#and move on like you expect me to. because it’s fine. it doesn’t matter and it really is fine why wouldnt it be

[craftclass]

happy kingdon reunion day! i sprained my ankle and couldn't stop thinking about terrance's offer to teach frank table tennis. here's 1500 words about it.

Frank goes to the YMCA now.

Monday nights. NA in the community room with the stained carpet and the metal foldout chairs that buckle and squeak when you shift your weight. There’s a sign taped to the door that says WELCOME, FRIENDS in Comic Sans. Someone always brings some of those sugar cookies with the stale icing from the grocery store bakery. No one ever eats them. 

He doesn’t talk much. He listens and nods. Plays with a loose thread on his hoodie. He takes in some of it, but his mind tends to wander. 

Afterward, he lingers in the parking lot. Sometimes he does crosswords, sometimes he just scrolls on his phone. He never feels ready to head home. 

He’s heading to the parking lot to linger one night when he sees Terrance.

He’s wearing the same t-shirt and holding himself with the same awkward posture, folded in on himself like a pocketknife. Closest chair to the exit, gym bag at his feet. There’s a laminate badge swinging from his lanyard, and Frank recognizes the logo from the bulletin board: South Park Table Tennis Club.

Terrance doesn’t look up until Frank’s almost past him. Half a car-length away.

“You’re the doctor who made a joke about feet,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Frank slows to a stop and turns to look him in the face. “You’re the guy who said I wasn’t an orthopedist.”

“I didn’t say it, I asked it.”

“Same thing.”

One of the rec center doors slams. A whistle blows from the far court.

Then Terrance gestures toward the bag. “Do you play?”

Frank eyes the paddle handle sticking out. “In a friend’s basement a few times as a kid.”

Terrance doesn’t smile, but something shifts in his shoulders and the corner of his mouth.

“Not a real match setting, then” he says. “I told you I would teach you.”

Well. It’s not like he has anything better to do. 

The first time Frank picks up a paddle, he hits himself in the thigh and Terrance says, deadpan, “That’s not ideal form.”

Frank snorts. He’s been sober eighty-seven days and has never felt less in control of his body. 

“You want to learn,” Terrance says, “you’ll have to get better at listening.” 

This makes Frank think, briefly, of Mel King. He wonders if he made as much of an impression on her as she did on him. He wonders what she would think of him now. He wonders if she’ll have moved on to another rotation by the time he manages to crawl his way back into the Pitt. 

“You sound like my sponsor,” Frank jokes, pushing the memory down. 

“You should listen to your sponsor.” 

They don’t talk much while they play. Frank’s grateful for that.

Most weeks, it’s rally, point, rally, point, then water and silence and the occasional correction from Terrance that sounds like blunt criticism but is more constructive than anything else.

“Don’t twist your wrist like that,” he says one night. “You’re not flipping a pancake.”

Frank grins. “Sorry. I’m good at pancakes.”

“You’re bad at table tennis.”

On day one-fifty-three, Terrance hits a smash that sails just wide. He curses and throws the paddle down, then apologizes immediately to Frank, to the paddle, to the empty rec room.

“It’s fine,” Frank says, wiping his face with a towel. “You’re doing okay.”

Terrance drinks from his water bottle and says, “My next tournament’s in five weeks. I can’t show up if I’m not going to break 2,000. There’s no point.”

Frank watches him pace. “There is,” he says. “You show up because you’re working on being better. That’s the whole deal. Or so they tell me.”

Sometimes they sit on the benches outside the Y after they play. It’s quiet by then, which they both like.

Terrance eats peanut butter crackers. Frank drinks water.

“You’re different than I expected,” Terrance says one night, not looking up from the wrapper.

“Because I’m not an orthopedist?” Frank offers.

Terrance doesn’t laugh, but he shakes his head a little. “Because I didn’t think you’d keep coming back.”

Frank understands.

“I didn’t either, to be honest,” he says.

They sit in silence for a minute. Terrance finishes the crackers and brushes the crumbs off his jeans.

“You’re more patient now,” he says. “Still not good at table tennis. But more patient.”

Frank laughs. “Don’t get carried away.”

One week before Frank goes back to work, Terrance brings him a gift. It’s a paddle. Terrance tells him that it’s a nice one, made from lightweight carbon fiber. It’s sleek with a blue grip - probably exactly the paddle Frank would have picked out for himself.

Frank turns it over in his hand. “You’re giving me this?”

“I have a better one. And you’ll need one if you’re going to keep playing. You should keep playing.”

Frank looks up. “Even though I’m never gonna be as good as you?”

“I know you haven’t been doing this to get better at table tennis.” Terrance says. 

July 4th, and Frank’s back in the ER.

His new badge doesn’t work. He holds it up, waves it once. Nothing. Swipes again. Still nothing.

It’s humid in the stairwell, and he’s sweating by the time one of the nurses lets him in. He says thanks too quickly. Doesn’t wait for eye contact.

Everything looks and feels the same, except that he’s hunched in on himself like a first-day med student. One wrong look might send him running for the parking garage.

Terrance had looked at him across the table the Monday before and said, “You’ll be fine.” And then, as Frank stood to go: “Tell Dr. King I said hi. She’s a good doctor.”

He sees her just after 9. Mel King, sorting splints, getting ready for the holiday rush. Thumb, wrist, knee. Lined up in plastic trays like silverware.

She looks up. It takes her a second.

And then - God. Her whole face lights up.

“You’re here,” she says, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.

Frank gives a half-nod, half-grin. He feels a weird pull to hug her - he keeps his distance. “They let me back.”

Mel walks toward him, still holding a thumb splint. “You look nice.”

He really doesn’t. He’s a bit healthier, a bit stronger, but he hasn’t slept, and his scrub top is wrinkled from the way he changed shirts in the car. He smiles anyway, and runs a hand through his hair.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into,” he says, desperate to tell her about it. “Our old friend Terrance.”

Her eyes go wide. Brighter, somehow. “Terrance? With the ankle sprain? You saw him?”

Frank shrugs. “I played table tennis with him. A few times.”

“A few times?” 

He lifts his hand, shows her the paddle callus on his index finger, the sharp edge of new skin. “He’s ruthless. I’ve lost approximately eighty-nine games.”

She laughs a real laugh, warm and round and delighted. He hasn’t made someone laugh like that in months. Years, maybe. “You play with Terrance?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Every Monday night.”

There’s something in her face when he says it. She lets the splint she’s holding drop onto the counter.

“You’re okay,” she says softly, almost disbelieving.

He does a so-so motion with his hand. “Well. Getting there.”

It makes almost no sense, but she looks at him like she knows him. 

The Monday after his first shift back, Frank shows up early.

Terrance is already there, unzipping his bag like always. He looks up, sees Frank, and stops what he’s doing.

“You came back,” he says. Not a question, just the fact of it. Like seeing a deer out the window and pointing it out before it disappears.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you might not.”

Frank had considered it. He would have missed Terrance. 

They warm up like usual. Rally, point, rally, point. One ball gets past him and rolls under the table. Terrance doesn’t comment. Frank appreciates that.

After the third game (11–3), they sit on the edge of the table and catch up over bottles of gatorade.

“How was it?” Terrance asks.

Frank shrugs. He does that a lot these days. “Busy. Same as before, but more paperwork.”

Terrance nods.

“I saw Dr. King,” Frank says. 

Terrance looks over. “She still there?”

“She is.”

“She remembered me?”

Frank tilts his head. “Of course she did.”

“Some people don’t.”

Frank doesn’t know what to do with that. So he doesn’t touch it.

“She was glad I was back,” he says instead.

Terrance watches him. “That makes sense.” Then: “You like her.”

Frank smiles without meaning to. “She’s a good doctor.”

“That’s unrelated.”

Frank wipes sweat from the back of his neck. His new paddle sits on the table beside him: sleek, light and impressively fast.

“I think about her more than I should,” he admits. “She said I looked nice.”

Terrance tilts his head. “You don’t.”

Frank laughs. “No. I really don’t.”

Terrance picks up a ball and spins it against the table’s surface. Slow circles.

“You listen better now,” he says.

Frank watches the ball. “Maybe.”

“You do. I think she’d like that.”

They play one more game.

Frank loses again. 11–6 this time. Closer. Not close.

But afterward, when they pack up, Terrance doesn’t say anything about his backhand.

And Frank doesn’t ask if he’s improving.

Some things you know.

[khioneee]

trying to break up with your fuck buddy, rafe

rafe paces. back and forth. hand running through his hair, jaw tight, eyes sharp with something between frustration and disbelief.

‘you want to stop?’ his voice is even, but there’s an edge to it.

you nod, arms crossed over your chest. ‘yeah.’

‘why?’ his head tilts, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for an answer that actually makes sense to him.

‘i don’t like what this is turning me into,’ you say, voice steady. ‘it’s not who i am. and i don’t want it to be.’

he exhales sharply, turning on his heel and pacing again. ‘where is this coming from?’

‘i’m not blaming you for anything, rafe.’ you sigh, feeling the weight of this conversation sink into your bones. ‘i just realized i don’t want to be another girl in your rotation.’

he stops mid-step, turning to face you. ‘rotation?’

you hold his gaze. ‘you know what i mean.’

his jaw tenses. ‘you knew what this was,’ he says, voice low, careful.

‘i did,’ you agree. ‘and now i know i don’t want it.’

he drags a hand down his face, shaking his head. ‘i thought everything was fine.’

‘it was,’ you admit. ‘but i’m a ‘girlfriend’ kind of girl, rafe. i have boyfriends, not fuck buddies.’

rafe lets out a dry laugh, almost disbelieving. he starts pacing again, steps restless, like he needs to move or he’ll explode.

then, from outside, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

‘rafe! come on, man, we’re waiting!’ topper, followed by laughter and girls’ voices, high and sweet.

your stomach turns, but you don’t react. instead, you nod toward the door.

‘you should go,’ you say softly.

a pause, a sharp inhale. his jaw clenches. ‘we’re not done.’

‘i said what i needed to say.’ you swallow the lump in your throat. ‘you have girls waiting for you.’

he stops pacing. his expression hardens. ‘you think that’s what this is about?’

‘i think it doesn’t matter,’ you answer. ‘because you’re not my boyfriend, and you don’t owe me anything.’

his hands curl into fists at his sides. ‘you’re doing that thing again.’

‘what thing?’

‘acting like you don’t care.’

you inhale sharply. ‘i do care, rafe. that’s the problem.’

something flickers in his expression. for the first time, he looks uncertain. like this wasn’t supposed to happen. like he never considered the possibility of you walking away.

he starts pacing again, steps quicker now, frustration rolling off him in waves. ‘so what? you’re just done?’

you nod. ‘yeah.’

he stops. looks at you. then, after a beat, he says, ‘fine.’

you hesitate. ‘fine, what?’

‘i’ll be your boyfriend.’

you blink, caught off guard. ‘what?’

‘you want a relationship?’ he shrugs, like it’s the easiest fix in the world. ‘done.’

‘that’s not how this works.’

‘why not?’ his voice is sharper now, defensive. ‘you said you don’t want to be just another girl— fine. be my girlfriend.’

you shake your head, a humorless laugh escaping. ‘jesus, rafe.’

‘what?’

‘you don’t even want to be my boyfriend. you just don’t want to see me with someone else.’

his jaw tightens, and for the first time, he stops pacing. stands still.

‘you can’t just decide to be in a relationship because you don’t like the idea of losing me,’ you say, voice softer now. ‘that’s not love, rafe. that’s possession.’

his lips part slightly, but no words come out.

‘you don’t know how to do this,’ you continue gently. ‘how to be with someone in a way that isn’t just about control.’

he exhales, slow and deep, fingers rubbing at his jaw as he looks away for a moment. when he meets your gaze again, there’s something different there. hesitation, sure. but also something you weren’t expecting.

fear.

‘i don’t want to lose you,’ he admits, voice quiet now.

your breath catches. ‘then be better.’

rafe swallows. ‘tell me how.’

‘you already know how,’ you whisper. ‘you just have to choose it.’

the silence stretches between you again, but this time, it’s different.

it’s not heavy. it’s hopeful.

then, from outside, topper calls out again. ‘rafe! you coming or what?’

rafe doesn’t even look toward the door.

‘nah,’ he calls back, eyes still locked on yours. ‘i’m good.’

your heart was about to try to break out from behind your ribs.

his gaze softens. ‘stay?’

you hesitate. ‘rafe—’

he shakes his head, stepping closer. ‘if i say i can do this, then i can do this.’

you search his face for the lie, the excuse, the escape route he’s bound to take. but there isn’t one.

he raised your hands to his mouth and kissed the tip of each of your fingers in turn. your thumb, your index finger, your middle finger, your ring finger, finally your pinky, and then, your gaze caught the black cross that rested on the centre of his chest.

you wonder if his heart beats steadily.

his lips twitch, just slightly, into the kind of smirk that used to make you roll your eyes. ‘i’ll be the last boyfriend you’ll have,’ he murmurs. ‘you’ll see.’

your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not with dread.

‘okay,’ you whisper.

he grins, triumphant. ‘yeah?’

you exhale, a small smile creeping onto your lips despite yourself.

‘yeah.’

an. inspired by rory and logan.

[loveanddeepthroat]

Baby Blues

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - In the first two weeks of being new parents, the dynamic hasn’t been quite what you and Sylus expected. He’s eager to be involved, but your daughter doesn’t seem to have warmed to him.

Word count - 2.7k

⚠️Warning⚠️ - Mentions of pregnancy and childbirth. Hurt/comfort, fluff, and a little sprinkle of angst.

Your newborn didn’t like Sylus.

It sounded ridiculous, but you know he was thinking it too. You didn’t have the gall to say it out loud—not that it even needed to be said. The fact was definitely lingering between you both.

You never thought much of why she would wriggle and kick up a storm in your stomach whenever he touched the swell of your belly, but you now had an inclination that it was because she didn’t like his hands there.

It was strange and upsetting, but he didn’t seem too hurt by it so far, only silently helpless as he watched you do everything. You were two weeks postpartum, so your emotions were already all over the place. It seemed as though Sylus was holding his own feelings back to make room for yours, and when you had asked him about it, he simply kissed your forehead and reassured you that he was fine. All while your screaming daughter cried for you against his chest.

Not that he opened up to you all that often. You did manage to get things out of him with a push sometimes, but he was like an unyielding gate, refusing to open to anyone.

Your exhaustion was only adding to the toll on your fragile emotions. The baby only wanted your touch, and sleep was almost impossible for you because of that very reason. Only you could feed her. Only you could soothe her. Only you could touch her.

That was one thing that was really getting to Sylus. The bloodshot whites of your eyes as you rocked the fussy newborn to sleep and fed her at all hours of the morning. The barely touched plates of food that ended up stone cold and in the bin. Not to mention the completely non-existent ten minutes you needed to at least have a wash without having to run out of the shower to her aid.

He must have felt quite useless in the weeks where you should be recovering, but he didn’t want you to worry about his feelings by indulging you in his thoughts. 

Your pregnancy had been smooth, ending with a good twenty-seven hours of rather torturous labour, and pushing that went on for an agonising two hours. It had all been worth it, though. Your little bundle of joy with tufts of platinum hair had finally greeted you both with a piercing wail, but eased her protests once placed against your heaving chest.

You just wished she would settle with both parents.

It was another day of desperate wailing, your arms becoming so heavy with the exertion of having no option but to hold her. You tried to put her in her pram for Sylus to push her around for a while, but her cries only increased to the point of her little face turning purple. You couldn’t sit and just listen to it, and you absolutely would not ignore her—no matter how much Sylus pushed for you to go and get some sleep.

“She wants me,” you say for what felt like the millionth time that week.

Sylus was evidently reluctant to stop trying, but he wouldn’t keep you from her. He conceded with a defeated huff, watching your every move as you gently lifted your screeching daughter out of the plush pram. Her screams died down quickly as you placed her against your chest, her ear-piercing wails whittling down to soft whimpers.

“Of all the dangerous paths I’ve crossed and violent challenges I’ve encountered, it’s our newborn daughter who finally defeats me,” he mumbles quietly, trying to make a lighthearted joke about it.

You tried to smile at his attempt to add a bit of humour to the situation, but the comment only made you cry. Hard.

“Hey.” He immediately stepped toward you, rubbing a large hand up and down your back soothingly. You had to give it to him, his patience with you in the last two weeks had been immaculate. “Don’t cry, sweetie.”

You couldn’t stop, your ragged breaths and shaking shoulders refusing to relent. “I d-don’t get it,” you bawl. “What are we doing d-differently?”

Sylus sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His hand continued to rub soothing circles against your back to ease your upset. “Well, she did live inside you for nine months. Besides, you didn’t exactly like me either when we first met.”

He smiled faintly, tilting his head down to capture your gaze. Despite the obvious tease, he still seemed to be holding himself back. It was frustrating him more than he wanted to admit to you. You knew he was protecting your feelings, but you wished he would just show some sense of vulnerability.

You don’t dare set your sleeping daughter down in her moses basket, knowing full well that she would just wake straight back up. So the rest of the afternoon is spent with your tiny newborn curled up against your chest, a few feeding and changing breaks in between.

Once the day turned into night, nothing in the world sounded more appealing to you than a hot shower, a hot meal, and a hot cup of tea. But letting her scream and cry while you did that was not an option. It wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t fair on Sylus.

He didn’t leave you unless he absolutely had to throughout the day. You watched him every time he heard a little whimper from the baby, his hands flexing and twitching. Every time you had to get up to do something for her, he was either at your back or side.

He wanted to help.

The chef brought through a very large bowl of marinated chicken and pasta for you, upon Sylus’s instruction. As soon as the bowl was set on the little table beside your recliner chair, you almost began drooling. You hadn’t managed to eat much at all in the chaos, and Sylus wasn’t amused when you didn’t even get the chance to finish the two biscuits he’d brought you earlier in the day.

You reached a careful hand over to the fork, not even lifting it before your daughter began to wriggle and whine in your other arm. Dropping it immediately, you retract your hand, only making it halfway back to the fussy newborn before long, slender fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.

“No,” Sylus says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Your initial response is to immediately go on the defence. “She’s cry—”

“I know she’s crying,” he interrupted tightly. “I know. But you’re going to eat while your food is hot, and you’re going to do it without our screaming daughter on your chest.”

“But—” 

“No buts.”

He had that commanding look in his eye, the one that would intimidate most, but was only used on you when he was especially adamant on you doing something necessary for yourself. 

You were a little relieved to see him so passionate, if you were being honest. He had been treading on eggshells to not upset you or the baby for fourteen whole days, and it wasn’t good for anyone. You felt the tension on him every time you both managed to get into bed together for more than five minutes. He needed this little outburst.

“This needs to stop now. I’m going to figure her out, and you are going to eat. Alright?” His tone left no room for argument, and the more your daughter protested against your intention to eat, the more hungry and tired you felt.

It wasn’t easy, but you handed her off to him carefully, swallowing a lump in your throat. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her distressed little face as Sylus attempted to cradle her.

You were practically twitching, your legs about to push the footrest of the recliner down to retrieve her in the first thirty seconds she was away from you. Sylus noticed immediately, and pushed it back up with his foot before you could close it down fully.

“She’s not in any danger,” he said calmly, but his whole body was visibly tense. “She’s right here, I won’t leave the room. Just eat, sweetie.”

You wanted to protest further, but he wasn’t going to yield this time. His eyes remained trained on you until you finally sagged back into the chair, and it wasn’t until you picked up your fork that he finally turned away, focusing on the distraught newborn kicking up a storm against his chest.

He held her the way you did, one hand cupped over her head to keep it steady while the other hand softly patted her back. Why she didn’t want to be near him was an utter mystery to you, he wasn’t doing anything incorrectly. 

You couldn’t eat while the two most important people in your life were quite clearly in a distressing situation before you. “Are you alright?” You asked him gently, hoping that he would answer you.

“I will be if you eat,” he quickly responded, not looking at you.

Sighing, you stab a slice of the chicken onto your fork, just looking at it for a moment. Your brain had managed to kick itself into gear as you forged a new approach to his silence. 

This was an opportunity to head in the right direction.

“I’ll eat if you speak to me.”

Blood red eyes shot in your direction, an eyebrow raised. “Blackmail?”

You quickly shook your head. “You were right, this does need to stop. Starting with you shutting yourself off from me.” 

“Eat.”

The forked piece of chicken points straight at his unamused face. “Talk.”

He shook his head a little in clear annoyance, the stress consuming him. Your daughter continued to wail, immune to the warmth and safety of his arms. He was basically trapped after promising to remain in the room with you.

Your bleary eyes held his irises of rubies, neither of you conceding. It was a mental challenge to ignore the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil beneath your nose, but you were not eating until at least one of the two beautiful people before you had calmed down.

Sylus visibly swallowed, finally giving in as he noticed your lack of a bluff. “Do you think she knows?” His voice was quiet, barely heard over your newborn’s cries.

“Knows what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, nodding his head towards the piece of chicken on your fork. You shovel it into your gob, eager for him to continue.

His eyes flicker down to your daughter before he speaks again. “Do you think she knows that I’ve done terrible things? Do you think that’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“I—” you grumble and roll your eyes as he nods to your plate of food again, waiting for you to take another mouthful that you end up having to speak through, “I don’t see how she could. Is that why you’ve been so quiet?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward ever-so-slightly. “Missing my tongue, kitten?”

You couldn’t help your own smile as his shoulders sagged a little from where they were practically touching his ears. It wasn’t often that he opened up to you like this. You almost always had to pry or throw in a proposition to coax him into speaking.

You took another bite of your food, moving the plate from the small table to your lap. “Do you really think she doesn’t like you?”

His smirk faded away quickly, a gentle thumb brushing over your daughter's head. She continued to cry, but the volume had dropped a little. “Do you not think that?” He asked.

You didn’t know how to answer that question. To tell the truth, you did think that, but not for the same reason he was thinking.

“I think she may be a little attached at the moment. We’re very different shapes and sizes. Maybe she feels—”

“Unsafe?” 

His tone had dropped an octave—something you didn’t think was possible considering the already bone-chilling vibrations of his voice. Never before had you witnessed him in a state of such vulnerability. He was insecure about this, and it was finally starting to show.

You went to stand up to be near him, but he immediately stepped forward to halt your movement.

“Eat.”

Not wanting to lose this free-speaking Sylus you had barely met before, you did as he said, twirling a fat mouthful of pasta onto your fork for extra brownie points.

You both remained in silence for a few moments, only your fork scraping against the bowl in your lap marrying with the sounds of your baby’s cries surrounding the small sitting room.

Sylus’s gaze didn’t leave the newborn cradled in his arms, a gentle sway in his hips as he tried to keep her moving. All you could do was study his composure, seeing it as it cracked.

After a moment, he looked back at you. “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

You coughed on the mouthful of the creamy pasta at his words, completely in awe of his confession.

Failing you? How did he get to that conclusion?

“You’ve done everything for her,” he continued, not allowing you to immediately reassure him. “I want to be able to do everything, too. For both of you.”

The all too familiar sting in your wet eyes built in intensity by the second, and you quickly found yourself sniffling.

Not only was he insecure about your daughter not feeling safe in his arms, but he felt that he’d failed you both in the past two weeks. It was heartbreaking for you to hear.

“Don’t cry—”

“You’re…fuck, Sylus. You’re not failing anyone,” you tuck your fork back into the pasta with a loud sniffle, ignoring his glare that silently demanded that you continue to eat. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

He looked entirely reluctant to answer, his head dropping back down to stare at his tiny twin. You didn’t want him to stop speaking again, so you quietly picked your fork back up, hoping it would capture his attention.

The silence stretched between you as you made the effort to eat for his sake. Even your daughter's cries became a little weaker—like she was pitying him.

He didn’t look at you as he said, “I’m the bad guy. The boogie man. The kind of monster that parents threaten their kids with visits from in the middle of the night if they don’t brush their teeth before bed.”

“Not in our story, you’re not,” you quickly reassured him earnestly. “You’re the husband and father who keeps the monsters away from your family. That’s the only Sylus she will ever know. The real one.”

He still didn’t look up from the newborn, now almost completely silent in his arms, but you catch a subtle bob in his throat. You didn’t need him to respond to you. You knew you had said the right words to soothe that self-deprecating thought in his complicated mind. You could see it.

“Have I told you how perfect you were two weeks ago,” he asked, knowing full well that he’d told her every day since then.

Your mouth curled into a soft smile. Even after all these years together—after welcoming your first child into this scary, yet beautiful world—Sylus had no trouble giving you butterflies.

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” you hummed softly.

And on that very note, the baby was fast asleep in his hold for the very first time in two whole weeks. His face didn’t reveal anything, but you knew he was relieved. All he wanted to do was make this easier for the both of you.

Finally, you had managed to figure out what the problem had been all this time.

“You were too tense,” you point out quietly, noticing how openly at ease he now was. “That’s what she didn’t like.”

He hummed in response, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping babe in his arms. You didn’t say anything further, letting him enjoy that special moment in peace while you proceeded to enjoy the rest of your meal.

Despite the challenges of becoming new parents, things were going to be alright from that point onwards.

A/N - Hello! I hope you enjoyed this oneshot, thank you so much for reading. Just to let you know, I do take requests ❤️

[luna-azzurra]

Vibes for Characters #3

Who Wear a Mask So Well, They’ve Forgotten Their Real Face

(The ones who are always what other people need and don’t know how to be anything else)

⛧ Mirrors the energy of whoever they’re talking to. You like jokes? They’re funny. You want quiet? They’re calm. You want deep? They’ve got metaphors. ⛧ Looks in the mirror and always thinks something feels… off. Like they’re wearing skin that isn’t quite theirs. ⛧ Doesn’t have favorite things, only the ones that make other people smile. ⛧ Says “no worries!” while bleeding out emotionally behind their back. ⛧ Knows exactly what to say to make someone feel seen, but has no idea how to ask for that in return. ⛧ When alone, they go silent. Like the absence of an audience erases the performance—and there’s nothing left. ⛧ Changes tone, style, even posture depending on who they’re with. ⛧ Has friends in every circle, but no one they call at 2am. ⛧ Desperately wants someone to look past the glitter and say: “You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to just be.” ⛧ Tells stories like they’re happening to someone else. ⛧ Always “fine.” Always helpful. Always on. Until they’re not. ⛧ Has a dream version of themselves they only let exist in daydreams. Somewhere where they’re messy, soft, real and still loved.

Who Would Die for Everyone but Don’t Think Anyone Would Mourn Them

(aka the quiet martyrs, the ones who love big but feel forgettable)

⛧ Always offering to help. Always the one who stays behind to clean up. ⛧ Doesn't ask for favors—not because they don’t need them, but because they don’t believe they’re allowed to take up that kind of space. ⛧ When someone thanks them, they brush it off with “It was nothing.” ⛧ Treats their own pain like a footnote. (Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.) ⛧ You could compliment them, and they’d smile, but their eyes would still say Why are you being so nice to me? ⛧ Constantly afraid of being annoying, even when they’ve barely spoken. ⛧ Hides their breakdowns by being “the responsible one.” Always smiling, always functional, quietly unraveling. ⛧ Finds comfort in tasks. Dishes. Errands. Anything that gives them purpose. ⛧ Would take a bullet for you and apologize for bleeding on your shirt. ⛧ Thinks no one really knows them, but blames themselves for that. ⛧ Their phone background is a quote that hurts. (“You are enough” makes them cry a little in the dark.) ⛧ If someone did tell them they matter, they’d cry, and then probably never believe it again.

Who Are So Emotionally Numb, They Don’t Realize They’re Already Breaking

(For when burnout becomes a personality trait and disassociation is just Tuesday)

⛧ Says “I don’t care” a lot. Usually means “I can’t afford to.” ⛧ Lives in a weird fog, can’t remember what they had for lunch or what day it is, but somehow still functioning. ⛧ Never first to speak in a group. Often doesn’t speak at all unless directly asked something. ⛧ Laughs at the right times. Smiles when expected. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you really looked. ⛧ Hasn’t cried in a long time. Not because they’re fine, because they forgot how. ⛧ Avoids mirrors. They don’t recognize the person looking back. ⛧ Can’t get excited about anything anymore, but keeps pretending like they can. ⛧ Keeps busy to outrun the numbness. Lists, routines, always moving. ⛧ Their sleep is either 12 hours or none at all. No in-between. ⛧ Gets caught staring at nothing, often. Blames it on “spacing out.” They’re not. ⛧ Doesn’t think about the future. The idea of hope is exhausting. ⛧ Still shows up. Still tries. That might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff

Just a few suggestions. You shouldn’t have to compromise your writing style and voice with any of these, and some situations and scenes might demand some stiff or jerky writing to better convey emotion and immersion. I am not the first to come up with these, just circulating them again.

1. Vary sentence structure.

This is an example paragraph. You might see this generated from AI. I can’t help but read this in a robotic voice. It’s very flat and undynamic. No matter what the words are, it will be boring. It’s boring because you don’t think in stiff sentences. Comedians don’t tell jokes in stiff sentences. We don’t tell campfire stories in stiff sentences. These often lack flow between points, too.

So funnily enough, I had to sit through 87k words of a “romance” written just like this. It was stiff, janky, and very unpoetic. Which is fine, the author didn’t tell me it was erotica. It just felt like an old lady narrator, like Old Rose from Titanic telling the audience decades after the fact instead of living it right in the moment. It was in first person pov, too, which just made it worse. To be able to write something so explicit and yet so un-titillating was a talent. Like, beginner fanfic smut writers at least do it with enthusiasm.

2. Vary dialogue tag placement

You got three options, pre-, mid-, and post-tags.

Leader said, “this is a pre-dialogue tag.”

“This,” Lancer said, “is a mid-dialogue tag.”

“This is a post-dialogue tag,” Heart said.

Pre and Post have about the same effect but mid-tags do a lot of heavy lifting.

They help break up long paragraphs of dialogue that are jank to look at

They give you pauses for ~dramatic effect~

They prompt you to provide some other action, introspection, or scene descriptor with the tag. *don't forget that if you're continuing the sentence as if the tag wasn't there, not to capitalize the first word after the tag. Capitalize if the tag breaks up two complete sentences, not if it interrupts a single sentence.

It also looks better along the lefthand margin when you don’t start every paragraph with either the same character name, the same pronouns, or the same “ as it reads more natural and organic.

3. When the scene demands, get dynamic

General rule of thumb is that action scenes demand quick exchanges, short paragraphs, and very lean descriptors. Action scenes are where you put your juicy verbs to use and cut as many adverbs as you can. But regardless of if you’re in first person, second person, or third person limited, you can let the mood of the narrator bleed out into their narration.

Like, in horror, you can use a lot of onomatopoeia.

Drip Drip Drip

Or let the narration become jerky and unfocused and less strict in punctuation and maybe even a couple run-on sentences as your character struggles to think or catch their breath and is getting very overwhelmed.

You can toss out some grammar rules, too and get more poetic.

Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. It rattles, a quiet, soggy, rasp. She shivers. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. Sweat beads at her temple. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba- It moves on, leaving a void of cold behind. She uncurls her fists, fingers achy and palms stinging from her nails. It’s gone.

4. Remember to balance dialogue, monologue, introspection, action, and descriptors.

The amount of times I have been faced with giant blocks of dialogue with zero tags, zero emotions, just speech on a page like they’re notecards to be read on a stage is higher than I expected. Don’t forget that though you may know exactly how your dialogue sounds in your head, your readers don’t. They need dialogue tags to pick up on things like tone, specifically for sarcasm and sincerity, whether a character is joking or hurt or happy.

If you’ve written a block of text (usually exposition or backstory stuff) that’s longer than 50 words, figure out a way to trim it. No matter what, break it up into multiple sections and fill in those breaks with important narrative that reflects the narrator’s feelings on what they’re saying and whoever they’re speaking to’s reaction to the words being said. Otherwise it’s meaningless.

—

Hope this helps anyone struggling! Now get writing.

[arkaiveofurown]

Unseen

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader

Sanji flirts with every woman he meets, yet with you, there’s nothing. No swooning, no sweet words, not even a blush. It leaves you wondering… why do you seem invisible to him?

Word Count: ~2,200

tag: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

——

The first time you stepped onto the Thousand Sunny, Sanji didn’t faint. He didn’t sprout hearts from his eyes or launch into poetic flattery. He simply… nodded.

“Welcome aboard,” he said politely, adjusting his tie.

That was it. No roses, no flirty remarks, no swooning. Just a brief greeting.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. You had just joined the crew after all, and you weren’t expecting a grand entrance. But when Nami casually mentioned it later, it stuck with you.

“Wow, he didn’t even drool this time. You might be the first.”

You laughed along, but deep down, it left a small ache in your chest.

It wasn’t like you expected anything. You’d joined as a mapkeeper and assistant navigator, someone quiet and observant. But it was hard not to notice the way Sanji practically worshipped every woman who stepped on board. Robin always had coffee before she even asked. Nami had a seat pulled out for her every meal. You?

You got a plate and a soft “here you go.” No nicknames. No sparkles.

So you told yourself: You’re just not his type.

And it was fine. Or at least, you pretended it was.

——

Zoro saw it first. Sanji, standing outside the galley one morning, tray in hand, just… staring.

You were down the hall, laughing at something Luffy said. The sun caught your face just right, and Sanji? He froze like an idiot.

“Oi, cook,” Zoro muttered. “You gonna serve that or stand there drooling?”

Sanji flinched and muttered a curse. “Shut up. I’m just—checking the balance of the tray.”

“Uh huh.”

Zoro didn’t buy it. Over the next week, he started noticing the pattern.

Whenever you were around, Sanji got weirdly quiet. When you entered the kitchen, he found a reason to leave. When you complimented the food, he thanked you and turned away, ears pink.

“You’ve got it bad,” Zoro told him one night.

Sanji lit a cigarette and stared at the sea. “She’s not like the others.”

“Because she doesn’t punch you for being a perv?”

“No. Because she actually sees me.”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap.”

“…Maybe.”

——

You leaned over the kitchen counter one afternoon, watching Sanji stir a pot.

“That smells incredible,” you said, inhaling.

He stiffened. “You… think so?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know how you always get the seasoning so perfect.”

His fingers fumbled the spoon. “Years of practice. Tasting. Balancing—uh, it’s not that hard.”

You tilted your head. “You always downplay it around me.”

“What?”

“You’re proud when Nami compliments you. You give Robin full ingredient breakdowns. But when I say something, you get all weird.”

He coughed awkwardly, grabbing the salt. “I—I do not.”

“You do,” you said softly, the joke falling flat as something in your chest twisted. “It’s fine, though. I guess I’m not really… your type.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And for a moment, the kitchen felt too quiet. You busied yourself with brushing crumbs off the counter, trying to act like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

You’d seen the way Sanji looked at every other woman—stars in his eyes, endless flattery, a poetic streak a mile wide. Meanwhile, you got nods. Maybe a smile if you were lucky. No pet names. No swooning. You couldn’t help but wonder if something about you just didn’t measure up.

Too plain. Too quiet. Not glamorous enough.

Maybe he just didn’t see you the way you saw him.

Sanji didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then his voice came, low and strange.

“…You’re not boring. You’re the opposite of boring.”

You looked at him, surprised.

“What’s that mean?”

But he was already moving again, pretending to focus on a tray of bread as his face turned red.

“I’ve got stuff in the oven,” he said quickly, already backing toward the pantry. “Gotta check the spice rack. Or… something.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You stood in the kitchen alone, staring after him, your heart a tangle of confusion.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—that he kept running from you…

Or the possibility that it wasn’t rejection at all.

Just something deeper he didn’t know how to name.

——

“Nami,” you said quietly one night, sitting beneath the stars, “Do you think… I’m Sanji’s type?”

Nami blinked. “What?”

You shrugged. “He’s never flirted with me. Not once. I figured… I don’t know. Maybe I’m not pretty enough.”

Nami stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you kidding? Sanji blushes so hard when you enter the room, he has to stir soup just to calm down.”

You frowned. “What?”

“He’s obsessed with you.”

You shook your head. “But he doesn’t even talk to me half the time.”

Nami sighed. “Exactly. That’s how you know it’s real. You’ve seen him flirt—he lays it on thick when it’s easy. With you, it’s not.”

“…Why?”

“Because you matter,” Nami said simply. “You’re not a crush. You’re you.”

And suddenly, all the quiet glances, the silence, the fumbling—it made sense.

——

It was raining on the next island. You pulled your hood tighter and jogged ahead, boots splashing through puddles as you helped Nami carry supplies back to the ship.

Sanji was waiting at the docks, umbrella in hand. The second he saw you, something shifted.

Everything slowed.

He watched you running through the rain, hair damp, laughing, cheeks pink from the cold. Your eyes found his—and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He held the umbrella out as you ducked beneath it beside him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, catching your breath.

He stared.

“Sanji?”

He blinked. “Y-Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“…I’m doomed,” he muttered.

You laughed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Let’s get inside before you catch cold.”

——

You found him in the kitchen later that night, leaning against the counter, cigarette unlit between his fingers.

“You always stare at me like that when I’m not looking?” you asked.

He jumped. “W-What?!”

You smiled. “Zoro told me. And Nami. And Chopper.”

He groaned. “Traitors.”

“Why don’t you flirt with me?” you asked softly.

He swallowed. “Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He looked up, eyes burning. “Because you’re not a fantasy, Y/N. You’re real. You laugh when I’m stupid and smile when I’m quiet and I—” he broke off, voice low, “—I don’t want to screw it up.”

You stepped forward.

“What if I told you it’s okay to be nervous? That I see you, too?”

He stared.

“And what if I said I like the version of you that gets shy more than the one who flirts?”

He dropped the cigarette.

“I’d say…” he whispered, “…that’s the best lie I’ve ever heard.”

You grinned.

“It’s not a lie.”

——

The next morning, he pulled out your chair at breakfast.

“Good morning, my sunshine,” he said dramatically, hand over his heart.

You raised an eyebrow.

“You flirting with me now?”

He smirked, blush rising. “Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.”

Zoro groaned. “He’s back.”

But this time, Sanji didn’t wink at Nami or flirt with Robin.

He just kept stealing glances at you.

And when you caught him, instead of looking away, he smiled.

Because for once, he wasn’t scared.

[beloveds-embrace]

(poly 141 x reader with non-sexual dom john price bc i am a whore for him)

You’re not reckless; you are calculated.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you rush the objective, half expecting to get clipped, half hoping it might happen just hard enough to matter. A sharp enough consequence to justify the chaos rattling in your chest. A hit that would, for once, hurt more physically than mentally.

But it never happens, because you get out.

Again.

And when you stagger into the safehouse, vest half-shredded, blood caking your neck and a quiet look in your eyes that screams what the fuck is wrong with you, it’s not Gaz or Soap who calls you on it. It’s not even your Lieutenant.

It’s the Captain.

Price doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands near the back wall, arms crossed, eyes cold and unreadable under the brim of his cap. Everyone else talks; Ghost grunts, Soap slaps your back, and Gaz offers water.

Price watches.

Watches you. Watches how you brush them off. How your hand trembles when you take the water bottle. How you don’t really hear anything they’re saying.

And when you try to pass him without a word- head down, body bowed, heart dragging low in your chest- that’s when it happens.

And hand shoots out, and thick fingers wrap around the scruff of your collar, yanking you back with practiced ease. You stumble, off-balance, but he barely lets you flinch before he drags you down into the seat between his knees. Scruffed, like a misbehaving mutt.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough, either. It’s deliberate. Like everything else John Price does.

“Try that again,” he murmurs low against your ear, “and I’ll make sure you don’t so much as breathe without checking in first.”

His hands settle heavy across your shoulders, just there. Like an anchor. Like a silent demand: Stay. Sit. Don’t move. You’re not going anywhere. Like he thinks if he lets go, you might unravel into the smoke of his cigars and drift out the window.

You stare forward, muscles coiled, but not fighting it because even if you wanted to, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

The rest of the room doesn’t react. Gaz’s back is to you, unbothered, watching Soap root through the medkit. Ghost flicks his eyes your way once, gives a small nod to Price, then moves on.

This is normal. Not just that, but also routine.

You are under Price’s hand now, and they all know better than to interfere when he’s decided someone is his problem to handle.

They’ve seen this before.

They’ve been there, in their own ways.

“You think you’re clever,” he says quietly, voice low enough only for you, “Rushing in like that. Like your body’s expendable. Like I wouldn’t notice.”

You say nothing.

“I told you,” he continues, the growl of his voice like a match striking dry wood. “I see you pulling this shit again, I make damn sure you won’t so much as take a piss without me signing off.”

He tightens his grip just enough to remind you: talk.

You want to tell him to fuck off. To let you go. To stop seeing through you like glass held up to sunlight, but you aren’t stupid enough to do that.

“I’m fine.” You mutter.

“Bullshit,” he replies instantly, and you can feel his glare. “You’re bleeding, you’re shaking, and you’ve looked like a ghost since the last op.”

You try to shrug him off, instead, and it is a big mistake.

The arm around you locks, and suddenly your back is pressed tight to his chair. His breath is hot by your ear, the scent of blood and gunpowder and cigars curling around you.

“You wanna play this game?” he snaps. “Where you pretend not to care what happens to you? Fine. But you’ll do it sitting right the fuck here until I’m satisfied you won’t drop dead the moment I blink. You run, and I’ll find you. You disappear, and I’ll tear up every goddamn city from here to the Urals until I get my hands on you again. You hear me?”

You clench your jaw. Try to keep it together. The ache behind your eyes threatens to spill over.

“I don’t need to,” he murmurs back. “I just need to keep you breathing.”

There’s silence for a while, after that. Your mouth feels stitched shut, and you feel no particular rush to tear it open and let your words spill out. Eventually, your shoulders drop. Your head tilts, ever so slightly, against his knee. The tension bleeds out of you slow, like sap from a broken tree.

Price doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything more. He simply keeps you there, solid against him, and the others still don’t say anything.

they’re used to how he gets when someone forgets their worth.

[clockwayswrites]

More DoMAYn D5 Cont Chapter 2, Part 2

masterpostish just look at day 5. mental abilities iffy, please no con crit or editing <3

Danny, Jason, and Mr. Wayne all pile into the back of a car that Vlad would be jealous off. Neither of the adults even blink at the mud that’s getting on the floor and seats from the graveyard. Still, Danny tries not to fidget too much and make the mess worse.

Jason still has Danny’s sleeve in his grip, even as he’s leaning heavily against his dad. It means that Danny can’t get the seat belt in, but Alfred is driving like he’s got the most precious cargo so it doesn’t really matter.

“We need to go to Leslie’s,” Mr. Wayne says.

Alfred gives a nod. “I’ve already notified her that we’re on the way. She’ll be expecting us at the staff entrance.”

“Danny, are you hurt at all?”

Danny can’t help but start a little at that. “What? Oh, no, I’m okay. I just helped Jason out.”

“Leslie is a doctor and close family friend, we’re going to her clinic. If anything is wrong, they can see to it,” Mr. Wayne explains.

Danny shakes his head. What’s all the concern about? “No, really, I’m okay. Just a little cold and muddy.”

“How long were you out there, dear boy?” Alfred asks from the front.

“Just a few hours.” With his parents were gone ghost hunting, it was easy enough to just leave when he needed to. Sure, he planned in extra time to make sure he got there and find the graveyard and the plot, but he had his phone to entertain him.

Mr. Wayne is watching him with too seeing eyes. “So, you knew to be there?”

Fuck. “Um, the sticky notes.”

Searching around in his backpack one handed is a little hard, since Jason won’t let him lean far, but he manages to grab the slightly crumpled square of bright green paper with the time, plot number, and cemetery name on it.

Mr. Wayne takes the note like it’s something that could explode. “Do you know who these come from?”

“Yeah?” Danny’s nose scrunches up at that. “I’m not going to listen to strange notes from someone I don’t know.”

“Well, that is wise,” Alfre says. He almost sounds amused for some reason that Danny doesn’t get.

It seems safest just to be quiet for the rest of the drive. Besides, his silence gives Mr. Wayne tie to focus on his son. Danny listens without trying to as Mr. Wayne checks over Jason’s battered fingertips. Jason’s answers are stilted, but Danny thinks that Jason is already speaking more clearly. When Jason’s voice starts getting rough, Danny offers the thermos.

“It’s just tea,” he explains, looking at Jason rather than Mr. Wayne. “I thought Jason would be cold, you know, being underground all that time, so I brought it with me. He’s had some apple slices too and an oatmeal cookie.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Alfred comments. “We were in such a rush, we brought nothing with us.”

“Oh, no, yeah, course you were,” Danny says. “I’m sure that was… startling.”

“To say the least, but in the very best way,” Alfred says. He catches Danny’s eye in the rearview mirror for a moment. “In Gotham, you learn to accept the impossible.”

Danny nods as if he understands.

-

Arriving at the clinic is a flurry of activity. Mr. Wayne helps Jason into a waiting wheelchair. Alfred ushers Danny out of the car. There’s an older woman with kind eyes and a stern voice directing everything. Before Danny can even protest he has a fuzzy fabric hooked up to a tube squeezing his arm. He’s seated next to Jason because Jason wouldn’t stop trying to move until Danny was close enough to touch.

“I’m fine?” Danny tries to tell the nurse.

“Hold out your other hand please,” the nurse says instead of listening and sticks what Danny guesses is some sort of monitoring thing around Danny’s fingertip.

“Bruce,” the older woman says, a firm question in the man’s name. She has Bruce pulled off to the side and her voice low.

“Alfred got a call just after eleven,” Bruce says with a little motion, “from someone named Danny that he was in the cemetery with Jason. Alfred heard Jason over the line, got me, and we as quickly as we could. And… there he was, Leslie, just sitting there.”

The woman, Leslie, Danny guesses, shoots a glance towards them. “He looks like Jason.”

“He knew me,” Bruce agrees.

Clone? With transferred memories?” Leslie asked, as if that was a normal thing to just have to ask.

“We haven’t run any DNA yet,” Bruce says back, unphased.

“No, it’s Jason,” Danny protests. He doesn’t care that he’s not supposed to hear from so far away, he wouldn’t let Jason be doubted like this. “As long as Jason is who was in that grave, then that’s Jason. I helped pull himself out myself!”

“It is simple that the earth was hardly disturbed that brings questions,” Alfred soothes.

“That’s because—it’s just… I’m a—a meta!” Danny says. It’s… enough the truth. He reaches out a hand and waves it through the machine the cuff is connected too. “I heard him screaming in his coffin. I pulled him out!”

Jason grabs Danny’s hand as soon as it’s solid and clings to it. “I’m—I’m me. I don’t—I… I remember dying. Dad, I remember d-dying. There was so much smoke. The door wouldn’t open and-d I t-tried…”

Mr. Wayne is across the room in an instant and has Jason wrapped up in a hug. Danny looks away, as if he can give them any privacy being right there. Leslie at least gives him a distraction by coming over to take off the weird cuff and finger thing.

He doesn’t like the way she crouches down in front of him though.

“It’s Danny, right?” she asks. It’s like she’s using a ‘teacher voice’ but one step to the side. It’s weird.

“Yeah,” Danny answers anyways.

“Danny, how long were you out in the cold?”

“Why does everyone care about that?” Danny asks in what is totally not a whine. “It was only a few hours.”

“Well, Danny, I’m asking because your blood pressure and pulse are both really low,” Leslie explains. “Is that normal for you?”

“Oh, is that what those were measuring?” Danny asks with a little shrug. “I don't know? I don’t feel that different from normal. Like, I’m just a little tired but it’s been a busy day, you know?”

“I’m sure it has,” she agreed in that same patient voice. “When was the last time you were to a doctor?”

When had it been? Was that weird? “Since I was little, I guess? My parents are biologists, and they just take us to the pharmacy for shots and things.”

“Well, Danny, since you’re here and we’re going to be running some tests on Jason anyways, how about we run some tests on you t—”

“No!” Danny is up and out of the chair before she can even visit. He can’t go far because, well, Jason, but he’s not going to stay sitting down for this. “Nope. No tests. I’m not a lab rat.”

Leslie is almost frustratingly calm. “You’re not, and no one is going to try and make you into one. I just would like to make sure you’re healthy. How about this, any test we do on Jason, you can watch. If I think it would be a good one for you to do, I’ll ask and you can decide if you want to or not, okay?”

Danny chews on his lip as he thinks that over. Slowly, he nods. If he can always say no later, it doesn’t hurt to agree for now, he figures.

It makes Leslie smile. “Great. We’re going to start by taking care of Jason’s hands, okay?”

Danny doesn’t really have any say in that, but he nods anyways. Mostly just because one of Jason’s hand is in his. As it is, they take care of one hand before having Danny swap sides, and then take care off the other. They make Danny scrub up in between and change into some clean, if too big, sweats, but he’s fine with that. He doesn’t want to be anything that makes Jason sick.

They take the chance to weight Danny and take his height during that, but those are fine. That’s normal, right?

He tucks himself between the wall and the exam chair thing Jason is one when he gets back in the room. Jason’s bandaged hand finds his sleeve.

“This is just a basic reflex test,” Dr. Leslie explains as she taps on Jason’s knee with a prehistoric looking tool. Jason’s knee jerks forward. “Your reflexes are a little slow right now, Jason, but if you did just… come back, there might be some rigor mortis still in play. Jason, do you feel stiff?”

Jason nods slowly. When he speaks it’s very carefully, as if his tongue doesn’t want to listen. “Everywhere. Like… when had that bad flu. All fuzzy too… it’s hard to… yeah.”

Dr. Leslie breathes deeply and lets it out slowly. “Okay. There’s only so much we can do here, but let’s run through some more tests.”

[cece693]

So I just read a fic on Tumblr about reader acalling their lover 'bro', 'dude', etc. and I thought it was hilarious. Like it's something so harmless but your lover sees it like betrayal. I couldn't think of a person who would allow such a thing, but then comes in Joe Goldberg :)

You’re My Bro—Wait, What?

pairing: joe goldberg x male reader tags: 'bro' zoned, power bottom Joe, no explicit smut but mentions of it, reader is amused, Joe is not, casual turned into relationship, Joe monologuing

You’re starting to think Joe might be just a little too possessive—but hey, that’s half the fun, right? The two of you are standing at a crowded bar, shoulders touching as you each cradle a drink, when one of your friends strides over. You see Joe tense the moment they look between you and him, curiosity shining in their eyes. “So are you guys—?”

“Buddies,” you blurt, before you can think of something more diplomatic. Joe’s entire posture goes rigid as a steel rod. You can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

(Joe's inner monologue): You have got to be kidding me. First, “friend.” Then, “buddy.” Now, “bro.” Every time he does this, it feels like I’m being listed on some discount website: ‘And here’s my pal Joe, 50% off while supplies last!’ Doesn’t he realize he’s basically advertising that he’s still on the market? Am I a placeholder until some new fling shows up? Because I am definitely not a placeholder.

You finish the interaction with your friend, laugh awkwardly, and they move off to join the crowd. You turn to Joe, but he’s already looking at you with that borderline laser-focused stare. “Hey, buddy,” you try, testing your luck with a playful grin. Joe’s brow twitches, and you mentally kick yourself—buddy is basically the forbidden word at this point.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s doing it on purpose…right? He must be doing it on purpose. Is he oblivious, or am I supposed to interpret this as some twisted come-on?

“Not now,” he says under his breath. “We’re going somewhere quieter.” He practically grabs you by the wrist, weaving through the bar crowd, until you’re both in a dimly lit corridor near the bathrooms. The incessant clacking of pool balls and muffled Top 40 hits fade behind the hum of neon beer signs.

You watch Joe pace in a tight circle, raking his fingers through his hair. It’s endearing and simultaneously a bit intense—like he’s one step away from either kissing you or strangling you. (In Joe’s defense, that’s basically his resting expression.) “Okay,” you begin, leaning back against the wall, “what was that about?”

He whirls on you, eyes narrowed. “You keep calling me your buddy. Or your pal. Or your bro. I’m not some backup plan you keep on the sidelines until you find a better guy to binge-watch Netflix with.”

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Dude, it’s just—”

(Joe's inner monologue): Oh, now I’m ‘dude?’ Fantastic. Might as well just write ‘NOT AVAILABLE FOR COMMITMENT’ on my forehead.

“It’s not just anything,” he hisses, crossing his arms. “I’m pretty sure after everything we’ve done—” He lowers his voice, leaning in. “After letting you do literally every position we saw in that questionable YouTube video—maybe you could stop calling me bro.”

You open your mouth, realize no words are coming, then awkwardly clear your throat. “Alright, maybe I have been a little casual about this, but that’s only because we’ve never had the talk. I didn’t think you’d want me shouting from the rooftops about how we’re—”

Joe cuts you off, stepping closer. “And maybe I don’t want a rooftop announcement. But I do expect more respect than a frat-house label.”

(Joe's inner monologue): Just say it. Just say you want me. No big speech, no elaborate plan—just an acknowledgement that I matter. That’s not too much to ask… right?

“Fine,” you admit, swallowing your pride. “You matter. I’m not looking for anyone else. I’m not hooking up with random guys. But, Joe, you gotta give me a little grace. I’m not great at labeling…this.” You gesture between the two of you.

Joe exhales loudly. “Right. Labeling is apparently your kryptonite. Noted. Just...can we skip this weird in-between? Because every time you say ‘bro,’ it sounds like you’re flipping the sign on the door from exclusive to vacancy.”

You sigh, stepping in closer, placing a hand on Joe’s waist. “Dude—I mean—Joe, you’re not replaceable.” You soften your voice. “I’m not looking to replace you. I’m not looking for anything new. I’m good right here.”

He stares back at you, arms still crossed, but his gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. Before you know it, the tension in that cramped hallway flips from charged anger to charged…something else. Joe’s eyes flash with a challenge, and you swear he’s daring you to make a move. You lean in and give him a slow kiss, feeling him momentarily stiffen before melting against you. It’s kind of funny—he’s so prickly about your label issues, but the second your lips meet, he’s turning to jelly. Well, controlling jelly.

He tugs on the front of your shirt, yanking you closer so your hips align with his. You groan against his mouth, the adrenaline from the argument still spiking through your veins. “Still want to argue?” you tease, pulling back.

Joe’s cheeks flush, but his gaze is steady. “Oh, I can argue and get what I want,” he mutters.

There’s a momentary scramble of limbs, heated looks, and the two of you decide that maybe the corridor behind the bathrooms isn’t the best place for what’s about to happen. Next thing you know, you’re ducking into the single-occupancy restroom—fortunately not locked. You twist the lock shut behind you while Joe promptly shoves you against the sink, eyes blazing.

(Joe's inner monologue): We’ve done this in decent places: my apartment, his place, that weird bookstore corner once (don’t get me started). But a bar bathroom, mid-argument? Maybe it’s not the classiest setting, but I need him to understand: I might be the one on my back, but I’m the one running this show.

He’s on you again—biting kisses, needy hands. Every swipe of his tongue is laced with frustration, wanting to prove a point. The comedic reality that you’re in a dingy bathroom, complete with flickering fluorescent light and a questionably stained sink, is not lost on either of you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Joe’s breath is already ragged when he spins around, shoving you onto the closed toilet lid. He straddles you, controlling the angle despite being underneath—or, technically, on top—of you. You blink up at him, a little stunned by how quickly he’s taken charge.

(Joe's inner monologue): He might be bigger, physically stronger, but I’ve never had trouble taking the reins. Because if I don’t, he’ll probably just keep calling me ‘pal’ until the day we die.

His lips brush your ear. “You’re gonna remember who I am after tonight,” he murmurs, voice husky. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ Unless you’re aiming for round two of this discussion.”

There’s definitely some comedic irony that you were just seconds away from strangling each other verbally, and now Joe’s tugging you into a feverish, borderline out-of-breath makeout. He’s got that gift of making every single movement deliberate—grinding down just enough, leaning back just enough, whispering exactly what he wants.

A short while later—between the occasional slam on the wall from someone in the hallway telling you to hurry up—Joe’s making sure you fully understand your position. He’s the bottom, but he’s the one guiding the pace, telling you exactly how he wants it, and you, well…you’re happy to give it to him.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s going to call me something else from now on. Not ‘bro.’ Not ‘buddy.’ Something that actually says I’m important. Because the truth is, there’s no one else like me. He’ll see that. By the time we’re done, he’ll more than see it—he’ll feel it.

Eventually, you both emerge, hair mussed, lips swollen, clothes hastily adjusted. The rest of the bar patrons give you a mix of amused and annoyed looks—apparently, you were in there a while.

Joe clears his throat, straightening his jacket with that almost comical air of dignity (as if he didn’t just thoroughly test the structural integrity of the bathroom sink). You wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close. He doesn’t protest—although he narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he’s waiting for you to casually toss out the dreaded word again.

“So…” you start, leaning in so only he can hear you. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ I get it, loud and clear. Boyfriend good enough?”

His lips part. You’d swear you see relief flash across his face, but he masks it quickly with mild annoyance. “That’ll do for now,” he grumbles, but his hand slides into yours, interlocking fingers. The contact is firm—possessive, even.

You grin, guiding him back toward the bar for that second drink (which you both probably need after the fiasco in the bathroom). He glances up at you, expression softening.

(Joe's inner monologue): ‘Boyfriend’…that’s what I wanted to hear. Maybe it’s not a rooftop shout, but it’s a start. And if he even thinks about calling me ‘dude’ again, well…I’m not opposed to repeating that whole argument just for the fun of making up.

He notices you smiling to yourself. With a mock glare, Joe warns, “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m on to you.”

You chuckle and press a quick kiss to his temple. “Relax, boyfriend. I’m just thinking about how this’ll be one hell of a story to tell…well, maybe not the bathroom part.”

[inseobts]

So I see 👀👀 requests are open! I really really love your writing and would like to request a scenario with Sabo. The fem!reader would be like some kind of investigator for hire and would do any job if the price is right, from finding out if your spouse is cheating to infiltrating a royal court to give you top secret info and Sabo is trying to get her to join the Revolutionary Army every time they come across eachother (which is a lot because spying on the bourgeoisie is a lucrative job 😏😏)

Blondie and Detective

sabo x fem!reader

a/n: this came out really really long but I kept getting ideas, so I hope you'll enjoy it aw

words count: 8.5k

tags: espionage, revolution vs profit, enemies to lovers vibes, tension, slow burn, action, banter-heavy

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Rain taps on the rooftop like impatient fingers. A thick fog creeps over the city, a rich people’s kingdom, where gold means everything and truth means nothing.

You’re crouched on the roof of a fancy estate, watching the ballroom through your scope. Music floats up through open windows. Nobles dance below, laughing like they’ve never known fear. You’re not here for the music or the wine. You’re here for the letter.

Your client said the Duke is hiding something, military plans, maybe trade secrets. Doesn’t matter. You get paid to find things, not judge them.

You adjust the lens, zoom in on a stiff-looking man in a red jacket. Messenger. Sweaty hands. Nervous eyes. You watch as he slips a sealed envelope to a servant girl, who disappears through a side door.

“Gotcha” you whisper.

You slide down the gutter pipe, quiet as a cat. Through a second-story balcony, in and out like smoke. You’re halfway to the hallway when— “You’re getting sloppy.”

You freeze. That voice.

You turn, slow, annoyed.

There he is. Blond curls, black coat, arms crossed, goggles pushed up like he owns the place. He always shows up like this, out of nowhere, with that smug little smile like he knows something you don’t.

“Blondie...” you say flatly.

“Miss me?” he says.

You stare “You’re in my way.”

He glances behind you at the ballroom “You’re after the letter?”

“I was,” you snap “Until someone decided to start chatting in the middle of my job.”

“Someone just saved you from getting shot,” he says casually “Third window to the left. Look.”

You do. And yeah... there’s a guy with a crossbow, watching the hallway like a hawk. You mutter a curse under your breath.

“Fine,” you say “Thanks.”

Sabo grins “You’re welcome.”

He steps closer. Too close. You don’t move.

“So,” he says, “same question as always. Ready to stop chasing paychecks and join the Revolution?”

You raise an eyebrow “Same answer as always. No.”

“You could do more with your skills.”

“I am doing more. I’m doing everything. For the right price.”

He laughs “You really don’t care who hires you?”

“As long as the money’s good and the target’s worse than me? No.”

“That’s a short list.”

“Lucky for me, the world’s full of bad people.”

You sidestep him, heading toward the hallway. You don’t look back. You already know he’s following.

“You could work with me” he says.

“You’re not my type.”

“I meant on the job.”

“So did I.”

You peek around the corner. Two guards. One hallway. No problem.

“You know,” Sabo says quietly behind you, “we’d make a good team.”

You glance at him over your shoulder “You talk too much.”

“And you like it.”

You roll your eyes “Don’t push your luck, Blondie.”

He smirks “Lead the way, detective.”

You move. Fast. Quiet. Focused.

He follows. Loud in a way that’s not about sound, just there, filling the space with heat and chaos and questions you don’t want to ask.

Not yet.

Maybe later.

You’re halfway through a lukewarm cup of black coffee when the bell over the café door jingles.

You don’t look up at first. This job’s too easy to expect trouble. Rich guy thinks his assistant is stealing silverware. Real dramatic stuff. You’re here to follow the assistant and confirm if he’s a thief or just has a twitchy pocket.

You glance at the small mirror propped on your table. You freeze.

Of course.

Of course.

Sabo slides into the seat across from you like it’s his usual spot. Black coat. Blond curls. That same casual look, like he just woke up in a castle and decided to crash your life again.

You squint at him “No way.”

“Hi to you, too.” he says, resting his chin on his hand like this is a date.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“This café has really good scones,” he says, then lowers his voice “And there’s something important going on.”

You stare “Important? This isn’t a revolutionary hotspot. It’s a bakery. My target is stealing forks.”

“There’s more to it than that” he says, calm. Too calm.

You narrow your eyes “You’re telling me this boring little fork-theft job is somehow connected to the Revolutionary Army?”

“I’m saying it might be.”

You fold your arms “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs “I don’t give out answers for free anymore.”

You snort “Since when do you hold information hostage?”

“Since I realized it’s the only way to get you to work with me.”

You lean back in your chair, staring at him “So what—you want me to partner up again?”

He smiles “Just for this one. Could be fun.”

“Last time I nearly got a knife in the leg.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“Because I handled it.”

He lifts his coffee cup “Exactly. Imagine how easy this would be if we teamed up from the start.”

You shake your head “Nope. Not biting.”

“Even if it’s bigger than it looks?” he asks, voice lower now, just serious enough to make your gut tighten.

You hate that you’re curious.

You try to ignore the itch in your brain “If you’re so sure it’s something big, why not handle it alone?”

“I could,” he says, eyes locked with yours “But I don’t want to.”

That throws you off for a second. You look away, annoyed at your own pause.

He sips his drink like he hasn’t just dropped that weird little truth bomb.

“Still no,” you mutter “You don’t get to dangle mystery crap in front of me and expect me to follow like a puppy.”

“No puppy I’ve ever met carries poison darts in her coat” he says, grinning.

You smile in spite of yourself. Just a little.

Then you stand “Good luck with your important fork mission, Blondie. I’ll be watching from my own shadow.”

He stays seated, smiling up at you “I’ll be around if you change your mind.”

You turn and walk away, but you feel his eyes on your back all the way out the door.

You hate that he makes things interesting.

You hate it even more that a part of you wants to go back and ask what the hell is really going on.

You’re bored.

That’s the most dangerous thing in your line of work. Not bullets. Not knives. Not corrupt guards with itchy trigger fingers.

Boredom.

It makes your mind wander. Makes you look too long at the gold-plated chandeliers. At the delicate snacks on silver trays. At the man across from you trying way too hard to impress you.

And it makes you think of him.

You haven’t seen him in months. Not since that stupid fork job. At first, it was nice. Peaceful, even. No smug smile sneaking up behind you. No lectures about changing the world. No offers to join the Revolution.

But noow it’s weird.

You almost miss him. Not that you’d say it out loud. Or even admit it to yourself for more than a second. But the question keeps floating through your brain:

Why hasn’t he shown up?

And why are you thinking about him in the middle of a mission?

You blink and focus. You’re at a royal gala. Dressed like someone who belongs here. Elegant, expensive, bored out of your mind. Your target is a noble—round, rich, red-nosed, and currently getting suspiciously cozy with a foreign diplomat. You’re supposed to keep an eye on him, maybe follow him when he leaves.

Easy. Too easy.

Which is probably why your brain is being stupid.

“—and I said, if I wanted a real ship, I’d buy one, not borrow from the Marines” says the man in front of you, laughing at his own joke. You don’t remember his name. You never bothered to learn it.

He leans closer “You’ve been quiet. Thinking about me?”

You look at him like he’s a mosquito “No.”

He grins anyway “Come now, beautiful. A woman like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

You’re about to lie or stab him with your butter knife, but then—

“Mind if I steal this beautiful woman for a dance?”

That voice.

That voice.

Your heart stumbles. You look up.

He’s there. Blond, charming, annoyingly handsome in a formal coat that fits him too well. Goggles gone. Hair slicked back just enough.

He’s holding out his hand, smile calm but eyes watching you. Carefully. Like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You don’t say anything. You just rise from your chair, take his hand, and walk away like the other guy doesn’t even exist. You don’t look back.

“Wow,” Sabo murmurs as you reach the dance floor “Didn’t think you’d actually shove him like that.”

“I didn’t shove,” you mutter “I guided.”

He laughs “Gently guided him into the furniture.”

“You’re late.”

“For the dance?”

“For everything.”

He twirls you, smooth, confident. Then pulls you close again. Too close. You suddenly realize how warm he is. How steady. How his hand fits perfectly at your back, guiding you toward.

“Let’s dance next to your target” he says quietly, like it’s a secret between only you two.

You don’t even ask how he knows. You just let him lead.

You move through the crowd together, twirling and gliding right into the perfect position. Your target is just over Sabo’s shoulder now.

Only when you’re in place do you realize how close your faces are. How his breath brushes your cheek when he speaks.

“I’m sorry” he says.

You blink “What?”

“I should’ve said something. Disappearing for that long, it wasn’t the plan.”

You snort “Why are you apologizing? It’s not like we work together. Or like we’re friends. Or something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow “Something like that, huh?”

You hate how your face warms.

You don’t answer. You look over his shoulder again, watching your target raise a drink and whisper something into a diplomat’s ear.

But part of your mind is still stuck on the weight of his hand on your waist. And the fact that he did come back.

You move across the ballroom floor like you belong there, like you care about this dance. But your heart is nowhere near your target anymore.

It’s stuck somewhere between the weight of his hand on your waist and the word he just said.

“Sorry.”

You glance up “You already said that.”

“I meant it.” His voice is quieter now “I’ve got… news.”

You raise an eyebrow “Let me guess. You’ll only tell me if I say yes to joining the Revolution.”

He smiles a little “I usually would.”

You sigh, already annoyed, then you freeze.

Because this time… He speaks.

“I remembered everything.”

You blink “What?”

“My past. My childhood. It came back.” He swallows, and for once, he’s not looking at you like he has the upper hand “I remembered my brothers. And I found one of them.”

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

“I met Luffy again,” Sabo says, voice soft but full “After all those years.”

Luffy.

You’ve heard that name before. That’s the kid... no, the pirate, who’s shaking the world right now.

Your brain struggles to keep up “Wait. You have a brother who’s… that Luffy?”

“I had two brothers,” he says, and there’s something heavy in his voice now “One of them… Ace… died.”

You feel the shift in him. In the room. Like all the noise and music fades into nothing.

“I never remembered him until now,” he continues “And when I did… I found out about his Devil Fruit. What was left of him. And I—”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then “I fought for it. And I won.”

You stare at him. Not just at the words but the way he says them. Like they’re not secrets. Like he wants you to know.

Like you’re someone who deserves to know.

Which is ridiculous.

You don’t ask about his past. You don’t share yours. That’s the deal. That’s how this works.

But he’s looking at you like you’re close. And that’s too much.

You stop dancing. Right there in the middle of the floor.

He blinks “What—?”

You take a step back, breaking the space between you. It suddenly feels hot. Too loud. Too much.

But then you see his face, open, confused, a little hurt.

Damn it.

You grab his wrist “Come with me.”

He lets you pull him without asking questions. You weave through the crowd, out the side door, into the cool, quiet air of the garden balcony.

He finally speaks “What about your target?”

You turn, facing him “I don’t care.”

His eyebrows lift “You… don’t?”

“Not right now,” you say, crossing your arms “Keep talking.”

He looks surprised. Really surprised. Then he smiles. Not his usual smirk. Something softer.

“You actually want to know?”

“Maybe,” you mutter “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughs once “Alright, detective. Where should I start?”

You shrug, trying to ignore how fast your heart is beating “Wherever you left off.”

The balcony is quiet. The soft sound of the party behind you fades into the background. You lean against the railing, arms crossed, as Sabo stands in front of you, looking for once like a man who doesn’t have it all under control.

He tells you everything.

Not just the facts, but the feelings, too. About losing his memories. About waking up with holes in his mind. About the strange weight in his chest when he saw Luffy again. About the funeral he missed, the brother he remembered too late. About the fire fruit. The tournament. The fight. The win.

You don’t interrupt. You just… listen.

And when he’s done, there’s silence between you. He watches you, waiting. You tilt your head slightly.

“Okay, Blondie,” you say slowly, your voice calm, almost teasing “I know about Ace. From the news. The whole world does.”

His eyebrows shoot up “First thing, my name isn’t Blondie but it’s Sabo. And then… you know?”

You nod skipping past the name thing he said “I mean… big fire guy. Big execution. Big mess. Sad ending. Even someone like me couldn’t miss it.” You pause. Then smirk “So now you got fire powers?”

He blinks “I—yeah, I do.”

“Prove it.” You lean in slightly “Show me.”

His eyes widen “Here?”

“Why not? There's no one else.”

Sabo stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious. You are.

He sighs once, smiles, then lifts his hand.

One finger rises. His gloved hand stills in the air. And then a flame sparks to life at the tip of his index finger.

Not just a spark. It burns. Bright. Alive. Orange and gold, like a piece of the sun. It dances, hot and proud, like it knows who it used to belong to.

You lean closer, eyes narrowing “Huh.”

“Huh?” he repeats, still holding the flame.

You smile “Didn’t think you were actually telling the truth.”

He gives a short laugh “I just spilled my entire life story to you.”

“I know. That was weird.”

He lowers his hand slowly, and the flame fades out. You feel the warmth linger on your skin, even though it’s gone.

“I thought you’d walk away” he says, watching you carefully.

“I almost did.”

“And now?”

You shrug “Now I’m just wondering what else you’ve been hiding.”

That gets a grin out of him “You’re not scared?”

“Of a little fire?” You smirk “Please. I’ve dealt with worse.”

He steps a little closer. Not touching you, just there “You’re something else.”

You look up at him “You’re just figuring that out now?”

The air out here is cooler, but your skin is still warm from the flame Sabo showed you. The fire’s gone, but he’s still close. Still looking at you like he’s seeing something real. Something he missed.

You’re not used to being seen like that.

He leans against the railing now, just beside you. The silence hangs between you, comfortable but heavy. Until he says,

“So… what about your target now?”

Your brain blanks for a second. You blink.

“…Target?”

You actually forgot. You. Forgot.

You straighten up a little, suddenly aware again “Shit—right. The guy. Cheating husband. Rich. Smells like fish. Probably still inside with his mistress.”

Sabo laughs quietly “You forgot?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, then pause. You look at him, narrowing your eyes “Wait a second.”

He tilts his head “What?”

“Blondie… why are you even here?” You gesture toward the ballroom “This wasn’t some world-changing event. Just a man cheating on his wife. I already figured it out. Mission solved. But what about your mission?”

He looks at you. And then, slowly, carefully, he says “You were my mission.”

Your heart trips over itself.

“W-what?” you stutter, and the sound of your own voice makes your face heat. You never stutter.

Sabo just smiles. Too pleased “That’s new.”

You frown “Shut up. What do you mean I was your mission?”

“I mean,” he says, leaning a little closer, “I was looking for you. That’s why I came.”

You blink at him again, confused “…To recruit me again?”

He shakes his head “No. I just wanted to talk. To explain. I didn’t like disappearing like that. Not without saying anything.”

You’re quiet. You weren’t expecting this. Not from him. Not tonight.

“So… you found me… just to say sorry?”

“Well,” he says, grinning now, “and maybe to see that look on your face when I said you were my mission.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way your heart’s still racing “You’re the worst.”

“Maybe,” he says softly, “but I came back, didn’t I?”

You look at him. You hate how warm that makes you feel.

“Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper “You did.”

“I just need a photo of him with his mistress,” you say as you push away from the railing “That’s all. Then I get paid.”

You shoot him a dry look “If you’re not busy, blondie… want to tag along?”

He grins “Lead the way, detective.”

You both head back inside. The music is still loud, the lights still too soft, the perfume in the air still expensive. You glide through the crowd, quiet, calm, focused. He walks behind you, hands in his pockets, like this is a stroll in the park.

You find the hallway the target mentioned earlier. Follow the plush carpet, past too many locked doors, until you reach a side room with long glass doors leading out to a small private balcony.

Perfect.

You sit on the floor in the shadowed corner just outside its small balcony, dress tucked around your legs. He sits beside you without asking.

You keep your eyes locked on the room inside. Your camera is ready. The lights are dimmed. No one’s here yet. But you know they’ll come.

Sabo… doesn’t watch the door.

He watches you.

You feel it after a while. His gaze. Quiet. Steady. Soft.

And then “You’re really beautiful tonight.”

It’s so quiet, you almost don’t catch it. You turn your head “What?”

His eyes go wide. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like the words slipped out and betrayed him.

“I mean...” he clears his throat, looking away, “you got all dressed up for a small mission. Just a cheating man. That’s a lot of effort.”

You smirk, letting him twist “Missions are all boring recently.”

He looks back at you. Eyes narrowing like he just heard something important.

“Missions are boring… recently, huh?” he repeats slowly “So what changed recently?”

You roll your eyes “Don’t start.”

He leans in, grin wide now “Wait. Wait. Don’t tell me.” He taps his chin “Could it be that without me, you got bored?”

You scoff “Keep dreaming, Blondie.”

“So I was your entertainment?”

“You were an annoyance.”

“A charming one.”

You bite back a smile “Debatable.”

But it’s too late. He’s grinning like a fool, clearly enjoying himself. And the worst part is that you don’t even hate it.

Not even a little.

Sabo is in the middle of his next line, probably something ridiculous like “I bet you missed me so much you cried yourself to sleep” when your hand shoots up.

“Shhh!” you hiss.

He blinks “What?”

You tilt your chin toward the room inside.

The door opens.

There he is. Your target. Same smug walk, same too-shiny shoes. And hanging on his arm his mistress, laughing at something he said. They head toward the balcony.

Your balcony.

“Shit,” you whisper “They’re coming out here—”

You grab Sabo’s wrist and pull.

Fast.

You barely have a second to think. Just behind you, near the edge of the balcony, there’s a thick curtain tied to a decorative pillar. It’s more for style than privacy, but it’s big enough. Barely.

You slip behind it, dragging him with you. The heavy fabric closes in around you both. It’s dark. Cramped. His back hits the cold stone wall. You stop moving.

You’re close... Too close.

You’re pressed chest to chest, your leg between his. One of his arms is braced against the wall behind you, the other lightly around your waist. It’s the only way to not fall over.

Your breath hitches. His does too.

Neither of you speaks.

The couple is right there. Just on the other side. You hear their laughter, the low sound of a kiss. You should be paying attention. You should be lifting your camera, snapping the photo.

But your body is frozen. All your focus is on the heat of him, his hand, the closeness, his heartbeat that you can actually feel.

And then his hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.

He brushes your hair away from your cheek. His fingers are light, like he’s afraid to push too hard. They trail along your skin, and then he tucks the loose strand gently behind your ear.

You look up. His eyes are already on yours.

There’s no teasing in them now. No smirk. Just quiet. Warmth. Something deeper.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words vanish.

Outside, your target laughs again. The mistress pulls him inside. The moment is over.

You stay still a second longer. Neither of you speaks.

Then, very softly, Sabo says, “We’re going to have to talk about that later.”

And all you can manage is a whispered, “Shut up.”

You finally lift your camera. Your hands are steady, like always, even if your heart still isn’t.

The cheating man is kissing his mistress again, pressed up against the glass inside the room. They think they’re alone.

Perfect.

Three shots. Clear enough to ruin a marriage.

You lower the camera, your voice low “Got it. Time to go.”

Sabo doesn’t say a word, just follows you again like a shadow.

You grab the edge of the balcony, throw one leg over, and jump down like you’ve done a thousand times.

Except you forgot you’re wearing heels.

Your ankle bends awkwardly and pain shoots up your leg as your foot hits the ground. You hiss, stumbling slightly.

“Fucking heels...” you mutter, already yanking them off. One in each hand, and then you throw them down the alley without a second thought.

Behind you, Sabo lands light as a feather.

He watches the scene. Your bare feet. Your scowl. The heels lying sad and broken in the dark.

Then, his voice “Jump on my back.”

You glance at him “What?”

He shrugs casually “I’ll carry you. Don’t want you walking barefoot.”

You blink “You serious?”

He gives you that soft little half-smile “Completely.”

You snort “Nah. I’m good… but thanks for the offer, Blondie.”

And with that, you turn around and walk ahead. Not looking back. Definitely not letting him see the way your face is burning.

Behind you, he watches every step. And he’s smiling.

Not because you turned him down. But because you didn’t hesitate to throw away those fancy shoes. Because you didn’t care about being graceful or anything. Because you didn’t mind walking barefoot in a dirty alley if it meant freedom.

Because you’re real. And damn... he really, really likes that.

The alley behind you is gone now. Just stone paths and quiet shadows.

You’re walking through a garden, the party mansion behind. The only light coming from the stars above and the soft glow of lanterns hidden among the trees.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You want to say goodbye. You always do after a job. Clean cut, no mess, no feelings. But your steps slow. You don’t want to walk away just yet. Not this time.

You stop near a small fountain. The sound of water trickling fills the silence between you.

You cross your arms, not facing him “So… I was your mission, mh?”

Sabo stands beside you, close but not touching.

You glance at him “Well… mission completed. You’re free to leave.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips “So are you.”

You breathe in slowly.

“But here we are,” he adds softly “Still.”

You stare at the fountain “Still.”

The word hangs there like fog.

You swallow and finally look at him “You could’ve gone without telling me anything. But you didn’t. You came back. Why?”

“I told you,” he says, voice lower now “I wanted to explain. I didn’t like disappearing like that. You deserved more than that.”

You shake your head slowly “I don’t need people to explain themselves to me. I’m not—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently “But maybe I wanted to explain. Because I missed you.”

The words stop you.

You stare at him.

He says it so simply. Like it’s just a fact. Like saying it might rain tomorrow. Like I missed you isn’t a damn earthquake in your chest.

You try to scoff. Try to play it off “That’s very dramatic, Blondie.”

He chuckles “I learned from the best.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. You don’t leave.

You’re still standing beside him. Under the stars. Just… there.

And he is too.

...Still.

The silence stretches. The fountain bubbles softly. Somewhere far off, the music from the party fades into the trees.

You glance at him. He’s looking at the stars now, like they might give him something to say.

You speak first “So, what now?”

He shrugs “I don’t know. I didn’t really plan past this.”

You snort “Bad planning for a Revolutionary, don’t you think?”

He smiles “I figured I’d improvise. Depends on what you do next.”

You don’t answer. Your eyes fall to the path in front of you. The wind moves through the leaves, cool against your skin.

You hate this.

The quiet. The part of you that doesn’t want to walk away.

You cross your arms, trying to sound casual “Well, if you missed me that much, maybe next time you disappear, leave a note. ‘Gone off to recover lost memories and beat up powerful enemies, back soon’. Something like that.”

He laughs “You’d burn the note.”

You smile despite yourself “Probably.”

Then the quiet slips back in. He turns toward you again. You feel it before you see it. His eyes on you. That look you’re starting to know too well. Like he sees something in you you’re not ready to admit is there.

And yet…

“I kept thinking,” he says quietly, “how many jobs you’ve taken since I left. How many stupid people you had to spy on, how many lies you had to fake-smile through. I wondered if you ever thought about me.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

He doesn’t push. Just keeps watching you with that calm, steady warmth.

You scoff lightly, more to break the moment than because anything’s funny “Don’t flatter yourself. I was too busy following cheating husbands and hiding in bushes.”

But your voice is soft. Not sharp. Not convincing.

He leans slightly closer. Not touching. Just near “So… not even a little?”

You meet his gaze. You want to lie. You always lie. That’s your job.

But instead you say “Maybe once.”

A pause “Or twice.”

Another pause “Something like that.”

He smiles “Good. Because I thought about you more than that.”

Your chest tightens and you quickly look away “You should go before I punch you for saying things like that.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” he murmurs.

You both laugh quietly.

Still not touching. Still not fully confessing.

But the air between you hums with something neither of you wants to name... Not yet.

And so you stand there a little longer. Under the stars. In the garden... Still.

You feel the weight of his words still in your chest. You have to shake it off. Do something, say something, or you’ll start thinking too much. Feeling too much.

So, you clear your throat and nudge his arm with your elbow “Hey… got any more fire tricks? Something cool. Or funny?”

Sabo blinks. Then a smirk tugs at his lips “You want a show?”

You roll your eyes “Don’t make it weird. Just entertain me, Blondie.”

He chuckles, stepping back a little “Alright, alright. Watch this.”

He lifts one hand. With a little flick of his wrist, a small flame spins into life at the tip of his finger, then flickers out and reappears in the other hand, like a magician’s coin. Then he makes a little fire butterfly, letting it flap its glowing wings before it floats up and fades into sparks.

You stare. Eyes wide. Mouth parted just slightly. Like a kid at their first festival.

You step closer, enchanted “And it doesn’t burn you?”

Without thinking, you reach out, your fingers heading straight for the flame still flickering in his palm.

“Wait—!”

He quickly closes his hand, putting the fire out in an instant. But it’s too late. You brushed against the edge of it.

He grabs your hand fast, holding it tight in both of his.

His brows furrow “Did it burn you?” he asks, voice sharp with worry “Let me see.”

You blink at your hand... your hand, which is now in his hands, and for a second you completely forget what you were even doing.

His touch is warm, gentle. He’s checking your fingers, your palm, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. Too carefully. Too tender.

You finally come back to your senses. Your heart stumbles in your chest.

You yank your hand away like it’s him that’s burning “I’m fine. Jeez.”

He blinks, stunned “I just—”

“I should go,” you say, voice too fast. Too high “Client’s waiting. Gotta report. You know, job stuff.”

He opens his mouth, probably to ask something, maybe to stop you. But then he just closes it again. His eyes follow you as you take a few quick steps back, avoiding his gaze, his hand, everything.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t chase.

Because he’s still there, stunned…

…realizing how fast his heart is beating, looking at his hands who were just holding yours.

You’ve been pacing the hallway for ten minutes now. Not because the job is hard... hell, you’ve done harder with a broken rib and a broken heel. But because you know he’ll show up.

He always does.

You’re even dressed for it. A sleek outfit, long coat, subtle daggers tucked under your sleeves. Not that he notices things like that.

Except he does. And that’s the problem.

You sigh, adjusting your collar. You’re here to spy on a nobleman, catch him trading information to pirates. But all your attention is pointed toward the nearest door like some lovesick idiot.

Which you are not.

“You really should stop standing in front of open doors.” comes the voice you’ve been trying not to expect.

You spin around, already scowling “Blondie.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug grin in place “Miss me?”

You scoff “Like I miss being shot at.”

He straightens and walks toward you, looking way too casual for someone who just broke into a mansion “So... how many missions have you almost ruined since I last saw you?”

“I don’t ruin missions,” you snap “I finish them. Unlike some people.”

“Oh right, because hiding in a curtain last time was definitely the plan.”

“That was your fault! If you hadn’t distracted me with your stupid compliments.”

“You’re really bringing that up?”

“Yes! Because it’s your fault!”

He smirks “If I remember correctly, you were the one blushing.”

You point a sharp, gloved finger at him “That was heatstroke.”

He raises a brow “At night?”

You flinch. Damn. Walked right into that one. But you don’t answer. You storm past him toward the second hallway where your target is supposed to appear. He follows, like always, humming under his breath.

“Seriously,” you say, trying to focus “Why are you even here? This isn’t a Revolutionary job.”

“You’re here.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

You stop walking “You’re impossible.”

He grins “And you’re blushing again.”

You shove past him without another word.

Somehow, you still manage to finish the mission. You get your intel, threaten a butler, blackmail a merchant, and grab your proof. As you head out, Sabo falls into step beside you like this is routine. Like you always leave places like this together.

“Hey.” he says suddenly, and your stomach drops because of his tone, like he’s about to say something real. Something important.

You don’t like that.

“My brother’s in town. Wanna come meet him?”

You blink “Luffy?”

He nods, too casual.

You cross your arms “I don’t do dinner with strangers.”

“He’s not a stranger. He’s Luffy.”

“That’s literally the definition of a stranger to me.”

But he takes your hand.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What are you doing?” you snap, looking down at your entwined fingers.

“Holding your hand. You seem like the type to run.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You’re not pulling away...” he says, almost amused.

“…I’m tired.” you lie.

“You’re not even trying anymore.” he says with a laugh, already pulling you toward the docks.

You don’t pull away. Not even once.

The Thousand Sunny is louder than expected. Lanterns swing gently from ropes. Someone’s playing music. Someone else is screaming about meat. The Straw Hat crew is mid-party and you don’t even want to ask why.

Luffy’s the first one to spot you. He runs over barefoot, grinning so hard it almost hurts to look at him.

“Oi, Sabo!!” he shouts “Who’s she?”

You already step slightly behind Sabo, not used to this kind of attention. Not used to people looking at you like you matter.

Sabo rests a hand on your back again. Gentle. Warm.

“This is Detective Y/N,” he says proudly “Soon to be a Revolutionary.”

Your jaw drops “Oi! Blondie! How many times do I have to say no?!”

Before he can reply, Luffy tilts his head, blinking at the both of you “So is this your girlfriend?”

You and Sabo both freeze like someone just tossed a grenade between you.

“What?!” you shout, face burning “NO!”

“LUFFY!” Sabo snaps, just as red.

Luffy shrugs “You were holding hands and stuff.”

“We—! I—!” You throw your hands in the air “That was not—”

“Don’t act like you didn’t want to come.” Sabo hisses.

“You invited me!”

“You didn’t say no!”

“You didn’t let me!”

Zoro, watching from the side, mutters to Sanji, “How long you think before they kiss or kill each other?”

Sanji smirks “I’m betting both.”

You cross your arms and glare at Sabo, still blushing. He rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly looking away, but the edge of a smile is tugging at his lips.

Neither of you corrects Luffy.

Neither of you denies it again.

And your hand still feels warm where his was.

You clear your throat, trying to reset your brain “So,” you say, turning to Luffy as casually as possible “You’ve known Blondie since he was little, right?”

Sabo shoots you a look “No. Don’t even—”

You ignore him “Got any embarrassing stories?”

Luffy lights up like a lantern “OH YEAH! There was this one time, he—”

“Nope!” Sabo says quickly, cutting him off with the speed of someone panicking. He grabs your wrist gently... always gently... and pulls you a step back “We actually came just to say hi.”

You blink “We did?”

“We’re leaving now, I planned something.” he says firmly, already starting to walk.

You don’t fight it, but you are confused “Why? What do you have planned?”

Before he can answer, Luffy shouts after you, mouth full of meat, “Are you two going on a date?!”

You freeze.

Sabo stops mid-step.

Sanji drops a tray.

You’re standing there, Sabo still holding your wrist, and you feel your heart slam in your chest.

Sabo turns slowly, managing a calm expression “No.”

You, on the other hand, are red again “Obviously not!”

“Sure looks like it,” Luffy says, grinning wide “You guys were holding hands again.”

“HIS FAULT... FOR BALANCE.” you shout, instantly regretting how defensive you sound.

Sabo mutters under his breath, “Not very balanced now, are we.”

You elbow him. He smirks.

Robin chuckles behind her book “Young love is so… chaotic.”

You cover your face “We’re not—”

But Sabo’s hand slides down your wrist and links your fingers with his.

You glance at him, startled.

He doesn’t look at you, just tugs you toward the edge of the ship “Come on, Detective. I do have something planned.”

You don’t say anything for a second. You just stare at your joined hands.

Then, quietly, you mutter, “It better not be a date.”

He finally looks at you with that maddening half-smile “What if it is?”

You hate that your heart skips. You really hate that you don’t have a snappy comeback this time.

He walks beside you in silence, hand still in yours.

You should pull away... You really should.

But the warmth of his grip is like something you didn’t know you missed. And the way his thumb brushes against your knuckles as you cross into town makes you forget, moment by moment, that you’re supposed to be good at keeping people out.

You frown “This doesn’t look like a hideout.”

“It’s not.” he says, almost too casually.

You glance around, brows furrowing. You're not far from the city square now, where lamplight spills soft gold. Music plays in the distance, a quiet violin, and the smell of grilled food drifts from the open-air restaurants lining the plaza.

He leads you toward one of them. A quiet place tucked between ivy-covered walls, glowing with soft lanterns. It’s... cozy. Intimate.

You stop in your tracks.

“Do you have a mission here?” you ask, suspicious “You needed me for something?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes “…No.”

You blink “Then why?”

“I wanted to take you out.”

Your breath catches.

He finally looks at you, and his cheeks are dusted with red. And suddenly, you’re blushing. Hard.

Your heart kicks against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out “I’m...” You glance down at yourself, then back at him “I’m not dressed for this. I didn’t even shower after the mission, I—I smell right now, probably.”

His eyes widen. Not at your panic, but because you’re not saying no.

You’re... making excuses.

His lips twitch, almost smiling, but there’s something soft under it too. Hopeful. Careful. “If you feel uncomfortable, we can come back another time.”

You hesitate.

You could take that way out. He’d let you go. But you don’t want to run. Not tonight.

So instead, you tighten your fingers around his. Not much. Just enough to tell him you’re still here. And then you meet his eyes.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” you say, voice quieter than usual “Somewhere less... fancy. Should we?”

He looks stunned for a second. Then a smile softens his whole face.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing your hand back “We should.”

You’re walking side by side through the old part of town, the kind of place with cobbled streets and small lanterns flickering in shop windows. There's no mission, no lie to keep up, no identity to steal—just you, him, and this weird silence that’s more peaceful than awkward.

You chew slowly on a skewer from a food stall, the oil still warm on your lips. Sabo is next to you, carrying a second portion he insisted you try.

He walks close enough that your shoulder brushes his every few steps. You don’t move away.

And just when the warmth in your chest starts to feel dangerous, when you're thinking maybe the food's not the only thing softening you, he speaks.

"By the way… earlier."

You glance sideways at him “What about earlier?”

His gaze is ahead, not on you. His voice is careful, but not cold.

“I just… I wanted to say…”

You stop chewing. The pause is long.

He exhales like he's regretting even bringing it up, then blurts “You actually smell good right now.”

You freeze mid-step. Did he just...

“I mean...” he fumbles, ears turning so red it's almost funny, “...not like I was trying to notice that. Or, I mean... I did notice it. Not in a weird way, just...”

You stare at him. He won’t look at you.

“And you're beautiful,” he says, a little quieter, like the words hurt to say out loud “No matter what you wear.”

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it echoes in your ears. You don’t breathe for a second.

Beautiful.

You blink once. Twice. Your voice is caught somewhere in your throat.

He's still not looking at you. Maybe he thinks if he doesn’t see your face, it won’t sting so much when you laugh it off. But you don't laugh.

You take a small breath and then you say, softly, “I’m sorry, Sabo.”

His head jerks toward you. Eyes wide.

It's the name. You never use it. He notices instantly.

You take a slow step closer to him.

“I’m not good at this...” you say again, quieter now. Like a confession.

Your hand lifts almost on instinct, your fingers brushing against his cheek before your palm rests fully there. The contact is warm, real. His skin is soft, just like you thought it’d be.

He doesn’t move.

Your other hand rises to his face too, like gravity’s pulling you in. His breath catches. His lips part but he doesn’t speak.

And before he can try you lean in.

Your lips touch his.

Just once.

Soft.

Quick.

A heartbeat and it’s over.

But when you pull back, your hands are still holding his face. And his eyes are locked on you like you just flipped his entire world upside down.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t speak.

You’re about to say something stupid. Or apologize. Or maybe run away, like you always do. But then his fingers slowly lift.

They rise like he’s in a trance, brushing lightly over his own lips where you just kissed him. Like he’s trying to prove to himself that it actually happened. That you actually did that.

You watch him, unsure what to say, unsure if you've gone too far or not far enough. But you don’t move. You wait.

His eyes meet yours again, still wide, still stunned, but there’s something fragile and flickering and new now.

You see it before he can even say a word.

Hope.

He whispers your name like it means something sacred. And you feel your heart stutter again. But this time, you don’t run.

You let the silence stretch. Let the night fold around you. Let yourself breathe in the moment like it might disappear.

You kissed him. And you want to do it again.

Sabo’s still staring at you like you just knocked the wind out of him.

Then, all at once, a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. Something soft, but surprised. A little breathless.

And then he speaks, his voice lower than before, unguarded.

“…Oh.”

You arch a brow “Oh?”

“You said you’re not good at this but you’re actually damn good,” he says, like it’s just occurred to him “You make me nervous.”

You blink. And then you laugh.

It slips out before you can stop it, a quiet breath of a sound, half smile and half disbelief. You shake your head, grinning like he just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Nervous?” you repeat, tilting your head “You?”

He shrugs helplessly, like he’s trying to pretend this isn’t a big deal while looking very much like a man whose heart is hanging off a wire “Yeah.”

You watch him for a beat, heart still beating way too fast for comfort. Then you nudge his arm lightly with yours.

“So, Blondie…” you murmur, a little smirk tugging your lips now “What do we do from now on? How does this work?”

He exhales slowly, looking at you sideways “Depends. Are you going to disappear again the second I blink?”

You scoff “You’re the one who vanished for months.”

He doesn’t argue.

You go on “I still won’t accept your offer, you know. I’m staying a detective. Better pay, more drama, less running around screaming about justice or whatever.”

That makes him laugh, and god it’s nice hearing him laugh like that, light, real, warm. Like this version of him exists only for you.

He leans his shoulder into yours a little “I don’t even care anymore.”

You glance at him “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, eating the last bite of his skewer “You’re always working with me anyway. We just keep bumping into each other mid-job. Revolution or not, we’re already a team.”

That earns another smile from you, though you roll your eyes “Ugh, don’t say it like that.”

He grins wider.

And then, softer “Say it again?”

You blink “Say what?”

“My name.”

You pause.

You know exactly what he’s asking for.

Your lips curve slowly. You fake a thoughtful expression, tapping your chin “…Blondie?”

He pouts. Full-on, eyes-narrowed, almost-childish pout.

You laugh again, a little too fond, a little too fast.

“Okay, okay—” you cave, pushing his arm gently.

You lean a little closer, voice playful but real.

“Flame Emperor Sabo.”

That makes his whole expression shift, his eyes widening a bit, like that title coming from your mouth short-circuits his brain. You say it like it’s not just a title, not just a name the world gave him. You say it like you know exactly who he is beneath it, and you still say it anyway.

He’s silent for a beat too long, lips parting like he forgot how to breathe.

You blink “Now stop acting like a baby.”

His mouth quirks into a smirk again, but there’s a faint blush under his eyes that he absolutely cannot hide.

“You’re dangerous” he mutters.

“Me?”

He nods, licking his bottom lip absently “Yeah. You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing clever comes out. So you close it again.

He grins.

And the stars above keep burning. Just like the slow, steady fire growing between you.

The mission is simple. In theory.

Infiltrate a noble’s estate. Steal a sealed document before it gets shipped to the World Government. No casualties, no noise, no slipping up.

Simple.

Except nothing is simple when he’s with you.

Sabo walks beside you through the bustling garden party, dressed in dark formal wear that somehow makes him look more like royalty than a rebel. His hair is slicked back tonight, but one stubborn curl keeps falling in front of his eyes. You hate how much you keep noticing it.

“I told you we should’ve entered from the east wing...” you whisper through your teeth, smiling like a polite guest while your eyes scan the crowd.

He leans close, smirking “And I told you the west entrance had the least guards. What’s your plan, detective, run in heels again and scream ‘I told you so’ if we get caught?”

You don’t look at him but you can feel the smirk.

“I swear,” you hiss, “if this mission goes wrong, I’m blaming your giant ego and that dumb little curl on your forehead.”

He chuckles low “You like that dumb little curl. You looked at it twenty times already.”

You turn your head fast “You counted?”

He leans even closer, lips almost brushing your ear “You’re blushing.”

“I will punch you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

And there it is again, that tension. That crackling space between you that’s always been charged, but now it’s like standing next to a fire and pretending you’re not melting.

Your heart beats a little faster as you both slip away from the crowd toward the private halls.

Inside, it’s quieter. Just soft footsteps and faint music echoing from the ballroom.

You’re meant to stay focused. There’s a vault. A document. A ticking clock.

But Sabo walks behind you with his hand ghosting near your back, and it’s suddenly hard to remember the full plan.

“You’ve been quiet” he says softly.

“I’m trying to think.”

“Mm. Dangerous.”

You stop walking. Turn around.

He nearly bumps into you, he’s that close. His breath catches.

You narrow your eyes “We’re in the middle of a mission, Flame Emperor. Don’t start.”

He lifts both hands like he’s innocent “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who stopped.”

“I stopped because you were breathing down my neck.”

“You know what? I still can’t believe you kissed me first.”

You scowl “You want me to regret that?”

He smiles, cocky and soft all at once “Do you?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

The moment hangs.

Heavy.

Then your gaze flickers to his mouth.

His does the same.

And like magnet to spark, you crash forward and kiss him.

Again.

Your hands grab the collar of his coat. His arm instantly slips around your waist, pulling you in, mouth hot and insistent. You kiss like it’s an argument neither of you want to win, messy, fast, like you’re both annoyed at how much you want this.

And damn it, you do.

You bite his lip lightly and he groans into your mouth, deep and low. His fingers tighten at your hip. One of your legs slides between his and you’re just about to press him up against the wall when...

“Focus,” he pants, breaking away just enough to whisper against your lips “Document. Vault. Revolution. Remember?”

You blink “…Right.”

You both take a deep breath.

He adjusts his cravat like kissing you hasn’t just fried his brain. You smooth your dress, refusing to look flustered.

“I hate how good you are at kissing” you mutter.

“I love how bad you are at staying focused” he grins.

You glare.

He winks.

And just like that, the tension resets, but it lingers in every step. Every glance. Every time your hands brush, or you lean a little too close to whisper, or he rests a palm low on your back to guide you around a corner like a gentleman with very impure thoughts.

But neither of you mess up.

The vault? Opened.

The document? Secured.

The guards? Unaware.

You slip out the west gate under cover of darkness, walking side by side through the city like two shadows.

Job done. Hearts racing.

And even though you don’t say it out loud, you both know you’re not just partners anymore.

You’re a storm.

And this is only the beginning.

[kaxserlvr]

It starts with a simple text.

Nagi: Where r u?

You barely have time to read it before another one pops up.

Nagi: I miss u.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. It’s only been a few hours since you last saw him, but Nagi is always like this—lazy, clingy, and absolutely hopeless without you.

Before you can even type out a response, your phone starts buzzing.

“Nagi?” you answer, amused.

His voice comes through, soft and sleepy. “Come over.”

“It’s late,” you point out. “And you were literally fine a few hours ago.”

A groan. Then, “No, I wasn’t.”

You sigh dramatically. “You were breathing, weren’t you?”

“Barely,” he mutters. “It’s too much of a hassle being without you.”

Your heart squeezes at the pure neediness in his voice. You can already picture him sprawled across his bed, hair a mess, probably pouting into his pillow like some abandoned puppy.

“Sei—”

“I can’t sleep,” he interrupts. “My bed feels empty.”

“You mean your bed is too big?”

“No. I mean, it’s empty without you.”

You bite your lip, warmth spreading through your chest. He’s so needy like this, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Come over,” he repeats, softer this time. “Please?”

It’s the please that gets you.

You sigh, grabbing your things. “I’m on my way.”

The sound of him exhaling in relief makes your heart flutter. “Hurry.”

By the time you get to Nagi’s place, it’s nearly midnight, and you half expect him to be asleep already. But as soon as you open the door to his room, he’s wide awake, sitting up in bed with the neediest, most pitiful look on his face. His white hair is messy, his hoodie slightly askew, and his eyes—heavy-lidded and unbearably soft—are locked onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. “It’s been, like, twenty minutes.”

“Felt like forever.” He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, then stretches his arms out toward you, palms open. “Come here.”

You don’t even get the chance to tease him before he’s grabbing your wrist and pulling you onto the bed. You let out a small yelp as you fall against his chest, and instantly, he wraps himself around you, his long limbs caging you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re so desperate,” you mumble against his hoodie, but you don’t push him away.

Nagi just hums, nuzzling into your hair. “Yeah.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. His hands slide to your waist, holding you firm against him. “Missed you so much.”

“You saw me earlier.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “Need you here all the time.”

His voice is quiet, almost pleading, and it makes your stomach flip. You’re used to his clinginess, his laziness, but tonight—it’s worse. His hold on you is tight, his fingers fisting the fabric of your shirt like he’s scared you’ll leave.

“You good?” you ask, pulling back just enough to see his face.

Nagi pouts, actually pouts, looking away. “…Dunno. Just feel better when you’re here.”

Your heart melts. He’s so soft for you.

You lean in and press a kiss to his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, you dummy.”

He exhales, his whole body relaxing against you. “Good,” he mumbles. Then, as if to make sure, he hooks his leg over yours, locking you in place.

You huff a laugh. “I wasn’t gonna move.”

“Just making sure,” he murmurs, already starting to drift off, completely wrapped around you.

And you let him, because honestly? You don’t mind.

[fairestwriting]

Could I request headcanons of Ace, Trey, Riddle, and Silver's reactions to getting free snacks from their partner?

𐙚 Riddle Rosehearts

”It’s… are you sure I can have that? Um… I appreciate it, thank you.”

Riddle is a little surprised at first, even though it’s something so simple. He’s just not really used to any sort of spontaneous gifting? Even though Trey does something similar when there’s leftovers of the strawberry tart he likes— But it’s different with Trey, of course.

He is a little bit picky though. He gets conflicted on whether he should accept things he doesn’t like that much. On one hand, Riddle doesn’t really feel like eating these chips… But on the other, you specifically gave them to him. You might have even bought them for him. He can’t bring himself to say no, even if he doesn’t want them, even if he feels like he’s not supposed to eat them…

He always ends up eating at least some of it though. As he gets more used to it, it becomes a little bit easier to explain that he doesn't really like something or the other… But if it’s homemade stuff, he’s immediately folding. You made it? For him? No one besides Trey has ever done that. The fact that you took time out of your day to make that completely cancels out any hangups he might have with flavor or texture— And it flusters him every single time, without fail.

𐙚 Trey Clover

”Oh, are you sure? Well, then I’ve got something for you too.”

He’s not taking no for an answer, it doesn't matter where you are, what time it is, or what sort of snack you’re offering him. You’re giving him something, so of course he wants to return the gesture! And he’s always got some food in his bag too, mostly leftover desserts he’s made for the Heartslabyul boys.

He’ll take pretty much whatever you give him, especially if it’s anything you made yourself. It’s fine if you’re not the best cook around, he’s not picky and he’s already happy you thought of him at all while you were in the kitchen.

If it becomes a regular thing, Trey starts keeping snacks you specifically like to give you in return. Even if you never told him what your favorite Unbirthday Party dish was, he’ll just pay attention until he can make an educated guess. He really enjoys that as a part of your routine, it’s a quick and easy way to make each other’s day a little brighter, and make sure you know you’re cared for.

𐙚 Ace Trappola

”Aw, how’d you know I was getting hungry? Are you gonna feed it to me too?”

He’s a little shit about it, because of course he is, but it actually does fluster Ace a little bit. Even more if it’s done out of nowhere, and he really was getting hungry— Were you really watching him this closely? He wasn’t expecting that. He certainly wasn’t expecting your response to be offering him food, either…

Ace will shrug and tell you he’ll take it because he doesn’t turn down free food, but the light flush on his cheeks can be telling, if you’re actually looking. If it’s anything that you could feed to him, he’ll tease you over that, opening his mouth and going ”Aah~” before you can even react.

…And he’ll really let you feed him. He makes these exaggerated cutesy faces while you do, giggling through the whole thing… But actually, he kind of loves it. Ace tells himself (and you) that he’s just joking around, trying to fluster you by commenting on how much you spoil him, but he’s really just baiting you to do it more. The day after, he’ll even ask if you ”have any more treats for him”. If you say no, he’ll pester you about how you’re “neglecting” him. If you ever had cats, you’ll definitely find yourself being reminded about them.

𐙚 Silver

”That’s… really kind of you, thank you. Do you want me to get you something from the cafeteria too?”

…You’ll probably want to bring him something even long before you two get together. His stories about eating Lilia’s cooking as a child are enough to move even the coldest of souls. The feeling is only doubled when Silver casually shows you a picture of some of his “less” terrible creations.

It doesn’t really fluster him, but it’s not like it doesn’t move him in any way either— Silver is also someone who’s not all that used to receiving things, specifically not from friends or a partner. Even something as tiny as a candy bar will have him so grateful you thought of him. His neutral resting face turns into a surprisingly sunny smile as he pockets his newly acquired snack, thanking you.

He’ll pretty much always offer to get you something in return, and if it’s currently break time, he’ll ask if you want to eat with him too. If you do decide to ask him to get you something, he’s going to make his way to the cafeteria and retrieve it in record time, always quick enough for you two to have time to sit and eat together. Somehow he never comes back late or empty handed, regardless of what you asked for. You’re not sure how he does it, considering the lines that build up in the cafeteria sometimes… it might as well just be pure willpower.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[jacquitries]

Right in Front of You | M.R.

You’ve always known Mattheo Riddle as the charming, flirtatious Slytherin who effortlessly catches everyone’s attention. But when his teasing starts to feel a little too personal, you decide to move on and focus elsewhere. It’s all fine until you realize Mattheo might not be as indifferent as he seems — and you might have missed something along the way.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The Slytherin common room buzzed with its usual energy. You sat with your friends near the fireplace, the warm glow casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Across the room, Mattheo Riddle leaned casually against a table, smirking as he exchanged banter with a small group of students. His voice carried over the hum of conversation, low and smooth, drawing attention without even trying.

You shook your head, focusing back on the book in your lap. Mattheo had that effect on people, effortlessly commanding the room. You weren’t immune to it either — not that you’d ever admit it. He was charming, no doubt about it, but his constant flirting made it hard to take him seriously. It was like a game to him, and you refused to be just another player.

Still, you couldn’t deny the little flutter in your chest whenever his eyes lingered on you a moment too long or when his teasing comments seemed meant just for you. But those moments were fleeting, and you’d convinced yourself they didn’t mean anything. After all, he acted the same way with everyone, didn’t he?

You decided to try something different. If Mattheo was going to be Mattheo, then maybe it was time for you to move on. You started paying attention to other boys in Hogwarts—specifically those who were nothing like him. Men who were serious, grounded, and had no reputation for flirting.

The first few attempts were... puzzling. Conversations that started off promising ended abruptly, with the other person making a polite excuse to leave. Even the men who had seemed initially interested seemed to keep their distance. It was baffling.

You knew your reputation — strong, clever, and undeniably skilled in spellcasting. You weren’t vain, but you weren’t blind either. You were attractive, a catch by any reasonable standard. So why did it feel like everyone was avoiding you?

Your friends began to notice. Adelaide Burke, always sharp-eyed, cornered you one evening after dinner.

“Have you noticed how Mattheo always seems to watch you?” she asked, her tone light but pointed.

You’d laughed it off, deflecting. “He watches everyone. That’s just who he is.”

Adelaide gave you a look, clearly unimpressed. “Not like that, he doesn’t.”

Tom, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. “She’s right. It’s not subtle, you know.”

You waved them off, unwilling to entertain the idea. Mattheo was confident, flirtatious, and utterly unattainable. Whatever they thought they saw, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Mattheo had ever said or done anything to suggest he felt differently about you. Or so you told yourself.

But the thought lingered, creeping in when you least expected it. Could there be something you were missing?

One evening, as you studied in the library, you sensed someone approaching before they even spoke. Mattheo slid into the seat across from you, his presence commanding attention even in silence.

“You’ve got an uncanny talent for interrupting my peace, Riddle,” you said lightly, your quill still scratching across the parchment.

“Interrupting? No,” he replied, leaning forward, the faintest smirk on his lips. “Improving, maybe.”

You finally glanced up, quirking an eyebrow. “Improving? Bold claim, even for you.”

He chuckled softly, resting his chin in his hand. “Why are you always so quick to brush me off?”

You paused, studying him for a moment before replying. “Because you’re always flirting. With everyone. It’s hard to take you seriously.”

His smirk faltered, replaced by an uncharacteristically serious expression. “You think I flirt with everyone?”

“Don’t you?” you challenged. “You always have a crowd around you, Mattheo. It’s not exactly subtle.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his dark hair. “Merlin, you’re impossible.”

You frowned, caught off guard by his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re so busy assuming you know everything about me that you don’t see what’s right in front of you,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Do you think I waste my time trying to impress people I don’t care about?”

Your heart skipped a beat, his words sinking in. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he began, leaning forward again, his intense gaze locking with yours, “that the only person I’ve ever gone out of my way to flirt with is you. But you’re so bloody stubborn you refuse to see it.”

The library seemed to go completely silent, his confession hanging in the air between you.

“I thought...” You hesitated, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought it didn’t mean anything. That it was just... how you were with everyone.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Light banter, yes. But that’s with everyone else. With you, it’s different. I don’t waste my time flirting with anyone but you.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and suddenly, the memories clicked into place: the polite excuses from other boys, the hesitant glances that always seemed to flicker toward Mattheo when they spoke to you.

“You’ve been keeping them away,” you said, realization dawning. “That’s why they’re avoiding me.”

He shrugged, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. “You call it interference. I call it... strategy.”

You blinked, caught between frustration and something dangerously close to laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

It was infuriating. And endearing. And entirely Mattheo.

“I didn’t think you’d...” You faltered, your voice trembling. “I didn’t think you’d feel that way about me.”

His expression softened, a rare vulnerability showing through. “Well, I do. And it’s been that way from the start."

A small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re terrible at being straightforward, you know.”

“And you’re terrible at seeing what’s been there all along,” he countered, his tone gentler now.

You held his gaze, the air between you thick with unspoken emotion. Then, without thinking, you leaned forward, closing the distance and pressing your lips to his.

As you and Mattheo lingered, lost in the moment, a voice interrupted.

“Thank Merlin,” Enzo Berkshire drawled from the doorway, a wide grin on his face. “I was starting to think Riddle didn’t stand a chance.”

You turned, heat rushing to your face. “Enzo!”

“What?” he said with a shrug. “It’s been painful watching him fumble around his own feelings for you.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but smirked, his arm slipping around your waist. “Remind me to hex you later, Berkshire.”

Enzo just laughed, grinning at you both. “Could’ve saved us all the trouble, you know.”

You shot him a pointed look, but a smile tugged at your lips. It felt right, finally. For once, things were exactly where they should be.

[dismalflo]

Hello love! I was so excited to see your requests open✨ I requested the oblivous reader not realizing they were in a relationship with the marauders and wanted to say thank you for writing it🧡 it was absolutely amazing!

I recently just got a mouth guard to wear at night so I wont grind my teeth and its given me the worst lisp ever. Totally self indulgent scenario with maybe sirius x reader whos scared to wear it at night around her hot bf?! Ily thank you 🧡🫶🏼

Hi babe! thank you for requesting <3 (when you sent this through i thought you must be living in my walls or something because i got a mouthguard for the same reason not that long ago too)

Sirius Black x reader ✩ 1.1k words

cw: implied newly established relationship, fluff, comfort, slight insecure reader

You’ve been trying to lull Sirius to sleep for the past twenty minutes, he’s quite sure. Speaking in quiet tones, a hand dragging soft shapes over his shoulder and the dimmed lighting. It has him confused. Usually, when one of you stays the night at the other's flat it’s a battle to stay awake, a mission to savour every second in each other’s company. But not tonight. 

“–and lily told me that–”

Sirius feels a flicker of guilt for tuning you out, but his mind has bigger things to focus on, like what's wrong with you.

“What’s wrong with you?” he interupts. 

“What?” 

Your wide eyes and the sudden stillness in your voice catch him off guard. You’d been speaking to the ceiling, your words floating up into the air, while Sirius, curled like a comma beside you, was studying the curve of your face. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, why?” you respond, turning your head to face him and offering a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes. Sirius knows you too well to miss it.

At any other time, he might’ve let you off with a lie like that, especially when the soft glow of the bedside lamp makes your hair shimmer like spun gold. You’re pretty. So fucking pretty. But tonight, it’s not enough to distract him from the fact that something isn’t right.

“You’re trying to make me fall asleep,” he says, voice flat as he narrows his eyes, lifting a hand to your cheek. His thumb drags a line from the well of your eye and across to your cheek bone. It has its desired effect, he watches as you slowly melt under the touch, but more interestingly, he watches your mind scramble for a response. 

“M’not trying to make you sleep,” you deflect, “If you're tired Sirius, you can go to sleep, it's fine.” 

You nod, as though reassuring yourself more than him. It clues Sirius in immediately but you're far too tired to even realize you’ve given yourself away with that gesture.

 He decides to push a little harder, keeping his thumb moving along the curve of your face. 

“Baby,” he coos, a teasing edge creeping into his voice, “we both know you’re lying. Won’t you tell me why, pretty thing?”

He lays it on thick, but he’s betting it’ll work. He doesn’t expect it to work quite so quickly, though. The pout on your lips is enough to make his heart drop into his arse. Then your eyes, filled with sadness or maybe embarrassment, quickly avert to the wall behind him, as though it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

“It’s silly,” you murmur.

“I’ll decide what’s silly, doll.” he says, calmly. “I’m sure it's not if you’re this wound up.” 

Sirius is trying for reassuring but he can hear the worry that's etched into his voice. Concern beginning to bubble up inside and threatening to spill over. 

“Y’know, I went to the dentist last week?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Sirius hums in acknowledgment anyway. “They–they said I need to wear a mouthguard at night to stop me from grinding my teeth, and it should help with the headaches and jaw pain I’ve been telling you about.”

Sirius blinks, momentarily lost. This sounds like good news – great news even! You’ve been complaining about those headaches you get on a morning for ages. A solution to that problem should be something to celebrate, right? 

“Right,” he whispers, nodding along slowly, though still confused. 

“I got it a couple of days ago,” you continue, your gaze flickering between the wall and him, looking anywhere but at his face. “It does work, I think…” you’re starting to look more embarrassed than sad now ”But it gives me this awful lisp, and– and–”

Sirius can’t help it. He lets out a startled bark of laughter, the sound of it almost too loud in the quiet room. A flood of relief washes over him, but he quickly realises you don’t find the situation quite as funny.

“Why does that matter?” he asks sincerely, though the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.

You turn bashful at his question, and he feels like he’s finally uncovered the root of the problem.

 “It’s not very attractive, is it?” 

You must be joking, he thinks. You must be.

“S’not very attractive when you're grinding your teeth in my ears all night,” He jokes but it pulls a strangled noise – somewhere between a sob and a groan – from you as you lift your hands to cover your face, trying to hide away.

Not joking then. 

If the bed was capable of swallowing you whole, he’s sure you’d let it take you. He scrambles for a second, before shifting in the bed to sit up and gently takes hold of your wrists to pry them away from your face. 

“I was kidding,” he says softly, but his brows are furrowed with genuine worry. “Anything you do is incredibly attractive to me, lovely.” He says it so earnestly that it catches you off guard.

“You could talk with a lisp or in any way you want, and it wouldn’t change the fact that you're fucking killer, doll.”

You blink at him, stunned, your hands still held in place by his grasp on your wrists. The soft light from the bedside lamp bathes his features, and the warmth in his voice softens the worry that’s running through you.

You meet his gaze again, searching for something – an ounce of teasing, a hint of insincerity – but you don’t find it.

“You really mean that?” you ask, tentatively. 

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering just a little longer than necessary on your skin. His eyes never leave yours.

“Sweetheart, of course I mean it,” he says softly, the idea that you don’t believe him is enough to cleave him in two. “And the mouthguard? It’s supposed to help, right?”

When you nod, he presses on. “Then you should wear it, yeah?”

You nod again, smiling. A proper smile this time that has Sirius’ heart drumming in his chest. He encourages you up and out of the bed, watching as you root through your overnight bag to find the orange case the mouthguard lives in.

It’s when you disappear into the bathroom that he realises. 

“Oi,” he shouts, “You minx! You were trying to make me fall asleep so you could sneak it in.”

The sound of a giggle coming from the bathroom is the only response he gets. 

masterlist <3

[currantlee]

Fine! Since absolutely no one asked — here’s my take on Sabrina Carpenter’s latest announcement as someone who was neutral about her previously.

TL;DR: it’s satire, it’s punk as fuck, and I love it. Now get ready, because I’m about to sound really fucking intellectual here.

The album is called Man’s Best Friend, a metaphor usually used for dogs. Sabrina Carpenter puts herself into the position of one on this album cover: on all fours on the floor, having her head pet. It’s reminiscent of a sexual activity known as pet play or doggy play. Needless to say, I think this is deliberate. Sex is always a good way to ruffle some feathers.

If you’ve listened to Manchild, her latest single, it’s basically her insinuating that a lot of men are idiots and incapable of keeping their lives together without women.

Sabrina Carpenter likes to play with vintage and Americana aesthetics, both of which are reminiscent of a more sexist, more misogynist time. And by ‘play’ I mean she subverts them. I think this is another instance of her taking something very familiar (and in this case, provocative) and subverting it — but not in the lazy, boring way (which would be ‘consensual kink’ — which, you can still interpret it that way, but I would go a step further).

I think Man’s Best Friend, and its cover, are about how men are incompetent and need women to assist them like service dogs. They know this, and they are so scared of being without a woman to take care of them that they force women into submission, into their ownership, to the point where they make the women believe they are doing this voluntarily. So a man’s best friend is not his dog, it’s women — and men would do good to remember that. The layers you can apply to this are insane, and I FUCKING LOVE IT for that! Edit: But most importantly — it’s a great way to start a conversation about some things that unfortunately still exist in our society and that we should really have some conversations about.

Also. On a meta level, the fact that she is doing that, putting herself into that position? She isn’t catering to men, she is actively taking their expectations, turning them around, and throwing them right back at them. She is owning her sexuality, adding yet another layer to this hell of a power move.

And yeah. Maybe this is me reading too much into everything (which is something I like to do). But honestly? I don’t care. I think this is fun, I think this is the best thing I’ve seen come out of pop since I can’t even tell you, I think it doesn’t matter if I’m right or not ‘cause I’m gonna appreciate this regardless, I think this is complex or can at least be interpreted in a complex way, I think it ultimately doesn’t matter which interpretation is ‘correct’ because it’s powerful either way, and yes, once again, I FUCKING LOVE IT!!

Bonus points because this is so punk that it pissed off the extremist babies on all possible sides, and I’m kinda here for that.

[wendichester]

Hello again! I swear, I look forward to your fics everyday - I just can't get enough!!!

I had an idea and thought you would be the perfect writer if you're up for it!

Could you write a reader that has to use her inhaler after big fights? Usually she hides it, but either Sam or Dean sees her use it after a really rough fight/hunt. And I'd love to see whatever kind of relationship you think fits this! Wether it's teasing her, making sure she's okay, fluff, romance, etc. - I know you would write it well no matter what dynamic you choose!!

Anyways, even if you don't write this, I just want you to know that your fics are one of the highlights of my day among the chaos happening around me in the U.S. right now

⊹₊⟡⋆ breathe,

summary. you've been keeping the fact that you're asthmatic for some time now. til dean notices. he always does.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 598

notes. thank you so much for requesting and I'm happy to be part of your days and help them feel a little better. hit me up if you ever need to talk hun 🩷

The second the hunt is over, you disappear.

Dean notices.

He’s still catching his breath, hands braced on his knees, heart hammering from the fight. It was brutal—vamps, too many of them, all claws and fangs and blood-streaked grins. But you held your own. You always do.

So why the hell did you bolt the second the last body hit the floor?

“Hey, you seen—?” He turns to ask Sam, but his brother is busy wiping blood off his face, barely registering the question.

Dean’s eyes scan the abandoned barn, the moonlight pouring through broken slats in the roof. Then he sees movement—just outside, near the Impala.

You.

And you’re bent over, hands braced on the car, shoulders rising and falling too fast. His stomach drops.

Dean moves without thinking, crossing the space in seconds. He expects to see blood, a wound you didn’t mention, some kind of damage—

But then he hears it. The sharp, practiced inhale. The soft hiss of a familiar sound.

You freeze when you notice him. Your body goes stiff, fingers still wrapped around the inhaler, but it’s too late.

Dean stops short, eyes flicking between your face and the little plastic device in your hand. He processes it in real time—the way your chest is still tight, your breath still uneven, the way you’re looking at him like you just got caught stealing the damn moon.

He blinks. “You’re asthmatic?”

You exhale, slow and measured. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dean’s brows shoot up. “Uh, yeah, it kinda is.”

You shove the inhaler into your jacket pocket like that erases the fact that he just saw you use it. Like you can make it disappear. “I don’t like making a thing out of it.”

Dean scoffs. “A thing out of breathing?”

You roll your eyes. “I can breathe fine, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah? That why you were over here suckin’ on that thing like it was oxygen straight from Heaven?”

You glare at him, but it lacks heat. Mostly because you’re still a little winded.

Dean softens. Just a little.

“How long?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Since I was a kid.”

Dean nods, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t like the thought of you struggling with this alone. Doesn’t like that you’ve been keeping it a secret.

“You always hide it?”

Your arms cross over your chest. “I don’t need you guys hovering every time I get a little winded.”

Dean tilts his head. “Sweetheart, we just fought off a goddamn vampire nest. I’m winded. This ain’t ‘a little.’”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable under his gaze. “It’s under control.”

Dean watches you for a long beat. Then he reaches out, taps his knuckles lightly against your chin.

“Next time, don’t run off, yeah?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“I ain’t gonna make a big deal outta it, alright? Just—” He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Just let me know you’re okay.”

Something in his voice makes your chest tighten—but not in the bad way. In the way that makes you want to believe him.

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean gives you a look, one that lingers, one that feels like an unspoken I mean it.

Then he smirks, nudging your shoulder. “You know, if you ever need mouth-to-mouth, I volunteer as tribute.”

You groan. “And there it is.”

Dean grins, throwing an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the car. “Come on, Wheezy, let’s go.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but he just laughs, holding you closer.

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