He’s buried dozens of bodies with the precision of his gun, and his reputation was no exaggeration.

Anybody in the industry would know his name, and if they were smart, they knew to be loyal and keep their distance.

You meeting Sakusa was purely by chance. Graduating from culinary school, you opened up a small bakery in the city of Tokyo, unaware that the area was Sakusa’s turf. It was love at first sight, as cheeky as it sounds.

After buying the shop, you were struggling to keep your head above the water, drowning in debt from the culinary school and rent.

Any new shop on Sakusa’s turf meant he would have to check it out, and oh, is he glad he did. When he opened the door to your bakery and the bell rung, signaling his arrival, you ducked out from the kitchen, blessing him with an angelic smile.

He was struck with Cupid’s bow. How couldn’t he be?

After his fifth time at the bakery, he finally asked you out for dinner. Your cheeks had bloomed in red. You hadn’t expected the handsome regular to actually be interested in you. He had taken you to a restaurant that was worth your rent, and it was that day that you had found out he was unbelievably wealthy.

It was two months into dating that you found out that he was a yakuza leader.

To be honest, you noticed the small signs. His lawyer, Komori, always being present. His “secretaries”, Bokuto and Atsumu, constantly pulling him aside just to talk about work. Then Hinata, his employee, showing up with new bandages and bruises every week.

They were always in suits, and with Sakusa being so secretive about work, you always had a hunch. But it was when you were at work, selling bread as always.

Then clock had hit 7, and you decided to close for the night, knowing Sakusa would be here soon to pick you up to take you to dinner. A man had walked in, wearing shabby clothes and a hood over his face.

Before you could tell him the store was closed, he pulled out a pocket knife from his pocket, yelling at you to empty the register. You remember everything like a blur. You had been trembling like a newborn fawn, tears dripping down your cheeks as you slowly handed him the money.

Then the door opened again, and Sakusa was there in a second, his fist connecting to the man’s jaw with a smack so hard that you were sure something broke.

Sakusa was a calm man. He was almost emotionless, always monotonous and collected. But this was the first time you’ve seen him… furious. Atsumu, who usually drove them around, had stepped in after hearing the commotion, and had to haul Sakusa off of the man.

Later, at Sakusa’s penthouse, he had held you in his arms like you were fragile, murmuring a thousand apologies into your hair for keeping such a secret, and showing you such a scene. “I would never hurt you,” He promised, kissing your tears away.

That day only seemed like yesterday, despite it being two whole years ago. You were now married, over a year. Kiyoomi, you called him now. He was your loving husband, who was scary to the world but a big softie to you.

You had long quit that bakery, Kiyoomi practically begging you to let him take care of you. It took months for him to finally convince you to let him take care of your debt, and to move in with him. You were all against it at first, feeling horrible for using his money, but he truly insisted, and how could ever say no to him?

“Flower,” Kiyoomi called, a nickname he gave you. He held his hand out for you to take, and you smiled, letting him help you get out of the car. “Have a good night!” Atsumu yelled from inside the car. “Thanks, ‘Tsumu.” You quickly said, before shutting the door.

“You look beautiful as always.” Your husband hummed, placing a kiss to your cheek and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Only because you take such good care of me, Omi.” You told him, hand on his chest. He smiled, one of those small ones that only you could really notice.

Tonight was date night, dining at a hotel restaurant of Kuroo, a business partner who had just opened the grand luxury hotel. As Kiyoomi walked you into the hotel, you didn’t fail to notice the way employees ducked their head deeply, some holding their breaths.

This was another thing that had bothered you, at first, but now, it was the norm. The restaurant was absolutely gorgeous, bustling with people and jazz music being played live in the corner. “Oh, wow. Kuroo outdid himself.” You gasped. “Do you like it?” Sakusa asked, studying your face.

You absentmindedly nodded, still amazed at the architecture. “Then we’ll come here again, soon.” He promised.

A host walked up to the two of you. “Hello, do you have reservations?” It wasn’t uncommon for people not to recognize Kiyoomi. He nodded. “Yes, under Sakusa.” He said, his voice as monotonous as ever. The host repeated the name under his breath a couple times as he checked the list, before furrowing his brows.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like you’re on the list here, sir. Are you sure you made a reservation?” The host raised an eyebrow, face full of doubt. From the corner of your eye, you saw your husband’s eye twitch in irritation. “Yes, we were invited by the owner of this hotel.” You answered instead, trying to cool the tension with a grin.

The host didn’t respond, looking to you, then at Sakusa, then back at the list with a sigh. This time, your eye twitched in irritation. Asshole. “Mr. Sakusa and Mrs. Sakusa, what a pleasure to have you here!” You heard a panicked voice boom, an older male rushing towards the both of you.

You checked the badge on his chest, reading “Floor Manager”. “The pleasure is ours.” You answered, leaning into your husband’s side with a smile. Kiyoomi only huffed. “Apparently, we don’t have a reservation.” Anybody could recognize the pure annoyance in his tone.

“Omi.” You warned. He looked away like a guilty child.

“It’s alright, we can come back another day.” You offered, but the manager shook his head furiously. “Nonsense! I’m sure it’s a fault in our system! We’ll get a table ready as soon as we can. Again, I apologize.” He bowed repeatedly. He then turned to the young host, gently smacking his arm.

“What the hell are you standing there for? Go get a table ready now.” He whisper yelled, rushing off with him. You were left with silence, the two of your staring at their retreating forms. “…I’m telling Kuroo about this.” Kiyoomi said, which translated to “I’m getting that host fired”.

You scowled, hitting his chest with the back of your hand. “Oh, stop whining. We were able to get a table, so who cares?” You sighed, even though you were equally irritated with that ill mannered host.

Despite the incident with the reservations, your new host was awfully polite, the music calming, and the food tasting better than anything you’ve ever eaten. Despite being with him for over two years, you found yourself falling impossibly harder ever conversation.

During the course, Kuroo came out to greet the two of you as well, his catlike smile never changing. You knew Kuroo was just as involved with the yakuza industry as Sakusa, but in a different way.

When the night came to an end, you had headed to the bar on the other side of the restaurant, Kuroo saying that the drinks were on him in apology for the mix up with the reservations and staff.

“Order yourself a drink, I have to take a call from Komori.” Kiyoomi told you, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “Alright.” You hummed, taking a seat on the stool.

He walked out, never missing the way his face completely changed into his business one. He walked out of the restaurant and into the hall, leaving you alone. “Hi, (Name).” You heard a familiar, quiet voice. You looked up, surprised to see Kenma working behind the bar.

“Oh, hi! I didn’t know you work here?” You grinned, leaning in. Kenma was a professional hacker who worked under Kuroo, who helped out Sakusa when it was necessary. He was quiet and introverted, but was surprisingly good company. “Only when I’m bored. Do you want something?”

You nodded. “A cranberry martini, please.” He nodded, moving around the bar to make you a drink. In the meantime, you pulled out your purse, powdering your face and touching up your makeup. There were less customers now, the lights dimmed than before to add to the ambience.

The upbeat New Orleans style jazz that was playing earlier has now turned into slow blues. There were only old couples and guests who have probably put their children to sleep. “Here.” Kenma slid your drink across the counter.

“Thanks.” You picked up the glass, taking a sip. You smiled at the taste, watching as Kenma disappeared to the other side of the long bar to wash some glasses. “Is it good?” You heard a new voice. You turned around, flinching at the stranger who was too close for your liking.

You looked him up and down, trying to figure out if he was a friend of Kiyoomi’s or purely an idiot trying to hit on you. “Get one yourself and find out.” Your words were unkind, and you turned back around, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.

“Aww, come on! Don’t be like that.” He laughed, taking a seat on the stool next to you. You wanted to groan in his face. You let out a silent sigh, before turning to face him. “Look, if you’re looking for company, you won’t find it here.” You told him, setting the martini down on the counter.

You glanced back at Kenma, who was oblivious to this stranger hitting on you. He was chatting with a customer, too busy to notice. You frowned. “Oh, why? Come on, let me buy you another drink.” The stranger insisted, leaning in. You blinked, face scrunching in disgust as you leaned away.

“No thank you. I’m married, alright?” He glanced at your hand, and sure enough saw the diamond ring. That didn’t seem to be enough to stop him, though. “Well, I don’t see your husband anywhere.” He chuckled.

“Turn around.” The voice was heavy and low. You looked past the man’s frame and saw your husband with an all too familiar look on his face. Furious.

“M-Mr. Sakusa!” The man squeaked pathetically, jumping out of the seat. You blinked in surprise. Wait, this guy knew him? “I- You- I didn’t know-” He stammered, slowly backing away. He flinched when his back hit the chest of someone new.

He slowly turned around, face to face with Kuroo, who tutted his tongue. “Now, this won’t do. Should I have a word with him for you, Sakusa?” Kuroo asked with his eyes still trained on the shorter male, obviously entertained. Kiyoomi put his hand on your lower back, motioning for you to stand up.

He grabbed your bag and your coat. “Yes. I’m leaving with my wife.” He said blatantly, and turned to stare at your forgotten martini as he walked you towards the exit. “But my drink.” You frowned.

“We have wine, flower.” He told you softly, his voice completely different from the bloodlust filled tone earlier. You didn’t miss the way he glared at the stranger as you passed by him.

You giggled. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.” You held his hand, and he immediately gripped back. “I’m not cute.” He rolled his eyes, acting annoying as if he didn’t love it. “Whatever you say, Omi.”

When you went back the next week, Kiyoomi keeping his promise of taking you back to the restaurant soon, you had noticed that the rude host was nowhere to be seen.

And according to Kenma, Kiyoomi had visited the hotel after you had fallen asleep that night you got hit on, and the stranger left looking like hell rained down on him.

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loonylupinblack3 · 7 months ago

Text

Powerless

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: extremely toxic!rafe, violence, swearing, many threats issued

Summary: you hate being a Pogue. Hate how vulnerable and weak and powerless it makes you. Rafe reinforces this for you.

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: heavily based off of season 1 episode three of obx when pope is delivering groceries and Rafe jumps him. also the ferrari sf90 spider is actually my favourite car so i yapped about it a lil bit :)

You were helping Heyward load the grocery bags onto the boat alongside Pope and JJ, stacking the bags of food and other knick knacks in the middle of the vehicle.

“You kids get these groceries over to Figure Eight,” Heyward instructed, grunting as he lifted a pair of heavy bags off the dock and moved over to the boat, Pope, waiting at the ready, taking them from his father. “Get straight back here when you’re done.” He gave you a pointed look. “No fishing.”

You grinned at him, saluting him as you grabbed a pair of bags from him and placed it on the boat. JJ was right next to you, with Pope behind, the three of you working in tandem.

“I promised delivery by this afternoon,” Heyward continued. “Rich folk don’t want to wait for you lazy sons-” Seeing JJ with his arms already outstretched waiting for another bag of groceries and a beaming smile on his face gave Heyward pause. “Oh, JJ, thank you.” As soon as JJ grabbed the groceries he continued. “-sons of bitches.”

He glanced at you. “Excusing you, of course, Y/n. You’re always a delight.”

You beamed at him and JJ gave a scoff. “How come you get all the praise and I get nothing?”

You sniffed, flipping your hair to the side. “‘Cause I’m better.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Are-”

Heyward interrupted the two of you. “Hey, alright enough. No bickering. Get your asses moving and deliver these groceries.”

You all gave the man a salute and entered the cabin part of the boat as Pope started it up. Heyward didn’t trust JJ enough to drive the boat and knew you’d end up going the wrong way with your poor sense of direction, so Pope was in charge of steering the vehicle.

You drove through the river, leaving the Pogue side behind and entering Figure Eight, the Kooks domain. You noted the large houses, clean and tidy, and the smooth way they all seemed to be running with enough electricity and clear running water to their heart's content.

“Doesn’t even look like the storm hit there,” Pope exclaimed in indignation. No doubt he was thinking about your own houses, all of them damaged in some way and not yet fixed.

JJ twirled a pocket knife in his hands. “That’s because they got generators, bro. Get used to it.”

You scowled, shaking your head. “And then they say the juice will be out all summer at the cut.”

Pope shook his head, jaw clenched. “Nice to be a Kook.”

You nodded your head in agreement as JJ said, “lucky bastards.”

“One day I’m gonna become a Kook,” you said. “Dunno how yet, but I’m gonna go full Kook, with a pool, mansion, Ferrari SF90 Spider.”

JJ and Pope both groaned as you mentioned your favourite car, again. Sometimes they found you just never shut up about it, going on about the horsepower, the V8 engine, the fact it was the very pinnacle of Ferrari technology, with the thrill and versatility of open top driving.

“Time for you to stop talking,” JJ said, commandeering the conversation. You didn’t mind, content to listen to him for the rest of the way to Figure Eight, where you docked the boat and divvied out the grocery bags between you.

You and Pope were gonna go together, with JJ taking the rest and heading in the other direction. You bid each other quick goodbyes and hurried with Pope, walking around the unfamiliar streets. Everything looked so much nicer here, from the pavement to the shops lining the streets, everything inside looking like it cost more than a week's worth of your pay.

You took a shortcut, walking through the golf course instead of around it. The employees let you through without a second glance. It was surprising what you could get away with as a Pogue working in Figure Eight. The two of you walked on the side of the golf course, talking under your breaths as you looked around cautiously.

“I’m also going to golf here every week,” you stated, watching a particularly fit woman swing a golf club, her muscles flexing with exertion.

You could almost imagine it being you, the golf club, hat, skirt, everything. If you really thought about it, the girl almost looked like you, similar hair colour and figure.

Pope laughed. “You hate golfing.”

You shrugged, swinging the bags in your hands slightly as you walked. “Yeah, but it's what Kooks do isn’t it?”

“What is your obsession with being a Kook?” Pope asked. “I get being rich, everyone wants it, but you seem almost obsessed with it.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself when movement caught your eye. You involuntarily recoiled when you recognised Topper and Rafe heading towards you. Pope noticed too, muttering swear words under his breath and advising you to just walk past and ignore them.

“Hey what’s up guys?” Rafe asked, putting up an innocent facade. He used his golf club to stop your walking, pressing it to the box of beers in Pope’s hand. “Hey how much for one of those beers?”

Pope turned to the side, trying to push past. “They’re not for sale.”

Rafe made a tutting sound. “Wait, wait, wait.” He stopped Pope as he tried to pass, forcing the two of you to stay there. Topper was standing directly in front of you, creating a barrier of sorts across the pathway. “You can just give us one, then, right?”

You wanted to snap at him. Wanted to ridicule him, ask him if he knew what not for sale meant. You were scared though, and you knew it wouldn’t help you or Pope standing up to him like that.

“Or you can order one like everybody else,” Pope replied, again trying to push past.

Rafe was rougher this time, ignoring Pope’s struggles and shoving him back. The coil of fear in your gut tightened. “Listen. Wait, wait, wait, you’re not listening to me. Um…” he gestured with his hands. “You’ve got so many bro, and we’ve got nothing.”

“Got nothing man,” Topper chimed in.

You scowled. “They’re not ours, they’re already paid for.”

Rafe looked at you, surprised you spoke, and then all of his attention was on you. You regretted even speaking, because his attention was like a guillotine, one wrong movement and the blade would fall.

“Oh, already paid for?” Rafe asked. “Knowing you Pogues, you probably stole them, right?”

Before you could stop him he was in front of you, his golf club snagging at the plastic bags in your hands as he pulled. Everything fell to the floor, and you heard the distinct sound of glass shattering.

“What the hell Rafe?!” You cried. “You owe us for that!”

He laughed, getting all up in your space. “Oh I owe you do I? I don’t owe you shit, Sweetheart.” He grabbed your chin, his fingers forcefully curling around your skin.

“Hey, get off her!” Pope yelled, grabbing Rafe’s shirt and yanking him back. You were grateful for the space, rubbing your jaw as the fear weighed you down, down, down.

Rafe spun around, “don’t fucking touch me you Pogue.”

“Come on man,” Topper said from his other side. They had him surrounded. “We just want a beer.” He made a lunge for it. “Just give us one of these.”

Topper and Pope were full on wrestling with the box now, and the fear was in your throat, especially when Rafe joined in, tripping Pope up and making him fall to the floor with a slam, rolling over a few times.

You gasped, going to him, but Rafe got there first. He had a bruise on his head, looking red and scratched. He scrambled upright, a hatred kindling in his eyes as he threw a punch. Rafe was ready though, avoiding it easily and using his golf club to slam into your friend's stomach. When he was bent over Rafe slammed it down again, Pope crumpling to the floor.

You couldn’t watch it anymore. As he raised his club again you moved forward, shoving him to the side. You only managed to move him because he wasn’t expecting it, and even Topper looked surprised, doing nothing to stop you because really, how much damage can a girl do?

You planted yourself in front of Pope, and when Rafe, laughing in disbelief, walked up to you, you were ready. You swung your fist but it was in poor form, Rafe catching your wrist mid-movement. His grip was tight enough to make you wince.

“Getting involved?” Rafe asked you, moving forward until you were chest to chest. “That’s cute.” His voice was low and mocking. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

You yanked your arm back. That was the second time he’d grabbed you and your skin felt dirty, his fingerprints crawling all over you. Rafe just seemed amused, a cruel delight in his eyes. There was no fear in his expression and why would there be? He was a Kook. He had his friend right behind him ready to defend him if needed. His real competitor was still on the floor, pain immobilising him. No, there was no fear in his expression, only a sick satisfaction of knowing exactly how much control he had over this situation.

Pope gave a groan, attempting to pull himself upright but Rafe didn’t even glance at him. His focus was zeroed on you, the intensity of his gaze making your stomach churn. “What’s it like, being a Pogue? Being powerless?”

You opened your mouth to snap at him, to say something humiliating and knock his ego down a few inches, anything to stand up against him. Rafe seemed to know you too well though, grabbing your jaw in a bruising grip, his fingers cold and rough. More threat than affection. “You’d be better off with me, y’know that?”

It wasn’t a flirtation he spoke to you – it was a threat. You could hear the danger in every word, the treacherous promise that he’d never leave you alone, that this sick game of his would only end on his terms. You could see the lines between desire and control blurring, and nauseatingly realised that Rafe’s affection for you might be even more dangerous than his fists.

You tried to jerk away, revolution surfacing inside you but Rafe only tightened his grip. “Nah, don’t do that,” he warned almost lazily. “Don’t make me hurt you too.”

You wanted to cry. You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes, threatening to fall. You’d hate to give him the satisfaction of seeing them roll down your face. All of this was a game to him, a test to see how much fear he could wring out of you. The worst part was you knew he would do it, just because he could.

Your gaze darted to Pope, your friend just managing to sit upright. Topper was standing to the side, an uneasy expression on his face. You didn’t want Rafe to escalate things any further, because you knew he would, just to prove a point. He noticed your line of sight and forcibly pulled you closer to him so he could whisper in your ear.

“You’re lucky I like you,” his breath was hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. An edge of cruelty laced his tone, as did delight, the same one a kid would get from playing with their toys, which was what you were to Rafe. “Otherwise you’d be right there next to him.”

Before you could answer he shoved you back, hard enough to make you stumble. A sickeningly smug smirk was on his face as he picked up two cans of beer off the ground, chucking one to Topper.

“Catch you later Sweetheart,” he called to you, going as far as sending you a wink, acting like everything had just been harmless fun, which you guessed it was to him.

You watched him saunter away, leaving a mess in his wake that he seemed to do everywhere. Except this time it was worse, because with a sickening dread you realised the next thing he’d leave a mess would be you.

And you suddenly had an answer to Pope’s earlier question. Why did you want to be a Kook so badly? It was simple, really. This whole interaction had just reinforced the feeling that you were too vulnerable, too weak. And the answer appeared from the ashes of Rafe’s destruction, a truth you guarded with your heart.

You didn’t want to be powerless.

#rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #toxic rafe cameron #fanfiction #fanfic #outer banks fanfiction #rafe cameron outer banks #outer banks x reader #rafe outer banks #outer banks fic #outerbanks #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfiction #pope heyward #jj maybank #pogues x reader

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shybluebirdninja · 4 months ago

Text

Snikt Happens

Summary: During a romantic evening, Logan accidentally shreds the condom mid-make-out.

Pairing : Logan Howlett x Wife!Human-reader

Note : Fluff, suggestive themes

The evening had been perfect. Logan had gone all out — dinner, candles, the works. Which, for someone like Logan, meant a little whiskey, a perfectly cooked steak, and a slightly suspicious grin on his rugged face. You knew exactly where the night was heading, and you were more than ready.

Things started off slow, as they always did with him, all soft grumbles and the occasional rough kiss. Logan was intense, like usual, and you loved that. He had you pressed against him, his lips moving from your neck down your collarbone, when suddenly—

Snikt.

You both froze. His claws. His damn claws had popped out.

Logan groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Shit.”

You couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing, your chest shaking with amusement. “Seriously? You shredded it?” you asked between laughs, half wondering if this could possibly be real.

Logan lifted his head, glaring at the ruined condom in his hand. The thing was in tatters, like it had been through a paper shredder. He looked about as grumpy as a guy could get.

“Dammit, babe, I didn’t even feel it happen. One second I’m fine, and the next—” He gestured at his hand, claws still out. “There goes our fuckin’ evening.”

You snorted, still laughing way too hard for the situation. “You mean our evening just got more interesting.” You shot him a mischievous grin. “C’mon, let’s find a backup. No way that was the only one.”

Logan sighed, retracting his claws with a snikt and rolling his eyes. “Babe, I’m too damn old to be running around a cabin lookin’ for backup condoms. Ain’t there better ways to spend the night?”

He made a half-hearted attempt to pull you back in, his hands sliding around your waist, but you were already slipping off the bed, grabbing a robe. “Too old, huh? Well, considering we need one of those—”

Logan cut you off, his voice dropping low and gruff, “We don’t need anything, darlin’. I’ll be careful, promise.” There was that infamous smirk of his, but you weren’t buying it.

“Yeah, no,” you shot back, already heading for the dresser. “You’re not pulling that ‘I’ll be careful’ crap tonight. Get up and help me find another one before we’re both too annoyed for this.”

Logan groaned again, but this time, he dragged himself off the bed, muttering under his breath. “Bet ya never see Cap dealing with this shit.” His voice was a low grumble as he started digging through the drawer on his side of the bed. “Where the hell did I put the damn things…”

You giggled, sifting through random stuff in his cabin’s nightstand. Some old cigars, a pocket knife, a small bottle of whiskey—typical Logan. But no condoms.

“I swear to God,” he mumbled from the other side, “if I can’t find another one, we’re gonna have a talk about alternatives.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alternatives?”

He stood up straight, crossing his arms, the definition of grumpy but sexy as hell. “Yeah, babe. I’m sayin’ I can pull out. Or, ya know…” He gestured vaguely toward your chest. “Finish elsewhere. Ain’t the end of the world.”

You burst out laughing again, trying to catch your breath. “Logan, you really think that’s gonna fly right now?”

Logan huffed, clearly unimpressed with your reaction, though his lips twitched into a half-smile. “Just sayin’. Seems a lot simpler than scroungin’ around like idiots.”

You shook your head, still chuckling. “Uh-huh. Just keep looking, tough guy.”

About ten minutes later, Logan was rooting through his closet, now thoroughly pissed off and frustrated. You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life watching him try to stay calm.

“Found one!” he suddenly called, holding up a small foil packet triumphantly. You turned, half expecting it to be another regular condom, but when you got closer, you noticed the packaging.

Glow-in-the-dark. Mint-flavored.

You blinked, staring at the condom in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Logan’s face turned red — an actual blush creeping up his neck. “I, uh… forgot I had these.”

You doubled over laughing. “Mint-flavored? Glow-in-the-dark? What were you planning with these?”

“Hey, I don’t ask you about your weird shit,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it was a gag gift from Jubilee, alright? Can we not make this a thing?”

You snatched the condom from his hand, waving it in front of him. “This is absolutely a thing now. There’s no way we’re not using this.”

Logan groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Goddamn it.”

“Come on, Logan,” you teased, slipping back toward the bed with the packet in hand. “You’ve been through worse. This? This is nothing.”

He grumbled but followed, eyes narrowed. “For the record, this is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” you agreed, tearing open the packet with a wicked grin. “But also way too good to pass up.”

Logan shook his head, crawling back onto the bed beside you. “I’m too old for this shit.”

You smirked, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Maybe. But you sure seem to be enjoying it.”

His lips twitched, and despite the grumbling, Logan finally cracked a smile. “Yeah, well. You make it hard not to.”

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musubi05 · 2 months ago

Text

╰┈➤ I'm Sorry

Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Summary: A hunt went wrong because you made a mistake and someone accidentally got hurt. You're 14-15.

Warnings:Yelling, mentions of blood, angsty

"Stay in the car, Y/N," Dean instructed when you opened the door to get out of the car.

"What? Why? I can help," you didn't understand why Dean and Sam kept distancing you from this hunt. At the bunker, they said they had a case but didn't show you the article or even tell you where it was at. You had to practically beg your brothers to let you go too. Being at the bunker alone was boring and the place was too big to not be lonely in there.

"No, not this one. Just stay. We'll be back." Dean walked off with a gun in his hand towards Sam, who was at the entrance of the old barn. You couldn't even get another word in before they disappeared from your line of sight.

For the next 10 minutes, you wouldn't sit still. Something was bothering you about this hunt. Maybe it was because your brothers wouldn't tell you what's going on. You expected as much from Dean but Sam not telling you anything? That set off the alarm inside your head.

You were stretched out in the front seat of the impala when gun shots echoed through your ears. You immediately sat up, looking over at the door of the barn. You counted the seconds that went by and when you hit the 120 mark, you got out of the car.

You sped walk over to the trunk of the impala and grabbed anything that would fit in your pockets or waist band. You had no idea what was in there. No plan. But they haven't come out yet so you had no choice. You put a silver knife in your hoodie pocket, a gun in your waist band and you held a demon knife out. After closing the trunk as silently as you can, you entered the barn.

Your nose scrunched up with how awful it smelled in here. This barn had to have been here since the early 1900s cause yikes. You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of voices ahead. You hid behind some stacks of hay to ease drop.

"I swear there were three of you pieces of shit." A guy's voice said in disgust. You peaked your head just a little bit to see his his back but when he turned his head slightly you took in his features. Black eyes, skinny but tall build. Demon. He had blood going down the side of his face and some cuts on his arms.

"Wasn't she younger? I know someone in hell who would love her." Another demon had an ugly laugh when he came from behind two pillars. The pillars that had Sam and Dean tied on the floor defenseless. You ducked back down, not wanting to push your luck, and started thinking of how you were going to do this.

"Shut up!" Deans voice was clearly angry at the demons for talking like that about you. His eyebrows were tightened together and he was pulling at the tough knots the demons put together.

Sam stared at them not saying a word but his mind was running with thoughts. He tried concentrating on the knots behind this wooden pillar but he was hoping that these assholes wouldn't go looking for you outside.

"Shut up? You have a lot of nerve talking to us like that considering you're the one tied up." The one with the ugly laugh smirked.

"When you say it like that it makes me think you're flirting with me." You rolled your eyes at what your brothers remark. Even when there's a chance he might die this kid won't stop with the sarcasm.

The shorter demon swiftly landed a punch on Deans cheek. Dean groaned and spit out some blood on the ground next to him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wood.

"Go check their precious car." The tall one ordered.

"Why-"

"Hurry up and go." He raised his voice which got the other demon out the door to the impala. This was your chance. Don't mess it up.

You got up on your feet and took a deep breath. The moon shined on you as you approached him from the back causing Sam to make eye contact with you. His lips formed a tight line almost like he was telling you not to do it.

The demon caught Sam's gaze and immediately turned around. Your eyes widened and instinctively you stabbed the demon in the stomach before he could put his hands on you. He let out a scream as light shined then slumped to the ground. You pulled the bloody knife back out and hurried over to Dean since he was closest.

Sam let out a sigh of relief across the room while Dean clenched his jaw. "I thought I told you to stay in the car." The stern low tone of his voice took you back in surprise but you shook it off.

"I'm saving your ass right now." You whispered, it was only a matter of time before the other one would come back. You crouched behind Dean and started untying the knots.

Dean scoffed at your words but let you untie him. After a minute you finally got it and were about to head over to Sam until you saw that the demon already had a gun aiming at him.

"Put the knife and gun down!" The demon yelled at both of you. You guys do what he says and crouch down to put the weapons on the floor. You both stand back up, Dean having his hands up but yours stay by your side. This demon didn't know you have a gun. The only problem was aiming and timing it right.

This is going to be very hard since the demon is now holding one arm around his neck while the other had the gun on his temple. Sam's hands were holding back the demons arm so he could still breathe.

"Okay they're down. Let him go," your breath steady as you study this guys movements. Patience is key in times like this.

"Why would I let him go? Just so he could kill me? I don't think so." His hands fidget with the gun slightly like he was amped up on energy drinks.

"Either way I'll kill you." Sam promised in a low voice. The demon scoffed and as he was about say something a truck's headlights shined through the boards on the windows. You could hear the horn of truck as it goes past. You could also see the demon look away and that's when you decided it's time.

You swiftly pulled the gun from your waistband and didn't hesitate shooting the demon before it was too late.

Only one problem.

You weren't as great as Sam or Dean when it comes to shooting pistols fast. It was rifles you were better at. Hence the bullet wound in the demons shoulder instead of face.

The demon stumbled back dropping his arm that was holding the gun and his other arm holding the wound. In a minute, he realized he got shot he pulled the trigger on Sam's guns. The bullet going in his torso right under the bottom ribs.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled for his brother as he ran to catch Sam before he hit the ground.

Your eyes widened at the shot of the other gun. As the demon was trying to run, you shot him. This time square in the head so the light can shine when he dies.

You didn't hesitate when you ran over to Sam who was in Deans arms. He was bleeding bad. His eyes were shut tight groaning from the pressure Dean was putting on the wound.

"Y/N. Go start the car." Dean's voice was rough, angry even and it was directed at you. You didn't argue and ran out the barn to Baby. You opened the drivers door and stuff was thrown around in the back from the demon checking the car.

Once you heard the purr of the engine, you quickly turned to the heat in the car. It was freezing out there and you thought Sam would be more comfortable in the warmth. You climbed out of the drivers seat and went to open the back when you saw Dean carrying Sam out.

You got in first so you wouldn't accidentally hurt Sam when you got in. Sam winced as Dean got him in the car, laying his head on your lap. You felt your stomach tighten up from the guilt.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," you bit your bottom lip trying to hold back the tears. Dean got in the drivers seat and didn't waste a minute to speed off to a hospital.

"Sweetheart, it's not your fault," Sam threw you a weak smile. You brushed your fingers through his hair and continued to put pressure where the blood was coming from. You swore you saw Deans grip on the wheel tighten at Sam's words.

┆彡

The motel room was suffocatingly silent. The only sound was the faint buzz of the flickering light overhead. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling slightly, staring at the blood still clinging to your fingers. Sam’s blood.

Your boots were still caked in mud from the barn you had run across only hours ago. The adrenaline had long since drained from your body, leaving you exhausted and jittery. The only thing you could focus on was the image of Sam collapsing to the ground—the way his eyes had widened in shock, then dulled in pain.

The door slammed open, and Dean stormed inside. His face was pale, tight with fury. His eyes, normally sharp with protectiveness, were wild now, nearly unrecognizable. You could see the dark blood smearing his knuckles—his own or the demon’s, you weren’t sure—but the way he was clenching his fists told you he didn’t care.

“You,” he seethed, his voice low. He pointed at you with a trembling hand, his eyes blazing. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. You could barely breathe.

“Are you out of your damn mind?!” Dean’s voice was louder this time, echoing off the cheap wallpaper. He took a few steps closer and you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him. “You almost got Sam killed!”

“I—I was just trying to help,” you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Help?” he barked, eyes narrowing. “You thought charging in there with no plan was helping?” He was shaking his head, pacing in front of you, too furious to be still. “You ignored my instructions. You didn’t wait in the car. You went in alone, and now Sam is in the hospital because of you!”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away. Your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms. You thought you could take the shot. You thought you could save him. But you missed.

Dean’s voice cracked slightly when he spoke again, quieter this time but no less harsh. “You could’ve lost him.” His green eyes were hard, piercing you with every word. “Do you get that? Sam could be dead right now. Do you even realize what that would’ve done to me? To you?”

Your lip trembled, and your throat tightened painfully. “I—I’m sorry,” you croaked.

Dean’s eyes were glassy now, but the anger didn’t waver. He pointed a trembling finger at you. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. Not when you put his life on the line.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and cold. You flinched but nodded, too ashamed to meet his eyes. You deserved it. Every word. Every ounce of anger.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving with heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw clenched and unclenched, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t trust himself to speak. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

The room was dead silent again.

You stared at the cracked paint on the wall, the echo of his words still lingering in the space. You clenched your fists so tightly your knuckles went white, trying to steady your shaking hands.

The guilt settled deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating. You knew Dean was right. You should have waited a bit longer. You should have been smarter. But you weren’t. And now Sam was paying for it.

You sucked in a shaky breath and wiped the blood from your hands onto your jeans, but no matter how much you scrubbed, the guilt still clung to you. You weren’t sure it ever would come off.

#spn #supernatural #winchester sister #dean x sister!reader #sam winchester x sister!reader #sam x sister!reader #supernatural x reader #supernatural x sister #winchesters x sibling #winchester x sibling #angst #dean winchester x sister!reader #dean x you

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whyyousoloudfor · 5 months ago

Text

TikTok Prank.

Warnings: fluff

Word count: ????

Peaking your head into the kitchen, you see Lewis’ back is turned causing you to smile mischievously. This is perfect for the little prank you have planned for him. It’s a trend on TikTok you’ve seen girls try on their boyfriends and you thought it was hilarious, so why not try it on yours. You step into the kitchen, unlocking your phone camera before propping it up against Lewis’ water bottle that’s study enough for the phone to not tip over. You make sure the camera is angled perfect then press the record button. Lewis’ is so focused chopping up vegetables for dinner and softly singing to the music playing in the background, he barely knows what’s going on behind him. You sneak up to him and snake your arms around him from behind, your cheek pressed again his t-shirt clad back.

“Hi baby.” You say sweetly, tightening your around him, snuggling into him. He slightly jumps, startled by your actions then relaxes in your touch putting down the knife to gently grab one your hands bring it up to his soft lips. “Hi, my sweet girl.” He responds back in the same tone. He places my hand back down and resumes chopping the veggies. You bite down on your lip holding back your laughter for what you’re about to say next. In a serious tone you say, “Honey, we have to talk. I have something to tell you.” You remove arms from around him and wipe your palms down the legs of your jeans before placing them in your back pockets. He drops the knife on the counter again turning around to give you his undivided attention, his facial expression laced with concern. Looking down at your feet, you avoid looking up at him because you know if you look, you will feel bad enough to back out of the plan. Lewis takes a few steps towards you, cupping your face in his hands making you look up at him. His eyes intensely watch you as his thumbs stroke your cheekbones.

“What’s wrong, baby? You pregnant or something? Somebody died?” He pauses for a moment. “If it’s about your leftovers you had in the fridge, it wasn’t me, it was Roscoe!” You both burst out into laughter. “Poor Roscoe, it be your own dad. But no, it’s none of that.” You say, getting back into character. “Then what is it?” He says, removing his hands to grab both of your hands, intertwining y’all fingers.

“I can’t pay the mortgage this month.”

You stare up look at him waiting for his reaction. His eyes are focused to the view behind you through the large glass slide door that leads into the backyard. He stays silent for a few second, his eyes cut back to yours narrowing with his head tilted slightly. “What did you just say?”

“Babe, I can’t pay the mortgage this month. I’m sorry.”

His head jerks back and drops your hands placing a tattooed hand over his heart. He’s offended. “Angel? You? Pay a mortgage? Be so fucking for real.” You try to hold back a giggle, watching him start to pace and forth around the kitchen. You walk up to him grabbing his hand to bring him back into the camera. “Lew, I’m sorry!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around his waist again resting your chin on his chest. “Sweetheart…” he starts. “Do you even know what a mortgage looks like? Do you even know what a damn bill looks like? Don’t embarrass me, baby.” The answer to that is No. You don’t know what any of that shit looks like and you don’t want to. Lewis wouldn’t allow it anyway. He continues his rambling, “I’d rather mop the fucking ocean than let you pay any bill around me, don’t piss me off, Y/F/N.” You reach up to cover his mouth with your hands before he goes any further. You couldn’t help but break character and burst into fits of laughter.

“It’s a prank, baby! Off TikTok.” You say hunched over as you continue to laugh and point at the phone recording on the counter. Lewis looks over at the phone. He brings a hand up to his chest letting out a sigh of relief, pulling you in to him by your waist. He plants several kisses on your forehead then mumbles, “Angel, toktik almost got you knocked out.” You smile, leaning into him as you feel his lips on your skin. The prank was a success.

“I know and it was worth it, your reaction was priceless.”

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave your thoughts, comments and feedback in my inbox. I’ll even take requests.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black reader #sir lewis hamilton #x black fem reader #x black reader #f1 #formula 1 #lewis hamilton x reader #x black oc

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hishumanbelle · 3 months ago

Note

All I want is for Alastor to like the reader 🙏 and for him to blush at the smallest thing or get even goofier! I really can't find things like this, and even when I do, it's so hard

(Alastor's behavior doesn't have to be as I mentioned, just silly)

You didn't think much of it at first. It was just an offhanded compliment, something casual. You were both sitting in the lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, and Alastor had been talking—well, monologuing—about some old radio show he used to love. His voice was full of that usual eerie cheer, smooth and rich with old-timey charisma.

“You have a really nice voice, you know that?” you said absentmindedly, sipping your drink.

The moment the words left your mouth, the room shifted. The ever-present hum of Alastor’s static stuttered, cut out entirely—like a record player yanked off its track. You glanced up to find him staring at you, his grin frozen, his red eyes wide as if you’d just told him the most scandalous secret in all of Hell.

“Oh—” he let out a single, clipped chuckle, then slapped a hand over his mouth so fast you barely registered the movement.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“I—! Oh, HA!” the laugh that followed was too loud, too forced. He practically threw himself into it, tilting his head back dramatically, but you caught it—the twitch of his ears, the way his fingers fumbled against his cane.

And… was he blushing?

Oh.

Oh, this was golden.

“You like being complimented, don’t you?” you teased, leaning in just a bit.

Alastor’s entire body stiffened. “Hah! Preposterous!”, his voice cracked ever so slightly, and his shadow flickered—its edges fraying like it was trying to retreat. “Why, I—oh dear, would you look at the time!” he yanked a pocket watch from nowhere, squinting at it with exaggerated scrutiny. “Yes, yes! Time for me to be—anywhere else!”

He practically teleported across the room, straightening his tie with far too much focus. But even from there, you could still see the red dusting his cheeks.

“You’re flustered.”

“HA! I do not get flustered!” his grin was too wide now, his hands too twitchy. The air itself crackled with restless energy, like a radio struggling to tune in.

You smirked. “So if I said I liked your smile too…?”

Pop.

His shadow completely short-circuited—tendrils recoiling, curling in on themselves like dying antennae. His ears flicked violently, and for a split second, his entire face went redder than his eyes.

Then—

BAM!—he hit the floor.

Just collapsed, legs giving out as he wheezed through gritted teeth.

You stared. “…Alastor?”

“…Damn it.” His voice was barely above a whisper, forehead pressed against the carpet as his shadow flailed helplessly around him.

You had never, ever seen him look so defeated.

And you were absolutely going to use this against him.

You had expected Alastor to recover quickly. After all, he was a smooth talker, always on top of things, never truly caught off guard.

But no.

It had been days since you had called his voice nice, and he was still acting weird about it.

For example, right now: you were in the kitchen, just trying to make yourself something to eat, when Alastor appeared out of nowhere, as he often did.

“Ah, darling, you must let me handle that! A delicate thing like yourself shouldn’t trouble those lovely hands with such menial labor!” he reached for the knife you were using to cut vegetables, practically tripping over himself in the process.

You pulled it away. “Alastor, I am literally just making a sandwich.”

“Ah-ah-ah! That’s where the trouble starts! First, it’s a sandwich—then suddenly, you’re engaging in the culinary arts, and before you know it, you’re—you're—!” he hesitated, waving his hands wildly like the very thought was too much to handle. “Burning down the whole hotel!”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

“No, no, not at all! I simply wouldn’t dream of letting you lift a finger when I could do it for you!” his grin twitched—too wide, too forced. “Why, I—ah—!”

You placed a hand on his wrist.

Just lightly. Just to push him away so you could finish your damn sandwich.

And that was all it took.

Alastor froze. Completely. His grin went rigid, his pupils shrinking, his whole body locking up like someone had yanked his power cord straight out of the wall.

You blinked. “Uh. Alastor?”

Silence.

Then—

Bzzt.

A short burst of static popped in the air. The room dimmed. The radio in the corner hissed. And then—

“Oh, DEAR—”

Alastor all but flung himself backwards, twisting his body so abruptly that he nearly knocked over an entire chair. His shadow—his ever-present, eerie, independent shadow—actually fled the room without him, slithering away like it wanted nothing to do with this.

You stared. “Did you just—?”

“I REMEMBER I HAVE SOMEWHERE TO BE!” he bellowed, voice cracking as he smacked his cane against the floor. “SOMETHING! VERY! IMPORTANT!”

“Uh-huh.” You crossed your arms, watching him scramble. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE OKAY IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!” his ears twitched violently, and then, before you could say anything else, he vanished. Just—gone. Poof.

Silence fell over the kitchen.

You sighed, shaking your head, before taking a bite of your sandwich.

Yeah. You were definitely going to have fun with this.

You had already established that Alastor did not handle affection well. Or rather, he handled it about as well as a radio with a frayed wire—lots of static, sparks, and the occasional dramatic system failure.

Which is exactly why you decided to push it.

Just a little.

For science.

So here you were, leaning against the lobby counter, watching Alastor chatter away to Charlie about something. You weren’t really listening—not because it wasn’t interesting, but because you were too busy planning your next move.

You had complimented him. You had touched him.

But you had never done both at the same time.

Until now.

“Alastor,” you interrupted smoothly, stepping closer.

His attention snapped to you immediately, and oh—perfect. His ears were already twitching, his grip tightening ever so slightly around his cane.

“Yes?” his grin was steady, but his voice—just the faintest bit strained.

You hummed, pretending to consider something. Then, before he could say anything else, you reached up and placed your hand gently against his cheek.

The effect was instantaneous.

His entire body locked up, his spine going ramrod straight like a puppet whose strings had just been yanked. The moment your fingers made contact, a deep buzzing filled the air—his own radio frequencies betraying him as static crackled wildly around you both.

You leaned in slightly, looking up at him with the sweetest smile you could manage.

“You really are quite handsome, you know,” you mused.

BZZZZT.

Oh.

Oh, that one might have fried him completely.

Alastor stopped breathing. His eyes—normally sharp, always brimming with mischief—went completely blank. The static around him peaked, the air distorting like an overloading signal. His hand twitched at his side, and then—

“Oh NO.”

That was all he managed before his legs gave out entirely, sending him CRASHING to the floor with a dramatic thud.

Charlie screamed. “OH MY DAD, DID YOU KILL HIM?!”

“I—” You blinked, looking down at him.

He was flat on his back, completely sprawled out, one hand clutching his chest like you had just sniped him straight through the heart. His ears were flicking wildly, his shadow writhing on the walls like it was experiencing second-hand embarrassment.

Then, finally—his mouth opened, and he let out the most broken, wheezing laugh.

“HAHA! Ohhh, dear me—” his voice was weak, pathetic, like a dying radio host gasping out his final words. “I—I’ve been bested! What a cruel, cruel fate!”

Charlie looked horrified. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!”

You shrugged. “I just called him handsome.”

Charlie gaped at you, then down at Alastor—who was still collapsed like some kind of tragic Victorian widow, his fingers trembling against his chest.

“Ohhh, the humanity,” he crooned, his face still red as hell. “The sheer, unbearable agony of it all!”

You crouched down beside him, resting your chin in your hand. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, am I?” he cracked one eye open, still refusing to move from his self-imposed exile on the floor. “Tell me, darling, how am I meant to react when you so brazenly deliver a fatal blow to my very existence?”

“… You just fell over.”

“I was struck down by love’s cruel hand!”

Charlie groaned, running a hand down her face. “I can’t deal with this.” She turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

You, however, stayed put, watching as Alastor’s ears twitched violently the longer you stared at him.

Slowly, carefully, you leaned in just a bit more.

“You really are handsome, though,” you murmured, just for good measure.

Alastor made a garbled noise—like an old radio short-circuiting—before disappearing entirely, his static bursting into the air like a dying transmission.

… Gone.

You sat back with a smug little smile.

Yeah. This was way too much fun.

\\ I thought about this too last night. //

Alastor prided himself on his composure. He had faced eldritch horrors, orchestrated the demise of powerful demons, and smiled through it all like a well-rehearsed showman. Nothing rattled him. Nothing made his grin falter.

Until you.

You, with your impossible ability to throw him off balance. You, with your warm laughter that sent an unfamiliar sensation crawling up his spine. You, who were currently standing too close—far too close—as you adjusted his tie with the gentlest touch imaginable.

“Honestly, Alastor, how do you manage to mess this up?” you teased, tugging lightly at the knot.

“I—I most certainly did not mess it up!” he protested, his voice a notch higher than usual. “It was a stylistic choice! A statement of chaotic fashion!”

You raised an eyebrow. “So having it completely lopsided was intentional?”

Alastor’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. A rare silence followed.

Oh.

Oh, this was terrible. He never lost his words. But as you straightened his tie, your fingers grazing his collarbone, something warm and foreign spread across his face. He felt it in his ears first, then his cheeks.

Heat.

Oh, for the love of the airwaves—was he blushing?

His hands twitched, unsure what to do with themselves, so he awkwardly clasped them behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. He had to regain control of the situation.

With a dramatic wave of his hand, he burst into song.

“♪ My tie was fine, but you made it divine, and now I—oh dear, my dear, I think I might die! ♪”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “Alastor, what was that?”

“A completely normal reaction!” he declared, twirling away from you. But as he turned, his foot caught on the edge of a rug.

There was a pause. A moment of realization.

And then—

THUMP.

Alastor, the terrifying Radio Demon, master of manipulation and chaos, was now sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled, staring at the ceiling in stunned disbelief.

You gasped before bursting into uncontrollable laughter. “Oh my Lord, are you okay?!”

Alastor shot up immediately, hands adjusting his coat as if nothing had happened. “Of course I’m okay! That was—uh—an illusion! A grand trick to keep you entertained!”

You crossed your arms, still giggling. “You tripped.”

“I did not trip!” he pointed a finger at you, his face still flushed. “You—You’re imagining things! You must have been dazzled by my impeccable charm and lost track of reality!”

You smirked. “So you’re saying I make you lose control?”

Alastor’s mouth opened again—before he immediately clamped it shut, red creeping up his face once more. His ears twitched violently as he let out a short, nervous chuckle.

“Oh, would you look at that!” he blurted, gesturing wildly to nowhere in particular. “The weather today! Isn’t it just swell?!”

You stepped closer, peering at him. “Alastor. You’re flustered.”

“I most certainly am not!”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m just radiating warmth!”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Adorable.”

Alastor choked. Actually choked.

Then, with an over-the-top, dramatic twirl, he practically phased through the nearest wall, his voice trailing behind him.

“I HAVE A VERY IMPORTANT RADIO BROADCAST TO ATTEND TO, GOODBYE FOREVER—”

You covered your mouth, shaking with laughter. Oh, you were never letting him live this down.

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semisasseater · 2 months ago

Text

SAY MY NAME

darling.

SUMMARY ‘A week after your kidnapping, Heeseung grows more obsessive— and promising a future you can’t escape.

𓊆 黑星 𓊇 x gn!reader 㞫⠀⠀ ִ ⠀ 725 obsession stalking kidnapping murder forced captivity threats emotional manipulation violence yandere themes — 类型 dark romance psychological thriller horror yandere

✴︎ LIBRARY ✴︎ part 1 part 3

‧˚⠀⠀ 🤍⠀⠀ ɞ 作者注 : i’m gonna probably make this a series its basically based off yandere simulator

One Week Later.

The basement was cold. The stone walls swallowed all the light, leaving only the dim bulb above your head, flickering slightly like it could go out any second. Time felt meaningless here. You only knew the days passed because he told you.

Every morning before school, every night after he came home, Heeseung would come down and sit with you. He’d talk for hours—about his day, about you, about your future together. He took the rope off your mouth after a few days, convinced you wouldn’t scream.

You didn’t. What was the point? No one would hear you down here.

Sometimes you spoke back, sometimes you didn’t. Some days, you lashed out, snapping at him, glaring. Other days, you just sat in silence, too tired to fight. None of it mattered—Heeseung didn’t care. He liked all of your reactions.

Even when you insulted him, he’d just laugh.

—

Friday.

You heard the front door open. Then footsteps.

Then the familiar sound of the bookshelf in the living room being pushed aside. The hidden basement door creaked open, and Heeseung’s excited footsteps ran down the stairs.

“darling i’m home!!”

You lifted your head at the sound of his voice, quickly putting on a slight smile. It was easier that way. If he thought you were being difficult, he’d start asking questions, probing, getting closer.

He grinned, holding something behind his back. “guess what i got?”

You tilted your head, eyeing the object in his hand. “is that a.. cassette tape?”

His face lit up. “it is!! my mother used to do this she would leave tapes here and i’d listen to it and it would be my mom having conversations with my dad!! she said that she’ll save these tapes for me and i’ll do it the same way she did!”

You blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. Your wrists ached from the rope. “oh… so is it on?”

“yup! it’s been on since i came down here!”

You nodded slowly.

Then his voice softened, a strange excitement in his tone. “you never said my name before darling”

Your mouth felt dry. “well i—”

“say my name.”

You hesitated. “but—”

Shk.

The sound of metal flicking open made your breath hitch. You barely had time to react before Heeseung pressed a pocket knife under your chin, the blade cool against your skin.

“say. my. name.”

Your heart pounded. “heeseung! lee heeseung!”

The moment your voice rang out, his eyes widened. A soft, shaky moan left his lips, his body trembling in pleasure. His grin stretched wide, eyes gleaming.

“this is so exciting! i can’t wait to have a date our first meal together our first kiss our first..”

He trailed off, chuckling to himself.

You felt sick.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the knife disappeared. Heeseung leaned back, rocking on his heels. “i’ll consider letting you out soon”

Your stomach twisted.

He turned to leave, giggling as he ran up the stairs. “i’ll make your favorite for dinner!!”

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked into place.

You sat there, wrists aching, throat dry, mind racing.

gosh what were you gonna do.

@semisasseater

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yvesssssssss · 7 days ago

Note

Hii my first time making a request but how about the sakamoto characters meeting their S/O on a blind date! Maybe like nagumos date was set up by shin and lu. Uzukis was set up by gaku and Kumanomi etc. Thanks love your work <3

Blind dates

Nagumo yoichi

Set up by: lu & shin

"You owe me,” Shin says, practically shoving Nagumo into the Hello Kitty-themed café. “She agreed to this on the condition that you wear something not stabby.”

“I left my knives in my socks,” Nagumo says innocently, pushing the door open. “You happy?”

Lu peeks around Shin with a wink. “Be charming. She’s sweet and maybe slightly unhinged. You’ll love her.”

Nagumo steps into the bubblegum-pink café, glancing around with an amused smirk. He spots you at a window table, twirling a straw in a cotton candy frappe. You’re dressed in layers of pastels and lace, but there’s a glint in your eyes that’s all chaos.

“You’re late,” you say without looking up, clearly aware of your power.

“You’re cute,” he replies, slipping into the seat across from you. “Which makes up for your attitude.”

“Was told you’d try flirting before saying hello. Points for consistency.”

Nagumo leans in, chin in his hand. “Do you always come to blind dates armed with sass?”

You sip your drink slowly. “Only when I suspect the guy’s secretly carrying ten weapons.”

“Eleven,” he corrects, grinning. “You caught me on a light day.”

The conversation flows. You tease him for ordering strawberry pancakes with extra syrup. He teases you for bringing a Sanrio plush as moral support. Somewhere between sharing bites of cake and debating which characters would win in a fight, the tension turns comfortable.

“So,” he says, eyeing you. “Would you stab someone with me or for me?”

You grin. “Depends. Do they talk during movies?”

He lets out a full laugh, throwing his head back. “Shin and Lu were right.”

“About what?”

“That you might just be dangerous enough to be my type.”

Later, he walks you home, hands in his pockets, listening to you talk about the time you broke into a museum by accident.

He doesn’t ask for your number.

He hands you his knife and says, “Bring this back on our second date. If you don’t, I’ll find you anyway.”

You grin. “Can’t wait.”

Uzuki kei

Set up by: kumanomi & gaku

“You’re sulking,” Gaku announces, arms folded.

“I’m reading,” Uzuki corrects, not looking up from his book.

“You’re rotting,” Kumanomi says flatly. “Go meet someone who doesn’t smell like weapon oil.”

They set him up at a minimalist tea shop. He arrives precisely on time, silent, dressed in black, hair slightly messy in that purposeful way.

You’re already there, thumbing through a worn poetry book. He freezes for a second.

“That’s mine,” he says.

You glance up. “Used bookstore in the 6th district. Margins full of haunted scribbles. Thought you might want it back.”

He sits slowly, eyes scanning the pages. His notes—chaotic, sharp—stare back at him. You flip to a marked page.

“You wrote, ‘I wonder if monsters write love letters in blood or bone.’ Romantic.”

His throat tightens. “Why agree to this?”

“Because Gaku said you might be interesting if someone didn’t immediately try to kill you.”

Uzuki blinks.

“And because I like people who bleed in metaphors.”

He’s not used to being read like a novel, and he hates how that softens him. But you don’t try to make him talk. You sip your tea and let the silence breathe.

Then you say, “You read fast. But do you remember the things that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

By the time you part ways, he’s written your name on the back page of that book.

Not in blood. Just ink. But it’s the same thing for him.

Shin asakura

Set up by: Lu

“You’re spiraling,” Lu tells him as he adjusts his blazer for the tenth time.

“I’m fine,” Shin lies. “Do I look fine? I feel like I’m vibrating. Did she see the yearbook picture?”

“She laughed at it. She thinks you’re ‘charmingly awkward.’”

“I’m going to combust.”

At the retro diner, you’re already sipping a soda float, smiling when you see him.

“Hi, Shin! I’ve been looking forward to this.”

He forgets how to breathe. “Hi—I mean, yes! Me too! I mean—I wasn’t—uh—Lu told me not to—” He stops. “I like your—drink.”

You blink. Then smile. “You’re adorable.”

Shin blinks. She thinks I’m adorable. This is not a drill.

You start chatting about anime, books, and the psychic cat show you both love. Shin warms up slowly, especially when you make him laugh so hard soda shoots out his nose.

“You’re not nervous anymore,” you note.

“I am. I’m just having more fun than I expected.”

“Good. I like people who get overwhelmed and try anyway.”

He walks you home, hovering awkwardly.

You say, “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” he says. “Uh—can we—do this again?”

You kiss his cheek and grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He walks home glowing like a human lightbulb.

Natsuki seba

Set up by: Mafuyu & Toramaru

“You’re not backing out.”

“I didn’t agree in the first place,” Natsuki hisses, pulling his apron off after a long shift at the JCC café. “I have things to do.”

“Like what?” Mafuyu leans dramatically on the counter. “Reorganize the spice shelf alphabetically again? That girl actually likes you.”

Toramaru grins. “She thinks you’re ‘mysterious and good with your hands.’ Don’t waste this.”

Natsuki flushes instantly. “Wh—how does she even know that?!”

Mafuyu smirks. “Maybe because you fix the coffee machines like a scientist. Or because you look like you're always five seconds from either kissing someone or dying of embarrassment.”

“Kill me now.”

“Go. Shower. I already told her you’d meet her at that pastry café near the park.”

Later…

Natsuki arrives early. Too early. He’s sitting in a corner booth of the pastel-colored café, nervously fidgeting with the menu, wondering if he should escape through the window.

Then you walk in—looking around, a little nervous, scanning the crowd—until your eyes land on him. You smile.

“Hi. You’re Natsuki, right?”

He stands up too fast and almost knocks the water over. “Y-Yeah. Uh. Hi. I—uh—”

You slide into the seat across from him, setting your bag down gently. “They weren’t wrong. You really are cute when you panic.”

He chokes on his breath. “Wh—You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”

You laugh, and it’s warm—not mocking. Comforting. “Sorry. I just figured we should get the flustering out of the way early.”

“I’m not flustered,” he mutters, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

“You’re holding the menu upside down.”

He looks down and swears softly under his breath.

You order tea and a lavender cupcake, and he orders something safe: black coffee and a slice of butter cake. You talk about the café, about weird customers, about how Mafuyu keeps inserting himself into conversations that aren’t his.

“So… why’d you agree to this?” he finally asks, eyes lowered, spoon tapping his cup gently.

You shrug. “Mafuyu said you’re thoughtful and really bad at taking compliments. He’s right.”

His ears turn pink. “He told you that?”

“And Toramaru said you bake apology pastries when you’re stressed.”

“…Also true.”

You pull a small napkin from your bag. On it is a poorly drawn doodle of a cupcake with a smiley face and the words, “Let’s go on another date?”

He stares. “You had that prepared?”

“Just in case.” You smile. “Well?”

Natsuki gently takes the napkin, folds it, and tucks it in his pocket.

“I… I’ll bake something better than that cupcake next time. Just for you.”

You grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

From across the street, Mafuyu takes a photo of the moment, zooming in on Natsuki’s pink ears.

“Can’t wait to blow this up for blackmail purposes.”

Toramaru snorts. “We’re good matchmakers.”

#sakadays #sakamoto days #sakamoto days x reader #nagumo yoichi #nagumo x reader #nagumo yoichi x reader #sakamoto days nagumo #shin asakura #natsuki seba #sakamoto days shin #sakamoto days uzuki #uzuki kei #kei uzuki #uzuki kei x reader #uzuki

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catcze · 2 years ago

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Spoilers for Wriothesley's backstory !! References to leaks of his backstory !!

When Wriothesley was younger and homeless on the streets of Fontaine, an orphan who ran from his foster home to fend for himself, there was no one for him to rely on. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and putting your trust in the wrong person could result in lying facedown in a ditch, just another casualty of the city.

Wriothesley was prepared to fight for himself for the rest of his life. Was prepared to sleep with one eye open, and ready to get stabbed in the back at any second. Everyone around him wouldn't cast him a second glance and wouldn't offer him a shred of help.

No one, maybe, except for you.

You were around his age— that much was evident from the first day he met you, when you found him crouched in an alleyway half-starved and soaked through by the rain. You were kind, if the umbrella you covered his head with was any indication. You had gotten soaked yourself, but you still smiled at him and told him to keep it, that he needed it more.

And lastly: you were born into good, good money. He found that out the next day when you bought him a packaged meal of warm meats and bread. Although he was hesitant to accept your kindness, cautious of what price you would attach to such a thing, the grumbling of his stomach won out and he finished the whole meal in less than five minutes. It was one of the best things he had ever tasted.

You said nothing as you sat beside him, uncaring of how the dirt of the sidewalk stained your clothes. When he was finished, you offered him a bottle of water. As he chugged it down, you gave him your first name, and when he hesitated to tell you his, you smiled and shook your head.

"It's fine, you don't have to tell me," you told him with a slight smile. And that was that.

From then on, you find him every few days at the same spot. He doesn't talk much, you discover, but he's always willing to listen to you talk. Anything under the sun— your lessons, your absent parents, the droves of socialites who try to butter you up with hollow words and false admiration— you can ramble about it for hours and hours and he'll sit beside you, interjecting on occasion, but generally letting you take the lead in conversation.

Once, you brought him a canister filled with tea, and watched as his eyes lit up at his first taste.

"This is some really good stuff," he told you, awe in his voice, already going for a second sip. You smile, seeing him so pleased.

"I'll bring you more next time. I'll try to make a different brew, too, to see if you'd like that even more."

When he gets scuffed from street fights, you're there to patch him up. Clumsily at first, with a furrowed brow and tangled strips of bandages, but you get better and better at it over time. He doesn't reject the help, and you don't scold him for getting hurt. It is times like these where your hands —only calloused by the grip of a pen and nothing more, unlike his that are so scarred and rough— make you both remember how different your worlds are.

One day, you go to the place you two had been meeting for nearly a year now, and it's empty. That's not particularly unusual— it's happened once or twice before where your friend couldn't make it, so it's no cause for concern. You merely leave the food and water in a little nook he had shown you before, and make your way home, hoping that he's alright and not too banged up.

When you get home, the maids and the butler all tell you of a recent incident that happened not too far away in the city— of an assault and a mangled body, of the perpetrator on death's door himself, barely rushed to the hospital in time. While you have dinner alone, they urge you to exercise caution if you go out tomorrow.

So you take heed of their words, bringing a new platter of food and hide small knife in your pocket as you head back to the same place yesterday. The food and water from before is still there, hidden in the little nook only the two of you know of.

Anxiety grips you, but you try to shake it off. You return the next day. And the next. And the next. Each day, the food you leave remains untouched every time.

You fear the worst after a week is up— you fear for his safety, for his health. You fear for the only genuine friend you had ever made, who had seen you as more than just your parents' only child. You don't leave your room for a week, poring over the newspaper and anything else you can get your hands on. The househelp thinks you're ill— and you are. You're sick with worry, sick with the late nights spent up as you stretch yourself thin trying to find something, anything about him. But when your parents learn of your seclusion, you're forced to give up your search. In the end, you're the only one left to remember the nameless boy with the soft smile and a love for tea.

It is years and years down the line. Wriothesley had been doing well as the administrator of the fortress— so much so that he had been invited to the Palais Mermonia to receive the title of Duke. He had barely managed to sidestep a grand investiture ceremony, instead opting to sign, take the relevant certificates, and be done with it.

When he enters the office of the Iudex, he's met with the man himself and a surprisingly familiar face. One that he had never forgotten, even on days where the ground threatened to crumble underneath him and the walls of his prison cell felt like they were closing in.

Your eyes blow wide, your grip on the documents threatening to rip the papers, and he doesn't miss the slight wobble in your lip as you gaze at him.

"Good afternoon, I'm pleased that you could join us," says the Iudex. He sweeps one hand in your direction. "This is one of our top attorneys,assigned to assist with the processing of your documents and certificates."

Wriothesley smiles, wider than he has in a long, long time, and reaches a hand out for you to grasp.

"Hi," he says, never taking his eyes on your face. He squeezes your hand and feels you tremble in his hold. "My name is Wriothesley. It's nice to meet you."

#astronetwrk #「 🐈‍�� 」 catcze.desserts #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #cw gn reader #Cw Genshin spoilers #Cw Genshin leaks #Wriothesley #genshin impact #When i tell you this started as a thought of 'oh what if the reader is the reason he likes tea so much'#and then. Next thing I know I've been sitting in my chair for half an hour typing this shit up.

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suguwu · 9 months ago

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this is messy but—

it’s been years since the flames dabi set in his father’s office turned on him. set their sparking teeth in his skin and refused to let go. it’s been years, but his scars never let him forget.

he’s out of prison now, but for all his counselor talks a big game, he can’t find a job. so instead, when the noise is too much, he takes refuge at the little flower shop around the corner from his rehabilitation center.

the mist in the air feels good on his scars and cools him off and the scent of earth is grounding. brings him back into his own skin. he lingers but never buys anything but you—the owner—never seems to chase him out.

you smile at him and bob your head in greeting before returning back to the bouquet you're making. it's like you trust him. maybe you do.

one day, he's running a finger over a leaf of a flower, one that blushes like the dawn, sweet, soft pink. he's afraid to touch a silken petal; thinks it will rot beneath his clumsy fingers, considering the way it ripples like a wave in the barest breeze.

"ranunculus."

he glances over his shoulder at you. "bless you."

you laugh.

"the flower," you explain. "it's called a ranunculus."

"oh."

"here," you say, picking one out of the bucket it's tucked into. the water sloshes; it gleams on the long, thick stem of the flower. "hold that for a second."

he blinks as you shove the flower into his hands. then you're plucking more flowers from nearby buckets, your hands moving like fluttering little birds. you gather more and more, until he can barely see you behind the greenery and the blooms. he recognizes some: proud, leggy irises; fluffy ball peonies, as white as driven snow; crimson tulips so dark they're almost black.

"c'mon," you say, heading towards your worktable. he follows, feeling a little ridiculous carrying a single bloom versus your meadow-like armful. you lay your wares out on the table and beckon him closer. he holds out the ranunculus. you flick off the end of the stem with your knife. he hovers, unsure.

"well?" you say. "are you gonna sit?"

he eyes you. you meet his gaze steadily, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips.

"feel bad for me?" he sneers. "that why you're being so nice?"

you hum.

"is putting you to work nice?" you ask, already on to the next flower. he watches the way you hold the knife, how it shines silver in the sunlight, how easily it slides through the thick stem. those hands of yours move with careful surety. he wonders if you do origami; he could see you creasing a thick piece of ornamental paper perfectly.

"i wouldn't call this work."

"no? then you shouldn't mind doing it."

he shoves his hands into his pockets. the misters turn on over the flower buckets; some of the spray settles against his skin, as if he's by the sea.

"fine," he says. "show me."

at the end of the day, you insist on paying him, despite the fact that he's cut a few of the stems too short—one of your bouquets is a little lopsided, but you have it displayed with all the others—and ruined a few blooms. there are petals stuck to his fingertips.

he goes home smelling of wet loam and your faint perfume. rei blinks her big doe eyes at his sudden appearance at the family dinner table, but she makes space for him all the same.

he goes back to your shop the next day. you smile at him, soft and pretty and a little bit sharp with knowing, and he ducks further into his hoodie so you can't see his scars.

"show me more," he tells you.

you tilt your head.

"alright," you say. "let's go."

and just like that, he has a job.

he makes it three weeks before he thinks about kissing you.

it's your hands, he thinks. they're careful and quick and fearless, despite getting pierced by thorns and clippers alike. you touch everything with a certain type of care.

including him.

he never had a chance against you. he thinks about your hands, about your lips, about the way you're so careful with him. not like he's breakable. he'd have left if you touched him like that.

no, you touch him the same way you touch your flowers: like he means something.

it's too much.

he stops going to your shop.

but he watches you, sometimes. you move like a dream, floating between the aisles, petals caught on your fingertips. you laugh with your customers; you chat with them as you roll their bouquets up tight in paper, tied off with a perfect bow. you smile at a man, as bright as the sun, and his hands tighten into fists. it pulls the scars tight enough to hurt, but he doesn't care.

he barges into the shop, shouldering the man aside as he tries to exit. ignores the disgruntled call from behind him. by the time he makes it to the register, you're watching him coolly.

he realizes he doesn't know what to say.

you reach out. he lets you slide that careful hand into the hood of his hoodie; lets you cup his cheek. your eyes don't widen at the rough texture of his scars against your skin. you simply smile at him.

"welcome back," you say, and he realizes he doesn't need to say anything at all.

#juni drabbles #kinda #do not perceive me

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darlingdaisyfarm · 2 months ago

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⸝⸝ american dream ˚.

he says he's a businessman, but his pockets are full of fake cash

author note: i actually started writing this as a one-shot fic and wanted to end it in filthy smut, but i got a little bit inspired during the process....... now honestly, i love the idea. it’s not that canon-compliant, but who cares?? also, i’m not from america, so sorry if anything here sounds dumb aghgh :( i dont really know if i should develop it into smth serious or just leave it like that, so idk if it's chapter one or just one shot but im anyways leaving tags for the whole idea i have in mind. i would be glad to see ur opinions on this

tags for the whole fic: Stan Pines x reader (Steve Pinington because he's hot), conman Stanley Pines, enemies to forced travel companions, enemies to lovers, comedy i guess?, supposed to be slow burn but im bad at writing it, gritty realism, homelessness and survival, lots of crime, sexual tension, eventual smut, dirty talk, mutual destruction, partners in crime, morally questionable characters, fake identities and passports, au i guess? because Stan’s stanmobile is broken

All that was left in his palms was next to nothing, a couple of crumpled bills and loose change rattling with every movement. His hands were dirty, rough, calloused from heavy bags, cracked from the cold, knuckles rubbed raw from arguments he lost. And that damn bruise under his eye was still warm and throbbing, reminding of how easy it is to fuck up your last dollar if you say the wrong thing.

The storm hadn’t let up, and he had no choice. Up ahead, a neon sign flickered in the darkness, seconds away from burning out. “low prices, lower standards!” if he had a choice, he would've kept walking, but Stanley never had choices.

The door let out an obnoxious creak when he pushed it open. Behind the counter sat some guy in a wrinkled tank top and, hearing someone step in, he lazily lifted his gaze, looked at the person in front of him up and down, dirty, drenched, exhausted, before sluggishly sliding a key across the counter.

“Fifteen bucks.”

Stan didn’t even bother arguing, he already knew the room would be awful. Could tell by the smell in the lobby, the peeling paint on the walls and the stains nobody had even tried to scrub out. So he dumped the money on the counter, swiped the key, and moved down the hall, careful not to touch the walls.

The room was worse than he expected. Long, packed with metal beds, at least ten of them, maybe more. The mattresses all varying levels of fucked-up, one even had a spring jutting out like a rusty knife. In the corner, a bathroom, if you could even call it that. The faucet leaked constantly, and the toilet. . . yeah, best not to think about the smell coming from there.

But Stanley wasn’t the type to be picky. He’d been through too much to start acting delicate now.

He dropped his suitcase beside one of the beds and, sitting down, rubbed his tired face with both hands. Accidentally, his fingers brushed against the bruise, sending a sharp pang of pain through his skin. He hissed. It hurt, but in a way, it felt good. At least it meant he could still feel something.

The storm outside picked up even harder.

Stanley knew all he had to do was make it through the night. Just one more night in a long string of nights he wouldn't remember. If sleep came, it would be short and restless. His stomach grumbled, but he’d long since learned to ignore hunger.

And yet, there was something ironic about all this. Here he was, Stanley Pines, the free spirit, a boy with attitude, as his mother used to say. Once a promising athlete, as that one family friend had called him, ruffling his brown hair. And now he was just a washed-up liar, spending his last few bucks on a bed in a room where someone had probably died. Fate had one hell of a sense of humor.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the next room, a tv blared some ad promising happiness a better life in three easy steps.

Yeah, if only life was that easy.

But Stan had stopped believing in easy a long time ago. He didn’t believe in simple ways out. All he had were his fists, wits, and his ability to get back up every time life knocked him down.

And he'd get up after this night too.

Tomorrow he’d hit the streets again, try to scrounge up some cash, tell himself that tomorrow would be easier.

He already knew it was a lie.

But sometimes, a lie is the only thing that keeps you moving.

In his dreams, Stanley was happy. No debts, no street fights, no counting pennies, no that one goddamn night when dad threw him out like some unwanted troublemaking mutt. Just him and a giant, disgustingly delicious burger. Meat dripping with fat, cheese stretching in long strings, sauce dripping onto his fingers. Stan tore into it, starving. Oh, god, ohh fuck. The best burger of his life. And bacon. Crispy, salty bacon.

Stan remembers bacon and coffee in the mornings, remembers a warm kitchen, the smell of fresh bread. And toffee peanuts, sticky and sweet, caramel-flavored, tasting like childhood.

Somewhere something clattered. Close enough that it shouldn't have been here.

Stan jolted awake so fast he almost rolled off the shitty, creaky bed. His heart hammered against his ribs and his mind latched onto one thought. Cops, fucking cops. He barely had time to say his mental goodbyes, to his brother, his mother, and—

In the doorway stood someone drenched, exhausted, with an oversized duffel slung over one shoulder. Dirty rainwater dripped from their boots and ran in slow rivulets down their face.

“Oh, shit, sorry. Didn’t know someone else was in this piece of— uh, shitty place.”

Stanley blinked. Looked around, still trying to process what the hell was happening. He had just been in heaven, his greasy, cholesterol-filled heaven, and now—

Now some random stranger from the streets had just stumbled right into his shitty motel room.

“I just closed my eyes!” Stan mumbled.

You threw your bag on the floor and scoffed, shaking the rain off your sleeves. “right, sorry for disturbing your precious sleep, your highness.”

“Oh, you better be sorry! I was dreamin’ about a burger. The juiciest, fattest, most delicious burger. And bacon. Bacon, man! Do you even know how long it’s been since i had bacon? And toffee peanuts! goddamn caramel melting in my mouth like—”

“Jeez, calm down, okay? man, you need therapy.”

“I need a damn burger!”

You smirked, shrugging off your soaked jacket. Water dripped onto the wooden floor, which was already sticky from years, no, decades, of dirt.

“Well, i don’t have a burger. But i do have a half-eaten snickers somewhere in my bag. Interested?”

Stanley looked at you like you had just offered him a brick instead of food.

“You think a snickers can replace bacon?”

“No? But it’s got peanuts. That’s protein. Protein is good for you.”

“You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just food, it’s nostalgia! It’s my damn childhood! It's waking up to the smell of bacon in the kitchen, my mom humming some old tune, me stealing a piece before my brother—“ he cut himself off, grimaced, and flopped back onto the bed. “forget it.”

You finally looked at him properly and only now noticed that he looked like he’d been through hell. “Rough night?”

“Rough life.”

You both went quiet. The storm outside raged on, shaking the flimsy motel walls under the force of the wind.

“So,” you finally said, rolling your shoulders, “we’re roommates now?”

Stanley snorted. “Seems like it. Welcome to hell, buddy.”

You flopped onto one of the empty beds, and the moment you did, the loudest creak imaginable ripped through the room, making both you and Stan clap your hands over your ears. Using your foot, you pulled your heavy-ass duffel bag closer, which created yet another horrible sound. You rolled your eyes and started wringing out your sleeves, water trickling in thin streams down onto the ancient, mildew-scented carpet.

“Jesus, what the hell is this weather? it’s like god himself wants me to suffer.”

Stanley, still grimacing, lazily turned toward you. “tell me about it. This place ain’t much better either. I think the walls are moldy.”

You eyed the peeling wallpaper, noticing the unsettling dark substance oozing out of the corner. God, you didn’t even wanna know what the hell that was.

“Yeah, well. Beats sleeping outside.” you said nervously.

Stan chuckled but didn’t argue. He watched as you fussed with your wet clothes for a few seconds before finally speaking up again, in the most pathetic tone imaginable. “Uh, so. . . you said somethin’ about a snickers?”

You looked up, and your heart almost burst, because this grown-ass man with a black eye and a permanent scowl was looking at you with the saddest, most puppy-eyed expression known to mankind. You felt like you had personally caused every single one of his problems. What a goddamn actor.

“Oh my god,” you pressed a hand to your forehead. “Fine. Knock yourself out. Bag’s on the floor.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Practically leaping off the bed, he snatched up your bag and started digging through it, clearly on the hunt for the promised candy bar.

“Jesus, what do you even keep in here? bricks? dead bodies?”

“Yeah, first one to ask gets to be the next one in there.”

Stan snickered but kept rummaging. Finally, he pulled out the snickers, unwrapped it, and—

“Oh—oh my godd—” your eyes widened at the unexpected, borderline obscene sounds.

He literally moaned when the chocolate hit his tongue, tilting his head back, eyes shut in pure bliss. You stared at him in absolute disgust.

“Dude. Ew.”

“You don’t get it,” he groaned, taking another bite. “it’s been weeks since i had chocolate. Weeks! I was startin’ to forget what joy tasted like!”

“Yeah, that was a good one. I wanted to steal a twix too, but almost got caught.”

Stan froze mid-bite, eyebrows shooting up in pleasant surprise. “Wait. You’re tellin’ me, you steal too?”

You smirked, holding out your hands. “Duh. What, you think i have money for this crap?”

“Holy shit. We’re like, the same.” he shook his head, still in shock. “man. all this time i thought i was some kind of lone wolf, strugglin’ through life, hustlin’ my way through this shitty world. Turns out i got a partner in crime?”

“Ehh, sorry to break it to ya, but you ain't that special.”

Stan scoffed, finishing the candy bar. Although he clearly remembered when he kept rummaging through your bag, his hand suddenly stilled and he found something. Something that made his eyebrows climb higher and higher. He didn’t say anything. And neither did you. Stanley was good at pretending everything was okay.

You kept wringing out your soaked clothes, searching your bag for something dry, while Stanley swallowed the last bite of his snickers like it was the last chocolate bar he’d ever eat in his life. And, honestly, judging by the way he looked, that might just be true.

He was watching you until finally, his curiosity got the better of him. “So. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

You didn’t even look up, still rummaging through your things.

“Somebody who gave you food.”

Your answer made his mouth twitch into a grin, and he nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s a good start. Sharin’ food is a sacred bond, y’know.”

“Uh-huh. Sacred.”

“But seriously,” he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, “you steal, you crash in shitty motels, you carry. . . whatever the hell that was in your bag, what’s your deal?”

You shrugged lazily. “No deal. Just life.”

Truthfully, your head was killing you, and all you wanted was for him to shut up. But he clearly wasn’t planning on it. You winced, rubbing your temples. “jesus, you talk a lot.”

“Aaand yet, you answer everythin’. Means you don’t mind.”

You squinted at him. “No, i’m just too tired to tell you to shut up.”

He snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that, buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, peeled off another layer of your damp clothes, and hung it over the back of the bed. Then, without stopping your rummaging, you nodded toward his face.

“What’s with the bruise?”

He immediately pulled a smug expression. “you should see the other guy.”

You kept digging through your stuff, barely paying attention to his cheap bravado. Yeah, yeah. Seen it, heard it, met plenty like that.

“Hmm. And the truth?”

Stan scoffed, but when he realised you hadn’t even acknowledged his first joke, he made a deeply offended face. “Wow. You weren’t even listenin’ to me?”

“Nope.”

He huffed and waved a hand. “Eh, whatever. Owed some guy money, didn’t have it, got this instead.”

“Fair trade.”

“You’d think, huh? So where you from, anyway?”

You kept rifling through your things, but your voice turned colder. “Not from any state.”

Stan raised a brow. “Oh. so you’re not even from the U.S.?”

“Documents, visas, all that crap. Long story.” you nodded.

He dragged out a slow “huh.” and fell quiet for a moment. Then, as if he suddenly remembered that conversations were supposed to go both ways, he said, “new jersey.”

“Huh?” you squinted.

“Where i’m from. new jersey.”

You made a mental note. Oh, great. An american. Then you glanced at him again. . . Grimy, exhausted, full of problems, broke as hell. The perfect representation of the american dream. . .?

You had no energy left for this conversation. You’d had your fill of socializing for today, just like you’d had your fill of adventures. That snickers bar had cost you enough. So you decided not to reply, just shrugged and turned away.

Your wet shirt was clinging to your skin, and it was getting unbearable. So you started taking it off, not particularly caring that someone else was in the room. There were bigger concerns.

You turned your back to Stanley as the fabric hit the floor with a soft thud, exposing your spine.

Stan froze, just staring. his gaze dragged down your back, and then he just kept staring.

Directly. At. You.

You felt it prickling at the back of your neck.

Silence. Way too long of a silence. Long enough to make you frown as you slowly turned your head.

“Dude.”

He immediately looked away.

“What? i ain’t lookin’.”

“Bullshit. You were literally staring.”

He grimaced, turning away harder. “Yeah, well. Not my fault. You’re the one strippin’ in the middle of the damn room.”

You rolled your eyes. “Gosh, it’s a back. Grow up.”

Stan muttered something under his breath, yanked his blanket higher, and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just warn a guy next time.”

You finally pulled on a dry shirt and flopped back onto the cot, exhaling. The rain was still hammering against the window, the wind howled, and the ceiling creaked ominously.

You glanced over at Stan, who was already curling up, about to knock out. “Wait.”

He cracked one eye open, barely awake. “hm?”

“Never asked. What’s your name?”

That made him blink. And immediately Stan started thinking. Of course, he should lie. He always lied. Threw out fake names like poker cards. Steve Pinington. Stetson Pinefield. Hell, maybe John from Alaska? No, Stan, that's too dumb.

He squinted at you through the dark room, until he finally said. “Call me Steve.”

“Steve?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Steve.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. And i’m the queen of england.”

“Holy shit. Pleasure to meetcha, your majesty.” Stan stuck out a hand like he was about to shake yours.

But you swatted it away. “Okay, Steve. Whatever.” then you gave him your name.

“Well,” Stan tested your name on his tongue, stretching, folding his arms behind his head, “This been a real thrill, but i’d really like to—“

“Is that your car outside?”

He froze. “What?”

“The shitty, beat-up thing that looks like it’s been in five accidents and somehow survived.”

He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Hey! That’s my baby you’re talkin’ about.”

“Why didn’t you just stay there, then?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped back down. “Ugh. Somethin’s busted. Gotta fix it. But i need a real good mechanic, and guess what? I got no money.”

“So you’re tellin’ me that thing is just. . . sitting there, useless?”

He sighed. “Not useless. just— okay, yeah, maybe a little useless. but it’ll run! probably. Just needs a little love. and, y’know. Not to blow up in the process.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “so you’re afraid your car might explode.”

“Eh. Fifty-fifty chance.”

you nodded again. “Solid odds.”

“Right?”

You both finally settled in, pulling the blankets higher, and before long, you were both out cold.

But you weren’t given much time to sleep. A sharp, hysterical scream shook the motel walls, and you flinched, jerking from the suddenness of it.

“Where is he?!” the door burst open with a crash, and a man stormed into the room. The same guy who took the payment for the room. What the fuck? You hadn’t even processed what was happening before he jabbed a finger at you.

“WHERE IS HE, BITCH?!”

You panicked, looking around. And only then did you notice. Steve was gone. That fucking bastard just. . . disappeared.

You swallowed, feeling your throat dry, trying to wrap your head around it, and just as you were about to ask what the hell was going on, the man took a step toward you, his face twisting with rage.

“YOU FUCKERS SCAMMED ME!!”

“Huh?”

“HE PAID ME WITH COUNTERFEIT MONEY, THAT LYING PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

You didn’t even have time to react before he grabbed your arm, squeezing so hard it hurt.

“AND YOU, BITCH, YOU’RE IN ON IT TOO, HUH?!!

Counterfeit money? That dumbass gave him counterfeit money?

“I’ve never even seen him before in my life!”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, WHORE!!!” he shook you.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck!

“L-listen, man, i have nothing to do with this, okay? i didn’t even know he—“

“SHUT UP!!!” he raised his hand, and you realized he was actually about to hit you. And this shit, this fucking bullshit, was not even your fault. All you could do was grab your bag, sending a snickers wrapper tumbling to the floor, and bolt for the window like crazy.

“STOP, YOU BITCH!!”

However you were already climbing over the windowsill, jumping, falling, crashing into the mud. Pain shot up your ankle, but you couldn’t stop.

His voice roared behind you, “I’LL FIND YOU!!!”

But you were already sprinting down the wet road with that disgusting cold rain slamming into your face, mud clinging to your boots.

You were fucked. You were alone. On the street. In a foreign country. With no money.

And all thanks to that fucking bastard.

That’s how you end up on the street again, with a fucking bag, dirty boots, and realisation that the world is just a giant piece of shit you’re now neck-deep in. Rain’s pouring down and you can’t even remember what it feels like to be dry. Your hair’s soaked, clothes clinging to your skin, and your stomach is damn empty, a hollow ache that’s turned into this dull, throbbing pain gnawing at your insides. And the funniest fucking part? None of this is your fault. But does that matter? No. The guy at the motel is probably already calling the cops, waving around those fake bills, and now you’re not just homeless, you’re probably a wanted criminal.

Fantastic.

No money, no food, no Steve, no fucking anything. But no time for existential bullshit, you gotta get the fuck out of here, and quick. But how the fuck are you supposed to leave when you’re broke as shit? Bus tickets cost money. Taxis cost money. Even hitchhiking isn’t an option unless you wanna roll the dice on getting murdered in some psycho’s trunk.

You walk. And walk. And fucking walk.

And it’s humiliating, the way your stomach growls loud enough for people to hear, the way your soaked clothes cling to you, the way you have to press yourself against buildings just to shield from the wind. Your last meal was half a snickers bar and now even that feels like some luxurious memory from a past life.

You need money. And fast.

So you do what desperate people do, you start looking for work. Not a real one, obviously, because legally, you don’t even exist. So you walk into the first rundown diner you see, a place so grimy it’s a miracle the health inspectors haven’t shut it down yet. The guy behind the counter, fat, greasy, way too friendly with hamburgers, doesn’t ask questions. Just tosses you a filthy apron and says your shift starts now.

You carry plates and wipe sticky tables. Put up with customers who act like you’re not even a person, just part of the furniture. Some leave tips and others leave disgusting looks, but you pretend none of it matters.

Until you spill a drink on some guy, who said very nasty and dirty things to you and the manager, who’s been drinking all day in his office, just decides he doesn’t like you. Either way, you’re out on the street before you can even say “go fuck yourself.”

Fine. Fuck them.

Next, you try cleaning. Sounds easy enough, right? Just wipe shit, take out trash, don’t ask questions. But the people. Oh god, the people.

One guy stares too long. Another asks if you “do more than just clean.” You hear something in the next room that sounds exactly like a body being dragged across the floor, and before they can assign you your first shift, you’re already bolting out the backdoor, deciding you’d rather starve than end up as another missing poster.

So you adapt and start lying. The first lie is awkward, stumbling, barely convincing.

You become a lost tourist, a poor, helpless tourist with tears in their eyes. “i need to get home, but i got robbed, could you please help?” some people believe you, some don’t, but sometimes a few bucks land in your palm.

Actually pretending to be a lost tourist works. Not always, not on everyone, but enough to get you through a night. Enough to buy something cheap from a gas station. Enough to keep you from completely breaking.

But you’re still homeless, from time to time sleeping under bridges, curled up in your too-thin jacket, cursing Steve every time you hear a car pass because he’s probably in his fucking shitty car right now, dry and warm, while you’re here turning into a human popsicle.

Every night, you promise yourself if you ever see him again, you’re gonna punch him. Right in the jaw.

But then one day, you watch some lady on the street doing tarot readings. Honestly, she's dramatic as hell, but you see the way people eat it up. How badly they want to believe the bullshit she’s spinning.

And that’s when it hits you. You don’t need luck to survive. You just need a better lie.

So you become a psychic, not a real one, obviously. But you pick up quick because you watch, listen and learn.

You sit out on the street, put on a knowing expression, grab the hand of the first idiot who stops, and start spewing bullshit about “long fate lines,” “hidden symbols,” and “a rich soulmate just around the corner.” And people eat it up.

God, they’ll believe anything if it means hearing their future is bright. And you don’t blame them because you wish you could believe it too.

“Oh, i see a great love in your future!”

“Yes, you’ll be rich one day, just wait!”

“Your life is about to change in a big way!”

So the money starts coming in. Not much, but more than before. More than the waitress job and more than begging. For the first time in forever, you don’t feel like you’re at rock bottom.

And soon you’ve got enough to get the hell out of this cursed city.

Here you are, trying to catch a bus, because if you stay here even one more day, you’re either gonna get arrested for illegal stay, or get eaten alive by the homeless, or worst of all found by the people who were supposed to make sure you never crossed the border in the first place. Okay, last chance, last hope. Standing on the roadside, you're scanning the cars, forcing a practiced smile, as if you’re not freezing your ass off and your legs aren’t burning from exhaustion.

The bus finally arrives, late as always, Because yeah, why would anything ever be convenient for you? The city is already deep asleep, leaving the streets empty, and that silence unsettles you. You’ve always hated silence. Especially this one that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if you should even get on this bus at all. But you don’t have a choice so you throw the money at the driver before he can say anything, drag yourself to the back, where you can sprawl out by the window and maybe catch a few minutes of sleep. You’re already hauling your heavy-ass bag, dreaming about collapsing into a seat, when you see—

WHAT

That bastard, slouched in the corner, legs widely spread, brown hair is even messier than before, his gaze lazy, but the second he spots you, his eyes widen just a little.

You stop and stare. So does he.

“You. fucking. asshole.” you throw your bag onto the seat beside him, the sound echoing through the empty bus, but you don’t give a single shit.

“Hey, what the fuck, lady?” Steve or whatever the hell his name was raises his hands, as if he has no idea what’s happening, as if he’s genuinely fucking clueless about why you’re yelling at him.

“Oh, don’t you fucking “lady” me. You left me, you piece of shit.”

“Listen, doll, it's not like I—“

“Oh my fucking god, don’t ”doll” me either, you goddamn motherfucker.”

You hate the fact that he acts like this is funny. But he's not dumb, he knows you’re ready to kill him.

“I did what I had to do, you know! you should be grateful I didn’t wake you up.”

“Grateful?” you laugh, because at this point, it’s not even anger, it’s pure, unhinged hysteria. Grateful? Fucking seriously? “that motel guy was about to fucking kill me!”

“Well, did he?”

“No? but that’s NOT the point!”

Stan rolls his eyes. You can literally see him gearing up for some dumbass excuse.

“Ohh, come on, sweetheart, i knew you’d make it. You don’t look like someone who’d die that easily!”

You feel your face burning with rage. “Oh, oh, fuck you. Fuck you so much. you know what? I should've stolen your damn car.”

“Oh, you should've?” he smirks. “please, id love to see you try.”

You narrow your eyes. “next time I will.”

“Sure, good luck with that.”

You're aware that he looks you up and down, soaked, pissed off, hair a mess, but alive. And the bastard has the audacity to look. . . pleased?

“Anyway. nice seeing you again. Name’s Bill, by the way.”

You snap your head up. “wasn’t you Steve?”

He freezes. Then grimaces because he just realized he played himself. “. . .Yeah, well. i have many names.

“And no brain cells. But oh my fucking god. Was that even your real name?”

He leans back against the seat, already bored of this conversation.

“Who even gives a shit about real names, huh? names are just a concept.”

“A concept?”

“Yeah, you know, just labels people put on you. But they don’t mean shit. you can be whoever the fuck you want. Today I’m Bill. Yesterday I was Steve. Who knows what I'll be tomorrow?”

You press a hand to your forehead. “You are literally the dumbest person I have ever met in my life. I can't believe i—“

“Aww, thank you.” Stan interrupts you.

“That wasn’t a fucking compliment.”

“I’ll take it anyway.”

You exhale. No, seriously, you’re too fucking tired for this.

“You know what, fuck it. I don’t even care anymore. I’m sitting here, and if you open your mouth again, I swear I’ll strangle you.”

You're so cute when mad. That makes Stan grin. “ohhh, so we’re traveling together now?”

“No.” you're wrinkling your forehead.

“Sounds like we are!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The bus rattles down the highway, lights flashing past the windows, and you're doing your best to ignore the fact that you’re stuck in the same goddamn vehicle as this absolute idiot. Unfortunately, he’s here, sitting right next to you, breathing the same air, and worst of all, he’s enjoying it. It's obvious by the way he smirks and sits all sprawled out like this is his personal limousine and you’re just some random hitchhiker who happened to stumble into his kingdom.

You take a deep breath. You need to calm down. Just count to ten, breathe and—

“Man, you are so mad. I literally feel the steam coming out of your ears. Are you always like this, or is it just me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “it’s just you.”

“Oh, I feel so special now.”

You clench your fists. God, he’s such a dick. But something about his words sticks with you, that moment when you mentioned his car, and then the question pops into your head.

“Wait a second. Didn’t you have a car?”

Stan blinks, then makes the most pitiful face you’ve ever seen. “Oh, my baby. . .“

“Your what?” you immediately frown.

“My car! My precious, my one and only. . .”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest looking like he's talking about a dead relative. “I had to sell her.”

“What?”

Stan nods, staring out the window like some tragic movie character. Oh shit here we go, you think.

“Yeah. . . she’s gone now. Sold her to some guy named Bud.”

“You sold your damn car?”

“Had no choice, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, unable to process this information. “and what the hell did you do to end up in a situation where you had to sell your fucking car?”

He shrugs, way too casual about the whole thing. “oh, you know. fucked up. I'm a screw up after all.”

You stare at him, waiting for an actual explanation, but he just keeps grinning that lazy grin like this whole conversation is just a fun little game for him. And that pisses you off even more.

“You are literally the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re sad about it. Or what, were you hoping to move in? live in MY car?”

“NO, you idiot! but I was hoping you’d stay the fuck away from me instead of sitting here, ruining my life even more!”

He leans too close, invading your personal space, grinning. “Bold of you to assume I would even let you touch my baby.”

“Are you kidding me, you idi—“

Stan throws his head back, laughing loudly, and it’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Oh man, you are so easy to piss off. I love it.”

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I know. And no, i wont.”

You roll your eyes, turning away, deciding you’re done wasting your energy on this asshole. But your stomach has other plans as it growls too loudly, and suddenly you remember that the last time you had a proper meal was. . . well. Way too long ago. You dig through your bag and pull out real food. Warm, actual food. Not a goddamn snickers like last time, but something that smells so good your mouth starts watering.

You still remember the motel. You remember this asshole munching on YOUR snickers and moaning like he was in heaven, knowing damn well you had nothing to eat.

You pick up a piece, put it in your mouth, close your eyes and—

“Mmmhmm.”

Stan’s head snaps toward you immediately.

“What the hell are you doing.”

You open your eyes, smirking, and take another bite. “just enjoying my food.”

He squints at you. “you’re fucking with me.”

“Am I?” you close your eyes again, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Mmhh. God, this is so good.”

“Okay, stop.”

“Stop what? enjoying my food? Oh, no, no, no. I should savor it.” you take another bite, chewing as slowly as possible, staring right at him.

He’s getting nervous. And his stomach starts growling too.

“So what, not even gonna share?” Stan looks at you, demonstrating you his puppy brown eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, you put another piece in your mouth, chewing as slow as humanly possible.

“Why the fuck would I share with the person who got me almost killed?”

He gasps, clutching his chest like you just stabbed him. “oh, please! it’s not like I ever needed your help!”

And with that, he yanks open his suitcase, clearly expecting something great, warm, tasty and instead. . .

Nothing. Well, except for some sad, rip-off band-aids.

He stares at them, slowly closing the suitcase. “man, life sucks.”

Finally, the bus screeches to a stop, tires rattling against the old asphalt, and you’re not even sure whether to be relieved or not. Sure, you got out of that place, the one you definitely shouldn’t have stayed in, but now you’re here, some other godforsaken place you don’t even know what to do with. But that’s not a problem anymore. At least you know what comes next. Unlike some people with fake names.

You stand, grab your heavy duffel bag, and Stan does the same with his suitcase. The entire ride, he didn’t shut up for even a second, but now that you’re outside, he’s way too quiet.

You steal a glance at him, he's standing there, gripping his suitcase like a little lost child, brushing his thick fingers over his mustache, scanning the darkness as if he's looking for something.

And it bothers you a little. Not because you worry about him. Just because Steve never gets this quiet for no reason. But you don’t care.

Honestly, it’s even better this way.

You adjust the strap of your bag and start walking. Slow, but determined. You don’t need this idiot. You don’t trust him, not after what he did, and not after he screwed you over. Yeah, maybe you’re no saint, but at least you never betrayed him the way he betrayed you.

And now, when he’s in even deeper shit than you are, why the hell should you stay?

But of course, he just has to open his damn mouth.

“So what? You just leave?”

You stop, exhaling sharply. “um, what do you expect me to do? take your hand and lead you like a lost puppy?”

“I mean, that would be nice.” he smiles awkwardly.

You roll your eyes and turn, meeting his sad gaze. “look, Steve if that's even your name, you got me in enough shit already. The last thing i need is you making it worse.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes right back at you.

“Oh please. Don’t act like you weren’t already knee-deep in trouble before me.”

“Yeah, but at least i was handling it! Unlike some people.”

Stan narrows his eyes at your answer. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, at least i still have my business. I still got people to scam. What do you have? Failed cons and a car you had to sell to some guy named Bud?” you smirk, shaking your head.

His face twists in mock offense. “Hey, Bud was a great guy! very talkative! he even gave me some advice—“

“I do not care.”

“Man, you’re so heartless.” Stan sighs.

“And you’re a liability.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but then he just stops. You see it hit him, even if he tries to play it off. Stan hates losing, hates to realise that someone else is better than him at at least one thing he thought he was good at, scamming. And right now you’re doing better.

He could say it’s not a competition, but for him, it always is. And that feeling, that he’s falling behind, pisses him off more than anything.

But when Stan blinks, shaking the thought off, he notices he’s standing alone.

You’re already gone and that makes him curse under his breath, glancing around, but you’re nowhere in sight.

“Well, shit.” he stands there, alone in the dark, and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what to do.

But he has money. Shit, at least he has that. Thanks, Bud.

Stan glances around, thinking this place feels too dark and too empty so it makes him uncomfortable. He needs to get somewhere with people. Somewhere with a motel or at least a spot to crash for the night.

He walks, humming under his breath. Whatever, he doesn't need you, he doesn't need anyone. He's free spirited Stanley damn Pines, right, ma?

He turns the corner and something heavy slams against his head. Stanley doesn’t even get the chance to curse before he stumbles forward, collapsing onto the pavement with a dull thud and everything goes black.

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