#do you just...burn the label as you smoke it????

[tj-crochets]

What if you crocheted the cigar? Would that help the size problem? My brain is thinking: MR 6, INC 6, (SC, INC) 6 and then just SC to length and then color change to grey or red for the cigar end?

Depending on the yarn, you could get a nice texture to the cigar too.

Crocheting the cigar is definitely an option, and depending on the scale I was going for that's pretty much the pattern I was thinking too, I just have to admit I know nothing about cigars or what their texture usually is lol

[eyeless-cunt]

KINKTOBER DAY 3

PROMPT: Corruption Kink

CREEP: Masky

Word Count: 3.5k

CW: 18+, Corruption Kink, Loss of Virginity, Implied Stalking, Pill mention, Smoking/Nicotine, Gun mention, Fem genitalia, Raw Sex, Creampie, Oral (fem receiving), Outside Sex, the works. This had way too much plot sowwy got carried away <3

KINKTOBER '24 MASTERLIST

Small clouds of your breath released into the cold winter air, the small spiral of smoke-like whisps escaping your lips and rising into the sky. Your hands clenched around your torso as you shook, trying and failing to warm up. You searched the fog that blanketed the area around you, waiting for the man that had you wrapped around his finger. So much so that you were waiting at a bus stop at 2am in frigid weather just to see him again. You wondered when exactly you had become so enamored with the man. When you first made eye contact through his mask in the deep woods? When he gifted you a tape that he had apparently filmed only you on? Maybe it was that night he lifted your chin, calloused fingers holding you firmly, and called you a 'sweet little temptation'. When you asked what he meant by that you only got silence in return.

You didn't know when exactly he started haunting your every thought. Nor why he did in the first place. You didn't even know his real name. Your parents would be rolling in their graves if they knew you spent most of your nights in the woods with a strange man that carried a gun and pill bottles with the labels ripped off. If they saw you hesitantly take the cigarette he offered you, only to choke your lungs up at the first hit. You had no interest in smoking, only in sharing the object between each other's lips. You could practically hear your mother scoffing in your ear every time you watched a man that was most likely mixed in with something dangerously illegal comb his hand through his dark hair–leading you further into the woods.

A shadow shifted in the outskirts of your vision, drawing your attention. You recognized his scuffed boots, the only part of him that was uncovered under the various streetlights that lined the sidewalk. The sight of him slowly stepping out from the dark and into your view made your heartbeat pick up, the goosebumps on your arms now not only just because of the cold. He stood silently. Completely still, waiting for you to join him. That was how all your nights started, the masked man waiting for you to come to him.

You attempted to walk towards him at a steady pace, nervously wondering if you seemed too eager. It was hard not to rush at him after not seeing him for two days.

"Hi," you whispered shakily, cringing at how it came out. The cold coupled with your nerves was doing wonders to your voice. He only grunted, shedding his heavy jacket and draping it over your shoulders and the jacket you already had on. The gesture did equal things to your heart and core, both your chest and thighs squeezing in tandem.

"What–no! Aren't you cold? It's freezing out here, I can't take your only jacket." Your voice came out shaky once again, and you cursed yourself and the weather.

"'S fine. Don't worry about it." You simultaneously loved and hated that he was a man of very few words. It was part of his charm you knew, but you would love to hear his voice more often. It was a deep raspy tone, low and even.

"Of course I'm gonna worry about it. It's, like, freezing out here and only dropping more by the hour. You'll get frost bitten if I steal this from you." You had stopped shaking, the jacket not only thick and well insulated, but warmed from his own body heat. It smelled of him, and it took a lot for you to not bring it up to your nose and smash your face in it like a love struck school girl.

His only response was to grab your hand, surprising you, and snake it up his t-shirt. You squealed–embarrassingly–as he held your flattened palm against his chest. He was burning hot it seemed like, your cold hand a stark opposite against his own temperature. "See? 'M warm. Keep it on." You could only nod, thankful that the cold had already warmed your face long ago. You savored the feeling of his bare skin against your palm, feeling almost physically pained as you pulled away.

He turned and started walking towards the woods, pulling his mask on over his face as you both stepped over past the treeline and into the almost pitch black of the forest. You were grateful the moon was so bright, other nights you were a stumbling mess, barely able to see the ground in front of you. You followed him almost expertly, your months of shared exploration now carved into your limbs as you climbed after him over fallen trees and dodged spiderwebs that slipped into your pathway. You loved the silence, it allowed you to hear his breathing clearly. Although that thought made you feel a bit creeper-ish.

"What have you been doing?" You broke the silence, trying to keep your voice down as you knew by now that everything sounded louder in the woods at night.

"Busy." Right. You huffed, waiting for more than that. You hummed, prompting a better response from him.

"Had stuff to take care of. Nothin' you need to worry your pretty little head over." Your heart swooned over the slight term of endearment, not bothering to think about how he was still being secretive.

"I do worry about you though." You frowned. Would he think you were being overbearing? Overstepping, maybe? You shuddered at the thought, opting to not say anything else just in case. If he distanced himself from you because of your over involvement you'd probably hate yourself forever.

He hummed, stopping to pull a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pocket. His hands reached up to slip off the mask and you watched with baited breath, as always. You could never get enough of seeing the face under his mask. He flicked his lighter, the flame dancing around in the dark. You were impressed he lasted this long without a cigarette. Usually he had one lit before he came to meet you. You breathed in the scent of the nicotine smoke that floated in your direction, seemingly unbothered. You used to hate the smell, but it's something entirely different on him. It took on a new form in his presence. Maybe it was the allure of how his fingers flicked at the lighter, or the way the tiny flame reflected in his eyes. You'd never been attracted to men that smoked, much less the act of it. It was a disgusting habit is what you had been taught all your life. You had been taught a lot of things that you were now rebuking these past few months.

"Are we going somewhere?" Normally the answer would be something along the lines of 'wherever,' or, 'just walkin'.' He might take you to a sketchy abandoned building, something like a hospital. Sometimes a clearing, other times a steady stream. Once, it was a river that you dipped your feet into and talked in front of for hours.

"You wanna go somewhere?" You paused. That was a new one. He flicked his cigarette, lightly squashing the fallen ash under his boot. Any words you may have said escaped you. Was he serious?

"There are places to go?" The question was tentative. His gaze met yours and you froze in place, always mesmerized by the way he looked at you.

"If you want to. I'll take you anywhere you wanna go, pretty." He shrugged, seemingly unaware of the backflips that were happening in your chest.

"Aren't you cold yet? It's been a good hour now." You watched him carefully, noting how he still wasn't shivering. No goosebumps lined his arms, unlike you who was wearing two jackets and still had a tremor to your voice. You weren't sure if that was necessarily because of the cold though.

He raised an eyebrow as if asking you if you were serious. He nodded you over as he took another puff, his other hand reaching out for yours. Hesitantly, you let him grab your wrist, only for him to tug you towards him abruptly. He placed his cigarette back between his lips, one extremely warm hand slipping under your shirt and pressing against your lower back, pulling you into him. He pushed your hand up his t-shirt again, but you weren't anymore prepared this time. The feeling of his warmth against your hand had your head spinning in circles, the feel of his calloused fingers spread open just above your ass driving you wild in a way you'd never thought possible.

"Do I feel cold yet?" You were at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing in shock. You could barely shake your head no. You didn't miss the way the corner of his mouth ticked upwards, only for a moment. Your mind that was racing in a million different directions halted the second you felt his hand move along your skin to squeeze your hip and stay there. He pulled your closer until your body melded against his, completely stealing the air from your lungs. He had your ear pressed against his chest, his heartbeat loud and clear.

"Wha-? Why are we standing like this?" You didn't dare pull away, your voice coming out as a tentative whisper. Barely audible. You felt his hot breath on the top of your head as he spoke.

"You're cold, aren't you? You're shivering. You don't like it?" The question made you pause. Of course you liked it. You'd never forget this moment or the way his rough hands felt as they squeezed your bare hip. The way his body heat wrapped around you left you feeling wildly desperate.

"It's not that." It would never be that.

"No? Then tell me you like it." His voice sounded lower than usual. You fought the embarrassment of saying something like that outloud.

"What's that matter?" You mumbled the words like they were poisonous–the poison being pure shame.

He hummed, ashing his cigarette and freeing his hand back up so that both could be slipped under your shirt and clasped onto your body. He dragged his fingertips up your spine and back down, his other hand slipping down to cup your ass.

"You don't like it and I'll let you go. You want me to let go?"

"I...," you trailed off, the nervousness seeping into your voice plainly. He only hummed, prompting you to try again. Your hesitation made him begin to pull back, and the loss of his warmth had your fingers clutching his shirt, attempting to hold him there as you tired again.

"I like it." Your words were said quietly–slowly, even–as if it would make it less embarrassing if you took your time with them.

He didn't say a word to what felt like a filthy confession in your mind. His only response was physical, his hands returning and only getting braver. You remained clutching at his shirt as he trailed a hand higher and higher up your back, lightly dragging his nails up and under the straps of your bra. You buried your head in his chest, embarrassed and panicked as you felt him undo the clip that held it together.

"Tell me that's okay." You knew he was referring to the undone bra, but your words felt like jello as they tried and failed to come out. You could only nod, face still hidden.

He grabbed your chin unexpectedly, dragging your face up to meet his. You were sure you looked anything but composed, unlike him.

"If it's okay then tell me with your words. Use your mouth." Your mind immediately turned dark with the things you could use your mouth for, face burning at the thought. Your thoughts swirled as his other hand slowly slipped past your waistband slowly, just teasing the skin there.

"It is." You could barely get that out without shifting your gaze anywhere else besides his face. He leaned down to your ear, letting go of your chin to slip another hand up the front of your shirt. Your thighs clenched as your felt his hand stop just between your breasts, teasing the skin there. Your skin was lit with anticipation unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

"Tell me that with your words then. Go ahead." You couldn't believe he was making you say it again. You didn't think you were strong enough.

"I...," you started, the words dying in your throat as you watched his eyes stare into what was probably your soul. "I've never done this before." You shifted nervously, wondering if that would change anything. You being inexperienced in this way at this age was embarrassing.

"I'll make you feel good. You don't want me?" He was all you wanted.

"I want you," the words shook as they came out, but they were there nonetheless. "It's okay...for you to touch me." That seemed to be all he needed–in the next few seconds his mouth was latched to your neck, kissing and sucking as his fingers moved to unbutton your pants. You weren't sure what to do with your hands as he moved down your shoulder with his mouth.

He pulled your shirt up, telling you to hold the hem in your mouth as he pulled your pants down, accidentally pulling your underwear with them. You'd never felt so exposed in your life as he flipped your positions to have your back against the tree he was previously leaning on. Your undone bra was slipping off your shoulders, leaving your breasts half exposed, nipples peaking out. He had pulled down your pants leaving you completely exposed. You tasted fabric as you continued biting down on the bottom of your shirt, back arching as you watched him cut your bra off. You couldn't have protested if you wanted to.

"You're pretty jus' like this," he whispered lowly in your ear, fingers reaching down to push into your folds, making you whimper as you felt him slowly caress your opening, his fingers slowly pushing in and out, just barely. "With your legs spread, giving it up for a man like me." His words had you pushing your hips closer to him in a vain attempt to get his fingers to finally push inside of you fully. He dropped to his knees, not bothering to give you any warning before he pulled you closer to his face by your hips and licked a stripe up your pussy. You whimpered around the cloth in your mouth, hips jutting closer as he latched his mouth around your clit and sucked, fingers finally pushing up inside of you. You could barely contain yourself as he pushed in and out of you, pushing against your walls. The sting of him adding another finger had you reeling with the pain, only for his mouth to soothe it.

He was mumbling as he ate you, the words mostly too low for you to hear. You could only make out him telling you how you tasted, and the thought of him enjoying that almost had your knees buckling. You had your fists clenched onto his shoulders, grasping at his shirt. You had to fight not to fist his hair and push him further into you. Your hips weren't winning any fights, rolling on his tongue like a woman starved. He pulled away, fingers leaving you empty and clenching on nothing.

You didn't get to question why as he had you soon turned around with your hands pressed against the tree holding you up, your ass bare and sticking up for him. If your legs weren't shaking with what was an almost-orgasm you would have felt more embarrassed. Though as he grabbed you by the throat and rubbed his clothed dick on your ass you were only thinking about how you wanted more. He nipped at your ear, hand reaching around your front to messily play with your clit again.

"You're so wet I could just slip right in. Make a mess of you and fill you up." He sunk his fingers back into you, pumping as you gasped and shook against his body.

"You want me inside yet, pretty?" You moaned at the thought, nodding your head up and down as your hips rolled into his still pumping fingers.

"You sure? I don't have any protection. You still want me to fuck you?" Maybe your brain wasn't working properly, or maybe you really were corrupted because your only response was to push your ass up and arch your back, hands steadying yourself against the tree. You only received a laugh in response, and you thought about how normally you would have felt self conscious about that.

You let out a tiny gasp to yourself as you felt his tip press against you, shaking as he dragged it up and down your folds slowly. He rubbed it over your clit, probably smiling to himself as he watched you come undone over the simplest stimulation.

"Where exactly do you want it?" You could feel the glee in his voice as he said it, obviously pleased with himself.

"Inside." The words sputtered out, leaving you with a confidence you weren't aware was in your possession before today. "Inside me, Masky." He heard your request and granted it easily, pushing his tip against you and slowly slipping inside. Your breathing picked up as you felt the stretch and consequential burn, body tensing and rigid.

His hand slipped under your stomach, his voice low but tense in your ear. "Relax, baby." He smoothed his hands over your waist, maybe attempting to ease the tension there. Luckily for both of you it worked, his hands lighting fireworks anywhere he touched.

He eased into you, fingers finally gracing your clit again, the pleasure soothing a good portion of the burn as he continued to press into you, filling you in a manner that you thought should be impossible. A low groan left his mouth as he bottomed out, a few curses splitting from his lips as he asked if you were ready. You took a brief moment to breathe through the pain–his fingers on you and him being inside of you all at once was causing your brain to short circuit. You weren't sure your mouth and brain were connected at this point, the only sounds that left you now being uncontrolled moans and gasps. Thankfully your hips rolling back into him was enough of an answer in his eyes, and he began moving slowly. You'd never been filled up like this before, the new feeling of him moving inside you was almost addictive.

You were practically singing as he picked up speed, your walls fluttering as he hit seemingly every sensitive spot inside you repeatedly. You were seeing stars with the way he fucked you.

It took more focus than you were currently capable of to hold yourself up, the more he slammed into you the more jello-like your legs became. As you began slipping he wrapped his arms around you, bringing your back flush with his chest with no pause to the almost rhythmic pace, his movements unrelenting. You could have collapsed as he teased your clit, your orgasm slowly approaching. You were practically throbbing with desire as he fucked up into you, his mouth latching onto your neck. You could barely move your hips to meet him halfway anymore, the exhaustion beginning to set in. Although he seemed perfectly fine doing it all on his own, his movements never ceasing for a second as he cursed in your ear, his words barely making any sense to you.

It was a string of filithy compliments, sweet praises for you and disgustingly lewd comments about how you felt wrapped around his dick. You couldn't make sense of much, far too focused on the way you fluttered around him, your walls clenching as you rose higher and higher towards an orgasm. Your breathing came heavy as he fucked into you faster, your mewling and newly tensed legs signaling to him what was fast approaching. He circled and teased your clit relentlessly, encouraging you with words full of filith.

"I-I'm, I can't–Masky!" You couldn't push the words out, all your attention on the way your stomach coiled as your release got closer. Your hips were back to rocking against him, chasing the feeling and spreading your legs further to give him more room.

"Love when you say my name, go ahead and scream it for me." You did just that, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and a song all in one. His place slowed as he kissed down your neck and shoulder, leaving marks behind and praising you endlessly. He fucked you through it as you slowly came down, his praise only serving to light you on fire again. You'd never heard him speak so much, much less to compliment you like this. He slipped out, the emptiness not doing as much to you as the immediate burn you felt afterwards.

"Wait, you didn't cum?" You questioned him worriedly, horrified at the thought that maybe he didn't enjoy it. He only laughed, motioning towards your legs. You looked down and only then did you feel the sticky wetness that slowly dripped from your entrance and down your thighs. You had no idea when he came or how he continued afterwards, but the evidence was clear.

“Not a chance in hell I wasn't cumming with you choking out my dick like that.” That comment had your face heating, as if you weren't already flushed and sweaty despite the cold. You nervously met his eyes, wondering what exactly this changed. Would he still want to meet with you like you had been for the past few months? Or was he done with you now that he'd gotten something? You figured worrying about this when you hadn't even pulled your pants up from where they laid at your ankles was a bit premature, but your brain didn't seem to agree.

You didn't have to worry for long though, Masky didn't waste any time in pulling you to his mouth, practically devouring you where you stood. You'd never been kissed like that in your life, his teeth biting at your lower lip as his hand held your head in place, pressed against him. He pulled away only after you began squirming, watching you with a satisfied gaze as you gasped for breath.

“Do you regret it?” You faltered, surprised he was the one asking that and not you. “Huh?” is all you managed to sputter out. Speaking didn't seem to be your strong point tonight.

“Do you regret me?” You shook your head almost violently, protests falling out of your mouth now in a jumbled mess. You couldn't believe he'd ever think that, as if you weren't just screaming his name against a tree of all things.

He hummed, watching you slowly rise from pulling up your bottoms. “That's good, ‘cause even if you did it wouldn't matter much.” He twirled a strand of your hair absentmindedly, his eyes locked on yours in a way that could only remind you of a predator. “You're mine now. Entirely.” Maybe you should feel put off–scared, even–at his words and the tone he says them in. The only thing you feel instead is pure, undiluted joy in the fact that he's claimed you so confidently. You'd never imagined being with a man that was clearly dangerous in so many ways, but something about him had changed you fundamentally as a person. Him or something about him had done something to you and your nature. Something irreparable.

[katsumiiii]

hobie x fem! reader

thinking of hobie brown rn…!

hobie who knows you love the height difference between you two and uses it to his advantage. is constantly angling his head upwards, which causes him to purposely peer down at you through his thick eyelashes. you always get flustered each time he narrows his eyes and tilts his chin, and him being the ever so perceptive spider he is, takes notice of your heated cheeks and continues to do so.

whenever he’s near a doorway or a thick frame he lovesss to lay a palm on the top of it, trapping your body beneath his as you ramble on about whatever it is you’re rambling about. he makes sure to nod along while effectively moving a hand towards your plush waist, bringing your figure flush against his own. he plays with the seam of your shirt, and urges you to keep going when you stutter from the sudden change in position.

hobie who loves to annoy you with his British slang. it’s not necessarily because he uses it often that irks you, it’s the fact that you have no idea what he’s saying and he never makes an effort to help you understand. (he actually finds it amusing each time you attempt to guess what he means and is completely off base every single time).

“babe, I’d love ta get ya that shirt you’ve been beggin’ for, but I’m skint right now. try me next week, yeah?” he hummed, kicking his feet up on the railing next to your bed.

“skint? I feel like you’ve used that one before..” you muttered, huffing in irritation by the smug look on hobie’s face, his lips quirked in amusement.

“told ya what it meant last week. thought ya said you could ‘se context clues?”

“whatever bee, maybe you should speak english.”

“‘aint that what ���m doin’?”

hobie who always has a blunt neatly rolled on his dresser, his ash tray placed gently to the left of it. he often smoked before running off to whatever it is he did when he wasn’t home (he was very unpredictable as he switched it up weekly to “fuck up consistency” whatever the hell that meant).

hobie inhaled gingerly before tilting his head towards his peeling painted ceiling, his fingers lingered tightly on the wood before lifting it to your lips, “want a go?”

you shook your head, nuzzling further into his shoulder, “mhm no, too tired.” hobie chuckled before greedily puffing the joint, shuttering at the burning feeling it left.

“suit yourself love, more for me.”

hobie who you introduce differently to your friends each time you bring him up. one day he’s your boyfriend, the next he’s your significant other, and the next he’s your ‘close friend’. they always question the constant switch ups, but you don’t ever seem to mind. you know where you stand with the man, and to him that’s all that matters.

“so what’s up with you and…..” your friend trailed off, stirring the ice in her drink.

“hobie?” you questioned.

“yeah him, so is he your boyfriend or what?”

“it’s complicated, he hates labels, makes him feel confined.” you replied, shrugging your shoulders as you lay your head on your palm.

“that doesn’t bother you? is he like scared of commitment or something?”

you scoff, lightly shaking your head, “no, he just doesn’t want to contribute to the system.” you answered bluntly, taking another sip of your lemonade.

“the system?” your friend asked, eyebrow raised at the quip.

“nevermind, don’t worry about it.”

hobie who subtly brags about you to his people. loves to show you off, and has no problem admitting he does.

“yeah bruv, my girl jus’ got into her dream fuckin’ college. been workin’ hard for that shit all year, man.” hobie boasted, pushing his hands out in order to bounce off the wall next to him.

“oh my goodness how wonderful! when do we get to meet this companion of yours?” pavitr questioned, flinging his body upwards to keep up with the male to his right.

“eh, don’t know yet, when I feel like it, yeah?”

all in all hobie is so cute and I literally am in love with him!!

[barefoothighlander]

never going back again - 02

summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup

simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader

warnings: mdni (18+), mentions of eating, nightmares, mention of alcohol, mutual pining

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It was the calmest he'd ever been, lounging around the cottage with you near, he wasn't much for conversation but he enjoyed asking you questions, how long you'd lived there,

"3 years next month, I bought it a while back after moving here on a whim"

What you did all day,

"Garden and read, lots of painting, even more cooking"

It was all so foreign to him, the idea of living one day at a time, not worrying about the outside world or whether or not your life was in danger, he'd realized quickly that this was the first time he felt safe in years, even with the looming threat of enemies outside and the lack of contact to his team. It did occur to him that if he didn't reach out eventually he would be labelled MIA, but to a man who wasn't even legally alive, the prospect of never seeing his team again didn't worry him a bit, what did worry him was the burning smell from the kitchen.

"What are you doing in here?"

"I was trying a new recipe, it's harder than it looks" You rush to turn off the stove, quickly pulling the pan from the surface and using a towel to waft the smoke.

"I thought you were good at cooking"

"No I said I liked cooking, not that I was any good" You huff while reaching to open the small window above the sink, allowing the fumes to migrate through the opening.

He leans his hands against the table "It doesn't look that bad"

"You're a terrible liar, has anyone ever told you that"

"Most say I've got a great poker face" He tilts his head, you respond with an unamused haha,

He stands to his full height, moving towards you "Let me"

"Let you what"

"Cook, I'll make dinner"

"Anything's better than this" You nudge towards the pan of burnt food, straightening your clothes before allowing him the step to the stove. You turn to sit at the table, watching as he moves around the kitchen with ease, grabbing ingredients from various spots while you point him toward the proper cabinets.

"Where'd you learn to cook?"

"Had to figure out a way to feed myself once I left home"

"They don't feed you at work?"

"They do, but it's mostly inedible, more nutrient based than anything"

"Did your mum cook?"

He doesn't respond for a moment, leaving you to realize the words that come from your mouth, your smile fading quickly, "I'm sorry I forgot"

"S'alright, she um, she didn't often but some Sundays she'd make a roast, best meal I ever ate"

He turns to you, his gaze soft as you smile slightly in response,

"Well let's hope her skills weren't wasted on you"

He laughs lightly, a real laugh before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the stove. You watch as he prepares the food for a few minutes, reaching across the counter to add spices,

"So what are you making?"

"I am making" He stops his sentence, turning off the stove and twisting to face you, "French toast"

"French toast?"

"I said I could cook, not that I know a lot of recipes"

You cover your mouth as you laugh, your eyes creasing at the sides as he places a plate in front of you,

"Well, it smells great"

The two of you dig into the food, your gaze focused on the plate as you allow him the privacy to lift his mask up slightly, revealing his mouth, falling into a comfortable silence as you eat, Simon smiles to himself as you make a small hum of approval,

"You can't be serious"

"What'd I do?"

"That's like a cup of syrup"

"So?"

"You're teeth are going to rot from your head"

"What if they already have"

You scrunch your face at the thought, "At least it'd explain the mask"

"You don't have to turn away you know"

You make a small huh? in response,

"When I pull on my mask, I don't mind you seeing parts of my face"

"I just assumed"

"I know, but you don't have to turn away"

"Okay" Your voice is smaller, intrigue and confusion mixed into it as you nod. “How’s your cut”

“Healing, thanks to you, still tender”

“Can I” You turn your eyes to his, standing from the table to kneel by his side, his breath catches in his throat as you lower your body, your fingers inches from his stomach.

He nods lightly in permission, lifting his shirt for you and settling it on his lower stomach, your fingers pressing gently on the sides of his wound as you inspect it. His eyes stare at your face, holding back a smile as you bite your lip in concentration, you stand, turning behind to grab some new bandages from the cabinet behind you before returning to your position in front of him.

You brace your fingers against his skin, tugging at his bandage,

“Sorry”

“Doesn’t hurt”

You tilt your head to him and he’s watching you, his eyes locked on your face, your cheeks flush slightly under his stare, turning your attention towards his wound as you dress it, pressing the bandage into his skin. You let your fingers linger for a moment, feeling his stomach rise and fall with each breath before you slowly pull away, standing up and nodding.

“That should do”

“Thank you”

“It’s nothing”

“Thank you” He repeats in a lower, softer voice as he lets his shirt fall into place.

"Any idea when your ear thing will work again?"

"You trying to kick me out?"

"No" You widen your eyes at your quick response, "Just, want to make sure there isn't someone at home missing you"

"There isn't"

You mouth a small oh before turning your gaze toward the window, "It's late, you should rest"

"Right"

There's tension between the two of you, neither wants to leave the others company yet at the same time, neither of you will do anything about it.

"I'll see you in the morning" You smile, passing through the kitchen towards your room and closing the door, leaving Simon alone.

He wakes in a blind panic, the sky outside still dark as he blinks his eyes, turning his head towards your door, he can hear you shouting, rustling around and without thinking he enters the room. Your limbs are twisted between the sheets, jolting around as you mumble, he takes a step back as you sit up, your chest heavy.

You clutch your chest at the sight of him, lurking in the doorframe,

"You scared me"

"You were having a nightmare"

"Yeah, they happen sometimes"

It's then that you notice he's not wearing his mask, the room is dark but there's enough light for you to make out the curve of his nose,

He scratches the back of his head, "Okay" turning to leave,

"Simon"

He lazily turns his gaze back to you, responding with a small hmm.

"Will you stay, it's just"

He cuts you off, "Easier to sleep with someone beside you"

"Please"

"Of course"

You watch as he crosses the room, looming beside your bed as you pull the sheets to cover you, feeling the mattress dip under his weight as he settles in. He lays awkwardly on his back, his arms crossed over his stomach, you watch his chest rise and fall, without thinking you slide your palm against it, your fingers light on the fabric of his shirt as you move closer, pressing your chest against his side and resting your head on his shoulder. He snakes an arm around you, letting you nestle against him as his hand settles gently on your arm, his touch feather-light as he tries to keep a consistent heartbeat.

You must've fallen asleep shortly after, waking to the sun streaming into the room, your limbs tangled between his, both of you had turned in your sleep, his chest now pressed against your back as his arms held snugly against your waist. You can feel his steady breath fan across your neck, his face close enough that the tip of his nose grazes your skin, he's so warm, the sheets on the bed long forgotten in your sleep and the heat coming from him is more than enough.

You reach a hand to his arm, tracing over the lines of his tattoo and you feel him tighten his grip, his stable breaths now ragged as he wakes up. It takes him a moment to realize the position he's in, his brain doing little to comprehend the situation.

"Do you have something in your pocket?"

He pulls from you instantly, jolting upwards and turning around as you giggle,

"M'sorry" His voice is groggy, his accent thicker than usual.

"It's fine"

He keeps his gaze away from you, anxiously stretching his limbs before you realize,

"I'm gonna shower, I'll turn away so I don't"

"Thank you"

You can only see the back of his head, his blonde hair that's a mess, the outline of his head as he nods, shaking your thoughts as you move out of the room.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, hoping that he didn't get a chance to see you that morning either, your hair was everywhere, the skin under your eyes dark from your usual lack of sleep as you strip your pyjamas, turning on the faucet.

You stand in the warm water, letting it wash over you, hoping it would calm your rampant thoughts as you hear Simon moving around behind the door.

You step out of the shower, wrapping your body in a towel and smoothing your hair back before opening the door, the steam wafting from the small room into the house.

“Where’s the kettle?”

“Top left cabinet”

You stand in the doorway, your hands squeezing the water from your hair as you look at him,

“Thanks”

He turns quickly to you and his body freezes, his eyes glued to your practically naked form as you stand, the beads of water dripping from your warm skin.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yep, just making tea”

“Okay, bags are in the lower cupboard”

He nods awkwardly, furrowing your brows at him before turning around, he lets out a heavy breath as you leave, leaning back against the counter as he drops his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Shit” He mumbles to himself, adjusting his pants feeling them grow tighter as his mind runs circles around the sight of you, replaying the way your fingers traced over his skin, and scent of your hair as he rested his head against yours. He was awake most of the night, listening to you breath, smiling lightly as you mumble about nothing, you were soft, he’d never had soft before always jagged and dark.

His mind snaps back as you call from the other room,

“Are you any good at fixing things?”

“Depends, what needs fixing”

“The shutters outside, they’re falling apart”

“I could give them a look”

You appear in the entry, smiling at him, now clothed with your hair pulled back, he just watches you in awe, the fact that you could look so perfect no matter the circumstances, you could be caked in mud and still make his heart flutter.

The two of you sit for tea and chat about nothing, asking more questions that he dodges while you openly answer everything he had wondering about.

“I think you’re his new favourite”

Simon makes a small huh before you nudge your head toward his feet, the small cat nestling itself against his calf.

“Strange”

“He’s not strange”

“Not him just, I’ve never had a cat do this”

“Well get used to it”

He smiles under his mask, he could get used to this, spending his days with you, cooking and drinking tea, just enjoying each others company around the house.

“The shutters”

You set your cup down, nodding at him, “There’s some tools in the shed outside, not sure what’s left but maybe they’d help”

“I’ll get right on it then”

It was sweltering outside, the sun beaming down without a cloud in the sky as Simon tries to navigate his way around fixing the shutters. You see him through the window, his arms flexing as he unscrews some things and nails in others, you had no idea what he was doing but he looked good.

I’m hot, he must be hot you fan yourself with your hand, pulling the hair from your sweat glistened neck, eyes darting around the kitchen before an idea clicks in your head.

“Beer”

It’s the only word you can manage to think of as your eyes fall on him, somewhere in the last few minutes he’d stripped himself of his shirt, tucking the loose material into the belt of his pants as his sweat dripped down his skin.

“Cheers, love one”

Your throat dries, nodding as you extend a n arm toward him, the cold glass of the drink transferring to his grip as he tips it towards you in thanks, turning around to lift his mask slightly before taking a sip. Your eyes trailing down his muscled form, roaming over every ridge of his stomach before moving back up.

“Must be hot with the mask”

“Get used to it”

You take a few gulps of your own drink, running the glass across your skin in an attempt to cool yourself. He turns his gaze back to you, watching as you let the beverage run across your skin, leaving a trail of drips behind, he can’t tell if you’re teasing him or this is just how you act naturally.

“How’s it looking”

“Great”

“So you’re almost done”

“Huh?” His eyes pull back to yours,

“Are you almost done, it’s getting unbearable out here”

“Yeah, nearly there”

“Great, I’ll be inside”

The rest of the evening was calm, the two of you doing your best to stay cool in the small cottage as the sun set over the horizon, deciding on cooking something that didn’t involve the use of heat, settling on sandwiches for dinner.

“Mind if I shower, I’m covered in sweat”

“Yea of course” Your mind floods with the sight of his bare form, thankful that the hot air masked the flush of your cheeks, “Towels are in the washroom”

He nods, standing from the table to move toward the shower, closing the door behind him before turning it on. You blow out a long breath, bracing your hands against the table before turning your head at the sound of him wincing,

“You alright?” You call

“Yeah, just sore”

“Well hurry up, I’ll check your stitches”

You sit impatiently as he showers, nervously tidying the kitchen as you wait, your chest fluttering as you hear the shower turn off.

“Figured it’s easier if I just put my shirt on later”

He must be doing this on purpose, once again your eyes roam his form, his sweat replaced by dripping water as his freshly cleaned skin draws your attention,

“Sure, easier”

He sits on the couch, leaning back and positioning his arm against the top to allow you a better view to his stitches, to your surprise they’re doing well, no inflammation or bleeding, they look good.

“S’good, should be able to take them out soon”

“Great”

“Might leave a scar”

“Adds to the collection”

You pass your gaze over the skin of his chest, littered with scars, some small and others long, some old and some new.

“I’m fine”

“I know you are”

“It only hurts a little, when it happens”

“And someone did this to you”

“A few people”

“How many is a few?” You stare at him with rounded eyes,

“Nothing you need to worry about”

You soften your gaze, standing from the couch,

“I guess we should sleep now” His eyes follow your movements, he shifts in his spot trying to get comfortable,

“Simon, would you- nevermind”

“What do you need?”

“I felt bad waking you last night and I was thinking maybe, if we slept in the same bed I wouldn’t have any, you know”

“Yeah, I’d like that- you not having nightmares” He fumbles over his last words, trying to keep himself together at the prospect of once again having you close.

“Okay” You walk nervously toward your room, the simple action now feeling foreign as he trails behind you, “I’ll keep the lights off if you want”

He nods, closing the door behind him as you get into the bed, shuffling around a little before finding comfort in your position, you turn to your side but keep your eyes on him as he reaches to tug his mask off, your mind trying to piece together what he might look like behind the sharp lines of his shadowed face.

He sets himself beside you, moving an apprehensive arm under your pillow, making sure you were okay with it. You push back against him, your body perfectly slotting in front of his as his other arm settles around your waist, you hold it with your fingers, your thumb rubbing against the skin as you let out a small hum of satisfaction.

You’re asleep in no time, the warmth of the air combined with the comfort of Simon behind you lulling you into a dream while he stays up, his arms tucked against you, it was the most comfortable he’d been in years, maybe ever and be didn’t dare move, his body freezing everytime you moved a leg against him or squeezed his forearm lightly, they were like subconscious reminders that you wanted him there and it warmed his heart, melting against you as he tucked his nose against the nape of your neck, your hair brushing against his skin.

He wakes to an empty bed and a weight on his chest, opening his heavy eyes to the sight of Goliath,

“Good morning kitty”

He runs a hand across his back, smiling lightly as he purrs against his touch before he jumps off, startled by the sounds from the house. Simon quickly realizes that he’s not wearing a mask, it’s light out, and you’re not there, a small panic setting into his nerves as he stands.

He tugs on his mask and a shirt before leaving the room, pressing his side against the frame as he watches you move around the kitchen, steeping some tea while you clean up.

“Mornin”

You turn around with a wide smile, “Sleep well?” You ask, leaning against the counter,

“Best in years” He’s being honest, something about you was so comfortable, safe, he wanted to stay forever, if this was what life had in store for him then he’d accept it with open arms.

“Good, cause I think I found that wire you needed”

His heart sinks in an instant, “You did?”

“I think so, was tucked back in the drawer”

“Oh, I’ll see if it’s the right one then”

You smile, turning back to the kettle that had begun whistling as Simon panics, it was too soon, he wanted more time, he needed to figure out a way to stay longer, something good that would keep him here at least a few more days.

“The bathrooms got mold in it” It was the best he could come up with, he hated lying to you.

“Huh?” You turn with your brows furrowed,

“The bathroom, noticed it last night, I can’t fix it if you’d like”

“Are you sure, I didn’t see any”

“Easy to miss sometimes, it’s just near the drain, shouldn’t take more than a day to clean up”

“Yeah sure, just let me know what you need”

He nods, fighting back a smile of success behind his mask, excusing himself from your direct line of sight before internally celebrating, before stopping to think to himself,

Now I’ve gotta figure out how to retile a shower.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Could you do Orc Tribal Leader X Reader on your wedding night?

A/N: I SWEAR I'm literally just writing the same stuff over again b/c I had a story just like this, but you know what I never get tired of it because its like a top fantasy bro. Hope this one was better than that version at least

Content warnings: Forced Marriage, kidnapping, attempted escapes, nonconsensual touching, infantilization of reader  

Synopsis: Your village, destroyed and burned. Your life picks up somewhere you would never have imagined. Maybe, death is a better option than being an orc’s spouse. 

Word Count: Approx. 2600 

The autumn solstice was a bountiful, beholden time of year. From the greeneries of cabbage and the fowls hatched in summer now fully grown, there was much to be harvested and ripened for the taking. Your town was boisterous, full of life with a variety of competitors and businesses attempting to lurch at any tourist’s or local’s wallet to get them to buy countless crops, meat, and woven goods.  

Your tiny tea shop, suffering from last July’s drought, was finally starting to perk up with re-growth. Black tea, jasmine, bergamot, even hybrid blends like crushed raspberry and chamomile-- you could assemble enough to raise prices, label the small reaping as an imported foreign good luck charm that when drunken, blessed women with marriage prospects and men with wealth.  

That was, before however, you became bound and gagged to a chair, pleasantries being exchanged around you in a language harsh in your ears. The fires... You remember them well, the putrid stench of charred meat from the butcher next door, his body even more ablaze. Your jade boxes of fine silk bags meant for holding gifts of tea, becoming laden with ash and dust. Every scrap of money you saved up under the floorboards disappearing into floating particles and melted coins.  

“Brutes,” Your uncle called them, “deranged beasts with only two things in mind: bloodlust and greed.” 

Orcs were not well-received in a conservative, fearful town of humans. Even the elves, seen as symbols of beauty in mortal standards, were causes of paranoia and irritation whenever they made their rounds nearby.  

It was no wonder that the lines of tusked, olive-fleshed creatures in animal skin were spotted, the guards of your small city went on a rampage. Bows and arrows were no match for iron bones and teeth of steel.  

You, were no match for anything wider than a tree trunk. So when fire caught to your village, your home now rampaged for its finest ‘offerings’ to the orcs, you were left to be eaten by the licking flames. And yet, was it a blessing or a curse that one of the warriors decided to haul you on his back, doting on how “nicely you’ll do” as a wedding gift. You didn’t realize that the gift was to be part of the ceremony yourself.  

With smoke in your lungs and your eyes blurred by dirt and ash, you watched the ceiling cave in on your tiny tea-filled shack, bright orange and red dancing from behind the window panes as you drifted away.  

Daraktan is spoken all around you, harshly and with flicking tongues. You can hear snippets of English, wondering what’s going on behind the black veil covering your head. You don’t dare remove it, recalling what the orc woman, supposedly your now husband’s ‘mother’ telling you in your native tongue.  

“Touch this, and you will surely die. My alfhild will remove it, when it is time.”  

And so, you wait. Digging your fingernails into your palms, crying quietly in heavy furs and leather, the occasional hand coming to pull your shaky one to their mouths, kissing the tip of your index finger.  

“Aka’magosh..” They mumble to you, seemingly more at the body to your right. 

The calloused hand of someone much larger than you, whom you have assumed is your husband from his constant appearance nearby, occasionally comes to grace your back, to rest a hand on the top of your head, to smoothen your veil or the soft fur shawl on your legs.  

His hearty laugh hurts your ears, the jingles of the metal jewelry he adorns constantly making noise as he shifts.  

“Please..” You whisper, praying, to whoever may be listening. Why you? Why, out of all the fair, eligible humans of your town, were you picked out from the rubble to be “saved”? To be married to a faceless orcish man, who would surely break you in half before morning? 

The bitter cold of coming winter brushes against your legs. You can feel that you’re not inside wooden walls, and yet unnatural lighting seems to shine through your veil at times.  

“Omulork, I think I will take my… wedding gift, to be with in solitude.” 

Loud, deep laughs fill the room, the guttural voices of female orcs being swallowed up by uncountable numbers of warriors surrounding you. Your body shivered as a gust of wind blew in, the autumn breeze barely being kept at bay from where you sat.  

“Enjoy the festivities, shedzvagas!”  

His unique husk leaves everyone in the room to cheer in their orcish language, tough and painful pats coming to your back, the festive shakes to your shoulder nearly making you topple. 

That same heated, abrasive hand comes to grab your roped wrists, lurching you firmly, yet gently from your place on the ground. Panic started to fill your stomach as it rose to your chest, the warm aura of an orc next to you radiating to heat you from the chilly weather outside.  

Now. It was now or never. You didn’t want to think anymore what he would do to you when you were alone, when you had no one to cry to for help.  

Your feet moved before the thought finished crossing your mind. Your hands shook as you stumbled in a sprint forward. You passed thick bodies as you ran blindly, making it a mere five steps before a pair of meaty hands grabbed you by the hips. 

“A feisty one, Gar’mak!” The sounds of the orc woman who forced you into your wedding attire spoke up, a drunken laugh leaving her plump lips. “Alfhild, better not leave it out of your sight.” 

You hated how clear the English they used was to your ears, how human they all sounded, how when they spoke in your native tongue-- it was meant for your ears. She wanted you to know, to let the fear soak into your chattering teeth.  

The orc keeping you captive merely laughed, tossing your weightless body to his shoulder just like he had done when pulling you from the cobble of what was left of your tea shop. 

You screamed, biting down on what you could reach from under your veil. But the salty, thick flesh from beneath you was aloof, offering no reaction as a double pat was brought to your buttocks.  

“Now now, Djenifor, don’t fuss.” Gar’mak mused, each step he took forward making your body thump against his. He held a tight grip on you, not caring for the scratches you layered his back with. “I won’t try to hurt you… I will keep you safe, try my best to keep your fragile body in one piece.”  

The coldening night air was a drastic change to the room of heavy body heat and weighty movement where the wedding ritual and festivities were held. Now, it was quiet. You could hear the loud chattering begin to drift, songs and chants rising again as they once had when you were unceremoniously married to your new ‘husband.’  

Gar’mak patted your butt again, moving down to rub at the back of your thigh with a gentle, firm rhythm. He seemed to hum to himself, satisfied with the nights events. Scored himself a spouse and the treasured belongings of a human town.  

He must be pretty proud of himself, you seethed.  

The tears were beginning to sting the corners of your eyes, frantically scratching at the orcs back when you felt the warmth of an enclosed area meet your skin.  

“No, no--” You began to kick, trying to shove off the arm holding you steady on the orcs’ shoulder.  

“Settle down now--” Gar’mak ordered softly, putting you down on the fuzzy ground. You managed to hit his face, the hard scrape of tusks scratching your hand as a firm nose nearly cracked your knuckles.  

The orc went silent. Quiet in rage, he rips your veil away with a grip hard enough to tear hair out if he so desired.  

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimly lit tent, lanterns glowing at the corners as the mass of a creature leers over you. You forgot just how… big, orcs were. From afar they looked small, bigger than a human, but no threat due to distance. But now… he was above you, twice your height, twice your size, twice if not thrice everything. His palm the size of your skull, his eyes gleaming and looking over your body, weak with exhaustion and fright.  

Small, intentional scars were placed under his auburn eyes, some kind of tribe symbol you were sure. Thick eyebrows furrowed at the way tears decorated your cheeks, the exhales from his flat nose blowing hot breath on your chest.  

“Please, I, I can’t, I don’t belong--” You fumble over yourself, trying to slide back on the floor of soft wolf and caribou furs.  

“Shh, shh now,” The orc puts a hand to your ankle, an action that jerks you to a stop. “I won’t hurt you, lebam…” 

You sincerely doubt that, but the sentiment sounds genuine from his broken, baritone voice. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, pulling slowly with immeasurable strength at your leg. You slide towards him with little strain, even with your muscles going rigid for you to stand your place, your fingernails digging into the ground beneath you.  

You shake out your name, reluctant to give it.  

“Ah. What a human name; a scared wee human, aren’t you?” 

You don’t dare to respond, waiting for the sound of your snapping ankle. 

“They call me Gar’mak, though that may be too difficult for simple human brains. Mak is fine, little Djenifor…” 

You don’t want to call him anything, to refer to him at all-- yet, he looks keen to hear you say it. There’s an expectation in his eyes, a flick of his giant tongue against his lips.  

“Mak..” You mumble, trying not to gag.  

“Yes…” The orc’s hand frees your leg, caressing up to your cheek as he wipes away a forgotten wet stream of tears.  

“Please, just let me go--” You beg under your breath, scared of the way he seems to be eyeing your knees, your frail neck, your round ears.  

“You know that’s not going to happen,” He doesn’t seem angry at you for asking, just… Sorry. “We are bound forever now; even the gods couldn’t tear us apart. Wherever you go, I will find you. Whenever I leave, you will feel me gone. By sunrise tomorrow your scars will be given, and you will become one of us.”  

The panic begins to settle once again in your stomach. Maybe, tonight, yes-- tonight, if you could escape. You could-- just maybe you could find a way, past their all-seeing eyes, their all-hearing ears, escape to the mountains they took to get you here. 

 “But can’t you change it back?” Your voice cracks, expression twisting into an ugly cry as you feel thick fingers dig into your hair. “Just, we can go back-- just let me be…”  

You sob for what feels like too long, hours maybe, Gar’mak’s eyes never leaving you as he pulls you to his thigh. He brings a cotton blanket to your legs as he shushes you, the tenderness of his eyes a foreign sight compared to the façade he forced you to endure during the night's festivities.  

When your cries had turned to miserable, quiet sniffles, a muscled knuckle finds its way under your chin. He turns your head to look at him, eyes red and droopy as you try to think of any method of escape.  

“You’ll learn to like it here, human.” Gar’mak thinks for a moment, caressing your leg with a single finger.  

 “We are far more civilized than your kind-- far more… Fair. You’ll be treated well. The spouses of warriors do not go unfed, unbathed. Unloved, most of all. You will be cherished; I will cherish you, as long as you let me.”  

The orc grips your jaw in his hand, firm enough to where his fingers made dimples in your cheeks, but softly to where you felt like a mouse in someone’s closing palm. A kiss was planted to your temple, your body pushed deep against your husband’s as he holds you close enough to suffocate. You wait for him to choke life from you, and yet it never comes. He is harsh with his touches, but not harsh enough to hurt.  

“Please, let's finish tonight how it was meant to go, hm? Let me hold you…” He murmurs, all soft and lamblike into your ear. It sends shivers down to your soles, hot breath layering your neck as he looks at your lips with such intensity.  

You fear saying no, but the word rises up to your throat.  

It doesn’t make it out in time. Lips engulf yours, the stiff coldness of bone-colored tusks brushing against your face as Gar’mak holds you tight. Just one kiss is enough to make his demeanor act up.  

Your unassuming, comfort-driven spot on his lap is altered swiftly. You find yourself straddling the orcs’ waist, a hand pressed against the back of your head as your tied hands remain useless against his chest.  

You don’t know whether to speak, to scream, to bite at his lips-- but you remain flexile, afraid of the rough hand holding your skull so tenderly, the other gripping your thigh to wrap around his flank. You’re like a resistant doll, licked lips becoming tender as the orc pushes against you with such tenacity.  

You see his eyes open, staring into your wide, unblinking ones. They seem to communicate more than just lust-- its desire, desire for your reciprocation.  

Gar’mak waits… he kisses you, eyes narrowed on standby for your submission. They’re hazy and make you wonder if this is enough to make him release his brutish side, the part that showed no mercy for your neighbors or your home. What would happen, if you broke away or dared to claw at him?  

That thought doesn’t stay for long, not when the tough hand on the back of your head moves to your neck, squeezing just enough to bruise.  

You wince, lips pursing in reaction just in time for his next tongued assault.  

That slight opening of your mouth, the press of your lips against his, is all he needed. You find yourself twisted beneath his body as you’re brought to lay on the furry floor, the orc lying above you.  

“That’s right, I’ll be soft Djenifor… just do as I command, keep smelling so sweetly for me.” 

Scars litter his shoulders and collarbone, metal necklaces and piercings dangling on his olive-green, lightly haired chest as you fear how much it would take for him to crush you.  

He’s so quiet, letting go of your mouth as the orc’s curled tongue licks a slow, wet stripe down your jaw. His hands grab your thighs to wrap your legs around him, intent on keeping you steady and so close you practically breathe the same air.  

Before he leans to kiss you feverishly again, the orc brushes your cheek with his knuckles, petting down the amalgamated fabrics you wear to commemorate your wedding.  

 “You’re so lucky I found you first, that I had saved you from that rubble without layering an extra scratch; my brethren would not be so kind.”  

He kisses your cheek, a soft, hungry grin playing on his plumped and tusked lips. “So stay pliant like this for me, wee human, and you won’t feel any pain.” 

You lay rigidly, squeezing your eyes shut as a tender, all-consuming kiss eats you up, preparing you for the night’s affairs.  

[kyahcomic]

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Cherry Blossom. aka - Cherry, Part Four.

a night of conversations, kisses and long awaited confessions.

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - cursing, kissing (but no real smut).

word count - 2.6k

authors note - the babies are back!! no smut in this one - it was getting too long. but don’t you worry… there’s gonna be so much smut in part five !! sorry for the cliffhanger. love u <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

series masterlist. main masterlist. inbox.

The smoke from the bonfire is stinging your eyes, ash sticking to the strands of your hair. Orange embers burn rapidly, dry wood being occasionally thrown on top by drunk boys with red cups in their hands.

The music is way too loud for a forest party, but no one seems to care. Someone’s haphazardly strung lights between the trees, creating a surprisingly cosy ambience. The atmosphere is alive, charged with the electricity of being out later than curfew.

“M’lady!”

You laugh, accepting the drink from Eddie’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, kind sir,” you say as you curtsy sarcastically, making both of you laugh harder. “Hey, you didn’t bump into Steve on your way over here, did you? I haven’t seen him for like an hour.”

The curly haired boy kicks the toe of your sneaker with his.

“Saw him with that Clara girl, talking by the lake.”

You take a steadying breath, pretending it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“You should go and check if he needs rescuing,” Eddie jokes. “God knows she can talk for hours without coming up for air.”

You smile at him, pulling at one of his curls.

“Good idea. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he winks, pushing you in the right direction.

You saunter down towards the water, spotting your best friend instantly. He’s stood with his arms across his chest, weight on one hip as he tries to listen to whatever Clara has to say. The minute he sees you, his posture is straightening, lips quirking up at the corners.

Clara turns around to see what Steve is looking at, her face falling when she recognises you.

“Hi. I don’t mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check if you needed another drink, Stevie.”

The boy grins, beckoning you closer with a nod of his head. When you’re near enough, he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, all affectionate and tender.

Oh.

You don’t do that.

The two of you have kept your romance completely behind closed doors, up until now. It hasn’t got a name, never mind a label, and you don’t need people asking questions when you don’t even know the answers yourself.

You could blame it on the alcohol, but you know Steve’s on his first drink. With your head spinning, you look up at him as if he is the sun and all things warm. He looks down at you the exact same way.

“I’m gonna go see where my friends are,” Clara says a little too loudly, strutting away with as much confidence as she can muster.

You have a sudden feeling that you’re the villain in her story, but you’re not entirely sure why.

“How many drinks have you had?” Steve asks as he pulls a strand of hair away from your face.

“This is my second. I was nursing my first one, Eddie says.”

The boy laughs, and you grab onto his bicep for support. The sound of it is enough to buckle your knees.

“This is my first. It’s not doing much for me.”

“You want something different? I’m sure Robin has that beer you like in her bag.”

“Nah, I’m okay. Don’t think I’m gonna drink any more tonight.”

Steve slips his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you in closer and keeping them there.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

And then he kisses you. Again. It’s slow and careful and so romantic that you think you might start crying about it.

“What time is it?” he asks when he pulls away as if nothing happened.

“Eleven thirty.”

“You wanna stay a bit longer?”

“Not if you don’t.”

Steve presses his lips to your forehead, hands cradling your cheeks.

“I kinda wanna go home.”

You smile at him, all soft and sweet.

“Then let’s go home. I’m getting a little cold, anyway. And I didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Will you ever learn?” he laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“If it means I have to stop wearing your jackets that I know you bring to parties just for me? No, I won’t.”

You weren’t supposed to say that out loud, but the way Steve chuckles soothes the sting of the accidental wound.

“Let’s go home, Cherry Baby.”

Home. The assumption that the two of you will always be returning to the same place makes your heart so full, you wonder how it doesn’t spill over.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You good?”

“Feet hurt.”

This happens every single time the two of you go to a party, so you feel as if you’re reliving a memory.

“Hop on.”

“Steve-”

“Cherry. Come on. We’ll get home quicker this way.”

You can’t argue with that. Steve crouches as you jump onto his back, his hands wrapping around your thighs to keep you steady. You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, resting your head on top of his.

“Comfy back there?”

You hum, the noise of agreement enough for Steve to start walking.

The two of you chat each others ears off on the way home, talking about nothing and everything. You laugh so hard at something he says that you end up with a mouthful of his hair, which he in turn finds hilarious.

“Have you thought any more about what I said the other day?”

“You say a lot of things, Steven.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and giving your thighs a squeeze.

“About college.”

You go quiet for a moment, and Steve wonders if he’s chosen the wrong time to have this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay? When I’m not constantly worried I’m gonna accidentally trip and kill you.”

You nod, and he feels it. You know it needs to be a discussion sometime soon, but perhaps having it when you’re being carried down the street on your best friends back isn’t all that practical.

“Love you,” you mumble into the crook of Steve’s neck.

He shudders a little at your lips on his skin, leaning his head sideways to rest against yours.

“Love you, Cherry Pie. More than anything.”

You let Steve piggyback you all the way to his front door. Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you feel the need to.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Steve bumps his hip into yours as you both brush your teeth, laughing at your shocked reflection in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you place your toothbrush back in its holder, right next to his.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

You hop up on the bathroom counter, sitting up so you’re eye to eye with the boy in front of you. He takes a step forward, standing between your legs as he splays his cold hands over your thighs.

“Why’d you ask?”

You trace over his fingers where they rest on your skin, quiet for a moment.

“You seemed pretty eager to go home tonight. It’s unlike you. You love a party. Leaving at eleven thirty is like… unheard of, for King Steve.”

“King Steve would rather be at home with you than at a party with all those people.”

“Really?”

“Really. Clara was going on about something or other, the music was too loud, and I could feel the chill coming in. It hit me, all of a sudden, that I’d rather be in bed. Or, anywhere else, as long as I was with you.”

You lean forward to rest your head against his chest, sighing when he starts playing with your hair gently.

“You’re a softie,” you mumble into his shirt. “And a mind reader.”

“It’s my one talent,” he chuckles. “I wish reading your mind was a college major. I’d be the best in the world.”

You shake your head, laughing like you can’t help it.

“If I don’t move soon, I’m gonna fall asleep on this bathroom counter.”

“Want me to carry you?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” you tease as you hop down, “my legs actually do work.”

Steve gasps, all theatrical and exaggerated, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, sleepy girl. Let’s go to bed.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“We’re not talking about stuff.”

You whisper it into the darkness, the trees rustling outside Steve’s window serving as the only sound you can hear.

“Hmm?”

Your legs are tangled with his, tired head resting on the boys shoulder as your sides are pressed together. You’re both lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling.

“We keep saying we’ll talk about stuff, but we haven’t been. It’s not like us.”

“You mean, like, feelings?”

“Yeah.”

All that can be heard now is two sets of heaving lungs. Steve’s hand finds yours under the duvet, fingers intertwining.

“Is there something specific that’s bothering you?”

“Not bothering me as such. I just… I think the more we don’t talk, the more complicated things become.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Steve speaks.

“I’m scared, Cherry.”

The tone of his voice is paper thin and vulnerable, and you will yourself not to cry about it.

“Of what, Stevie?”

You squeeze his hand, tucking yourself further into his side until there isn’t an inch of space between you.

“Of… everything changing. You’re my best friend in the entire world, and I know that what we’ve been doing isn’t typical… best friend stuff. I just…” he takes a deep breath, exhaling carefully. “I worry that something will happen and we’ll break up, and I’ll lose you forever.”

His voice cracks on the last word, fear seeping through his pores. Yet, he continues.

“I’d die without you, Cherry. I really would. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where we’re not… us.”

You turn onto your side to face him in the dark, reaching up to cradle his cheek softly. You rest your forehead against his temple, pressing a kiss into his skin.

“I’m scared too. I have been ever since that first night in my room. Not because I don’t trust you, or because I don’t feel that way about you… but because I don’t want to lose you either. More than anything, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why didn’t we talk about this sooner?” he laughs, throat thick with emotion.

“Because we’re us. And whether we talk or don’t talk, we know we’ll figure it out. We always know we’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “More than all the stars in the sky.”

“I love you,” you whisper back. “More than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.”

You press another kiss into his temple, letting your lips linger on his soft skin. He smells so familiar, so warm, so yours… you can’t help but inhale, chuckling when he shudders.

You continue to leave kisses across his jaw, over his ear, down his neck. He tilts his head to give you better access, groaning when you nip at his throat with your teeth, licking over the scrape to soothe him.

Steve pulls you in as if you weigh nothing, moving you so you’re lying on top of him. You sit up, straddling his lap, as he does the same so you’re chest to chest. Running his hands under your shirt and over the bare skin of your back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You look so pretty like this,” he hums against your lips. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

“You wanna talk about pretty?” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “My pretty, pretty boy.”

Steve’s hips buck up into yours, making you giggle.

“Oh, you like that? You like it when I call you pretty? Or do you just like it when I call you mine?”

His hips buck again as his cheeks flush pink.

“I am yours,” he murmurs. “Always have been.”

You thought you had the upper hand for a minute, but now you just want to cry. You’re overwhelmed by the way you feel about the boy underneath you, unsure of how to process it without bursting into tears.

“All mine,” you whisper, tracing the features of his face with your fingertip.

Steve takes a deep breath, watching your eyes as they look over him again and again, taking him in as if it’s the first time. He decides it’s now or never.

“Cherry?”

“Stevie?”

Your voices are low and careful, irregardless of the fact that you’re alone in the house.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stops, and so does the world outside. Everything pauses, the two of you suspended in this moment in time.

Steve takes another breath, exhaling it carefully before meeting your eyes and continuing.

“You don’t have to say it back. Now, or ever. I just - I needed you to know.”

You blink back tears as you watch his face, biting your lip to stop them from falling.

“Steve-”

“Hey, I told you. You don’t have to say anything, babe. I know-”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just-”

You surge forward and kiss him with all the affection you can muster, trying to express your feelings. You grip his hair, plastering your bodies together where you sit in his lap still. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in as close as he can.

“If you let me talk,” you say when you pull away, all breathless, “you’d hear that I have something I’d like to say.”

Steve smiles, humming in acknowledgment and encouraging you to keep going.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

The boy looks shocked to hear it, as if it’s news to him.

“What’s that face for?” you laugh.

“I just… I didn’t expect you to say it back.”

“Steve,” you chuckle, looking at him sternly. When you realise he’s being serious, you double down. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. When we were kids, and someone would say the word ‘husband’, I always pictured you. I was so convinced it was always going to end up being you and I.”

“Why… why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He laughs, and the sound makes you feel as if you’re on cloud nine. You can feel his heartbeat where his chest is pressed to yours, frantic like he’s just ran a marathon.

“Fuck, I love you.”

He leans up to kiss you, all saccharine and honey sweet.

“Say it again,” you whisper against his lips.

“I’m in love with you, Cherry.”

“Say it again.”

“I, Steve Harrington, declare that I am completely, utterly, ridiculously in love with this girl right here. I always have been. I always will be.”

You can’t help but throw your head back with laughter.

“And I love you. So much.”

The words you’ve always said mean so much more now. It’s a welcome change, one you never thought you’d see happen.

“Hey Steve?”

“Hmm?”

You lean in, nosing at his jaw as you murmur into his ear.

“Want you. So bad.”

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, all low and rough.

“Please. Want it to be you.”

Looking up at you with big eyes, he searches your face for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

Smoothing his hair away from his face, you trace your thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I’m about to rock your world, Cherry Blossom.”

@psychicnerdcat @allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @internallysalad @saucypeanuttt @empathyroad @niceskyler @spookysins @theoraekenslover @7minutes-tomidnight @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @clairesjointshurt @livsters @diffrent-spokes @regular-joe-shmoe @ihatepeanutss @ladyburberry @thenonweeknd @abarelyexistentbeing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @slut4gaga @hopelessromanticwriter @mgchaser @wintrsoldrluvr

[toysrguts]

can i request sally face relationship headcanons maybe??

sally face fandom is sooo dead:(

sally face realtionship hc's!!!!

i dont write this kind of stuff usually but i actually had a lot of fun with this ^___^ i hope its everything u hoped for 🙏🙏

sal:

•his love language is quality time, he loves spending time with you even if youre just doing nothing together

•your presence is very comforting to him

•isnt physically affectionate unless he knows youre 100% okay with it

•once he gets comfortable around you he will not let go he loves cuddling

•your dates are more lowkey like playing video games or having movie nights

•writes little songs for you and plays them on his guitar

•the best listener, you can yap all day and you will have his full undivided attention

•you can feel the shift in his behavior when hes in public with you vs being alone with you. he can let his guard down when its just the 2 of you

•communicating is hard for him but he is very understanding

•has a lot of deep conversations with you

•at night especially is when he opens up most, and you find it really endearing

•he has insomnia so sometimes you stay up all night talking or doing other things

•he loves how good you are with gizmo, hes basically your child

•gets so flustered when you make eye contact with him so naturally because hes insecure and sensitive about his face

•your acceptance of him means a lot to him

•literally melts when you play with his hair or scratch his head

•has abandonment issues and often worries hes not doing enough but you do your best to reassure him

•he can also be really clingy but he knows when to give you your space

•gives you really meaningful obscure compliments constantly, he finds all your “imperfections” beautiful

larry:

•very loving but also likes to mess with you and is such a tease

•will randomly come up behind you and pick you up when you least expect it

•he loves playing with your hair, especially when youre in bed together he’ll run his fingers through it until you fall asleep

•takes you to all of his secret hangout spots around nockfell for smoke seshes and picnics

•although he can be intense sometimes, hes really gentle with you and knows how to calm you down when youre overwhelmed

•loves getting you little gifts when you least expect it

•he frequently invites you over for painting dates

•also treehouse dates!!!!

•falling asleep up there and getting to watch the sunrise together

•PLEASE steal his clothes he loves that shit

•especially when you give them back and they smell like you

•taking you to concerts and shows is like his favorite thing ever

•not afraid to show affection with you in public

•you're his and everyone needs to know

•when he gets comfortable you get to see a different side of him

•hes usually loud and silly and annoying but he has an emotional and vulnerable side that only you really get to see

•acts of service are his love language fs, he cooks and cleans for you all the time

•hes definitely the jealous type

•someone complimenting you is fine, but if he catches someone flirting with you hes throwing hands

•sharing music with you is his favorite past time

•picking up cd’s from the music store and blasting them on his stereo together

•or on public transport where each of you has an earbud in

•lisa LOVES you and is always so welcoming whenever you come to stay with larry

•makes special burned cd mixes for you and labels them with sharpie and doodles little things on them

ash:

•you are her entire world she cannot be away from you for more than 5 minutes

•thinks your eyes are really pretty and you catch her staring into them every so often

•makes really heartfelt handmade gifts for you (like one of her “little dudes”)

•tries to make you laugh when youre sad

•it works like 99% of the time

•takes you everywhere on her motorcycle

•“hop on loser, we’re going to mcdonald's”

•takes a lot of pictures of you together and hangs them up on her wall

•can always sense when something is wrong and always knows how to make you feel better

•writes you little love letters every so often so you never forget how she feels about you

•will beg and pleade to let her do your makeup

•its mostly just an excuse to get close to you and get to sit on your lap :3

•also loves styling you in different outfits even if you dont wear them out, youre like her own personal model

•has like 20 different nicknames for you

todd:

•he smells sooooo good

•like pine and cedar wood 🤤🤤🤤🤤

•and dont get me started on his hair

•its so fluffy and smells amazing he loves when you run your fingers through his curls

•loves taking you out and spoiling you because you deserve it

•so chill and easy to communicate with, your comfort and happiness is his number one priority

•very protective over you but he tries not to be overbearing

•talks about you to literally everyone when youre not around

•remembers all the little details about you that you would expect him to forget

•the biggest nerd ever and loves yapping at things he likes, but he loves hearing you talk about your interests even more

•if you get obsessed with something like a video game or tv show he will not rest until you get him into it too

•if you crash at his place, expect breakfast in bed

•if youve had a bad day hes there to pamper you and give you everything you need

•“i got you this cuz it made me think of you” as he holds out a rock in his hand

•seems really serious and intimidating but youd be surprised

•hes such a dork when you get to know him

•drives you around literally everywhere, he loves traveling with you with the windows down and the radio blaring

[spid3namy]

♡　　i always want you when i'm (coming down) 　　♡

ft. geto suguru

cw: 18+ , fem!reader, modern au, mentions of weed & alcohol , praise, unprotected, fwb ( kind of but not really ), pet names, confessions, riding, mdni.

words: 3.2k

the air was muggy. there was so much smoke that filled up the room but it didn’t matter. not when you tasted so damn sweet. sure, you had a ton of weed in your system and it was mixing around with the alcohol you had been drinking earlier. and yeah, you would never do this on any other occasion but right now, it didn’t matter.

you two had been smoking for a few hours now. 

it had first started with passing a blunt to one another, laughing and drinking as you two talked about who the fuck knows. ya know, the usual; then you had jokingly offered to just blow the smoke into his mouth instead of him having to take a hit of the drug. 

and to your surprise, he agreed. without a moment’s hesitation, he had pulled you onto his lap to give you a better angle of being able to blow the smoke into his mouth.

one thing led to another and now you two were making out; a half finished blunt perched between his fingers while the other rested on your hip gently. you tasted sweet; even though you tasted mostly of alcohol and the weed you two were smoking.

that didn’t matter to him, though. you still tasted sweet to him. and he loved that about you; he was almost positive that you knew that. you must have known since he refused to stop kissing you. 

but your lungs were burning. whether from the drug that was in your system or from lack of air, you didn’t really now. but it didn’t matter. when you finally pull away for air, his eyes lock onto you; they are bloodshot and droopy ever so slightly. 

“aw.. pullin’ away so fast?” geto asks, a hint of mockery and teasing in his tone. he takes a drag of the blunt that was still perched in his fingers. he blows the smoke out after a few moments and gives you a cheeky grin. “don’t tell me you shy now, doll..” he was still teasing you and you knew it. 

bastard.

the sound of his voice made you let out a small giggle; you body sways from side to side slightly. it was clear that you were feeling the effects of the substances you had allowed into your body; if you hadn’t already been feeling them, of course.

you watch as he takes a hit of the blunt, lips parting slightly in awe as you watched the smoke leave his mouth so.. perfectly. your lips were red and slightly swollen from the feverish make out session you two just had. the realization almost made him want to laugh but he didn't.

you loved kissing him; loved how his lips felt against yours. they fit together like puzzle pieces. not that those words would ever leave your lips.

you two had a somewhat interesting relationship. you two were friends. ones who made out all the time and had sex sometimes. but you never really put a label on it. just.. friends. or smoking buddies to be more accurate about it. you make sure to remind yourself that this was not any sign that he wanted a relationship with you. this was merely a way to relax from the stress of the world outside. 

here, in his living room, was a safe space. one where you didn’t need to worry about anything other than each other.

you blink out your thoughts when you feel smoke on your face; he must’ve taken another drag of it. you give him a lop-sided grin before taking the blunt from his fingers.

“‘m not shy.. jus’ needed some air ‘s all” you tell him, finishing off the blunt before putting the butt of it into the ashtray with the rest of them. this had been the fourth one you two had shared.

“what? you like kissin’ me that much, Sugu?”

a giggle leaves your lips along with the smoke in your mouth, your eyes focused on him. 

geto had his eyes locked onto you the whole time, watching as you laugh and sway from the effects of the drugs and alcohol you had consumed. it was cute, frankly. 

he leans into the couch more and rolls his eyes, though there is not real indication that he was annoyed with you; just a playfully gesture more than anything else. he thought you were adorable. 

in more ways than one.

though, he doesn’t believe you when you mention that you aren’t shy. he could just see it in your eyes that you were most definitely shy. at least.. on any normal day you were. 

“you seem pretty shy to me, doll.” he says, letting a smirk form on his lips before he leans closer to you, his other hand now resting on your hip. “and maybe I do enjoy kissin’ you.. guess we’ll never know the truth though, hm?”

you let out a snort and lean forward slightly; your chests were now pressed together. your hand comes up to touch his shoulder lightly as both of your legs rest on each side of his hips, pressing light kisses onto his jawline.

“careful there, Sugu.. keep talkin’ like that and we might have to kiss ‘gain” 

your tone is teasing as you press another kiss onto his jawline, sitting up and giving him a cheeky grin.

“want another blunt, my dear?” 

a small shiver runs up his spine at the kisses you gave him. he wouldn’t admit it to you ( and your ego ) but he fucking loved when you kissed him like that; when you pretended that he was yours. but he wasn’t. 

well.. not in the romantic sense. 

“‘s that ‘possed to be a threat?”

his eyebrow raises slightly as he smirks lightly. though, if you two did kiss again, he wouldn’t mind it. not when you tasted so damn sweet.

“come on.. roll another one up, sweetheart.”

you press a kiss onto the corner of his mouth before sitting up, leaning backwards towards the coffee table. you can feel the way your back pops slightly from the action. not that you really minded. 

you grab the bag full of weed and rolling paper before turning your attention back over to him. you roll your eyes playfully and poke his cheek lightly.

“don’t be so damn desperate, Sugu.”

you fill the paper in your hands up with the weed before your eyes lock onto his dark colored ones. your tongue lightly poking out and licking the paper before you pushed it together. 

the action was so seductive. enough to cause his dick to twitch lightly. he mentally curses himself for the way his body reacts to watching you roll up a blunt. sometimes he wished you weren’t so damn seductive without even trying all that hard.

“c’mon.. open wide for me, darling..” you lift the blunt up to his mouth, holding a lighter in your other hand.

geto lets out a small laugh as he rolls his eyes. the way you spoke to him was enough to bring his dick to its half hardness. he tried to be annoyed with you but when you looked at him with those doe eyes of yours, he knew it was all over for him.

he doesn’t hesitate and opens his mouth slightly, allowing the blunt to rest between his lips gently. his dark colored eyes stay locked onto your face; his lips curving up into a slight smirk.

a small giggle leaves your lips as you light the blunt. your hand holding his chin up lightly; the touch alone sends a small shiver up his spine.

“ooh.. good boy” you coo, the words seeming almost teasing as you set the lighter back down onto the coffee table. 

you allow your chest to rest on his once again, kissing his jawline before moving to his neck. the smell of weed quickly fills up your nose; your shoulders relax even more as you let it over take your senses.

geto lets out a small hum in response to the praise. feeling the blunt being placed in his mouth, he takes a deep inhale; smoke filling his lungs and his body immediately starts to relax in the next moment. 

he wouldn’t admit it but he loved when you called him a good boy. and his dick loved it just as much. but he would die with that secret. 

his hands gently caress your hips, loving the feeling of your skin under his fingertips. he swore he could feel every fiber of skin there. you felt so damn perfect on top of him. it made him wonder how you would look if you rode him. 

he lets out a small breath and he slowly exhales a large amount of smoke. he could not allow those thoughts to fill his brain right now; not when he was already struggling to keep his dick under control. 

the feeling of his hands on your skin causes a small shiver up your spine but you chose to ignore it. 

your mouth nipping and sucking dark marks onto his skin; you were always more confident when you were high. you marked him up like he was yours to mark up.

but he didn’t seem to mind it. 

if you were sober, you wouldn’t be doing this. wouldn’t even be on his lap right now. but you weren’t sober. you had marijuana and alcohol in your system, the two forcing a confidence in you that you weren’t really familiar with. 

you didn’t care though; you liked how it made you loosen up. how it made you not worry as much as you usually would.

"watch your hands, pretty boy" you purrs, sitting up and grabbing his wrist lightly. you move his wrist towards your mouth, taking a hit of the blunt before you blow the smoke towards his face lightly.

his eyes stay focused on you the entire time; he watches as you leave marks onto his skin. the feeling of it causes him to let out a content sigh. 

he honestly would be lying if he said he didn’t love this confidence you had. especially since you would never do anything like this when you were sober. you were usually much more shy; much more reserved. 

"oh I will, doll. but you should watch your mouth." Geto teases, letting his hand wander to gently caress your thighs.

you roll your eyes lightly before taking another hit of the marijuana, keeping the smoke in your mouth. your hands soon come up and pull him closer, pulling him into a feverish kiss.

you gently transfer the smoke into his mouth, a buzz going through your body. you allow your tongue to lick around his mouth, your hips rolling against his. the movement is slow and calculated, just enough to make him need more.

and it worked. because he did need more. 

geto lets his eyes half close as your tongue and lips move against his own. the taste of you mixed with the weed they just finished makes him dizzy. 

his body relaxes under you as you roll your hips against him. his hands grip at your thighs, loving the plush feeling under his fingers. 

you hum and roll your hips again, the kiss between you two turning more feverish with each passing second. geto’s eyes nearly roll back into his head when you grind against him again. you were driving him crazy and it was making him dizzy.

when you pull away from the kiss, he nearly whines at the loss of contact. you let out a small snort and roll your eyes playfully, grabbing the blunt from him and take a drag from it.

“don’t fuckin’ tease like that, doll” 

geto barely recognizes the sound of his voice as he speaks. it was so hoarse yet so whiny all at the same time. it was so weird for him. 

but you had that effect on him.

and he fucking hated it. yet he loved it all at the same time. not that he would admit it of course. he had too much pride to do so.

you give him a grin as you blow smoke into his face, rolling your hips against him once again. you were still teasing, he knew it. knew that you were doing this on purpose. and if he didn’t like it so much, he would’ve gotten pissed off with you at the fact that you insisted on teasing him. call him greedy, he didn’t care. 

“c’mon.. do somethin’ to me.. don’t leave me hangin’ here, doll”

you let out a snort and roll your eyes, finishing off the blunt before you set the butt of it with the rest of them. he sounded so desperate. it was quite cute. not that you would admit that to him.

you allow a hand to reach up and grab his chin, pressing your lips against his once again. he immediately kisses you back, pulling you closer to him and groaning lowly. he must’ve been real pent up with the way he was practically whining for your touch. for more of you. 

not that he would admit to you. he had way too much pride to ever admit that. 

his tongue presses into your mouth, licking around and gripping your hips at the way you tasted. it was sweet yet had a bit of marijuana mixed in with it. and he loved it. loved how addicting you were. 

geto allows a hand to reach up your shirt, lightly brushing a thumb over your nipple. you let out a gasp in his mouth; you hadn’t been expecting his cold hands to touch you like that. he grins and pinches the growing bud, loving the way you whimper and squirm around on his lap.

you pull away from the kiss, your hands reaching down and pulling your shirt over your head as you stare down at him. geto is staring at you almost star struck. it was cute.

he never failed to look so interested in you no matter how many times he saw your body.

“fuck, doll, you’re gorgeous” 

he leans forward and presses his lips against your neck, sucking dark marks onto your skin. you moan and allow your hips to roll against his, your fingers tangled into his hair. he continues his assault on your neck before he moves down to your chest. 

he presses light kisses on your breasts, his hands on your hips to help you grind against him more. it was starting to make him lose his mind. you let out a small whine, needing more than what he was giving you. it was like he was teasing you on purpose and you didn’t like it. not when you needed him so damn badly. 

“c’mon, Sugu.. don’t fuckin’ tease”

geto lets out a chuckle at your impatience, finding it rather cute; he doesn’t seem to waste anymore time though. he helps you out of your shorts and panties, throwing them somewhere in the living room before he shifts out of his pants and boxers.

you stare at him for a while, your mouth suddenly becoming dry. geto chuckles and grabs your chin gently, pressing a light kiss onto your face.

“go on, doll.. don’t be scared”

his words are so comforting. odd for him.

but you don’t dwell on it too much. you lift yourself up slightly, grabbing ahold of his hard dick before you slowly sink down onto it. a gasp leaves your lips at the stretch. 

he groans and holds onto your hips, almost as though he was trying to restrain himself from forcing you all the way down to the base. you hold onto his shoulders, legs already trembling as you sink all the way down. you had barely done anything and your body was already shaking.

you weren’t sure if that was good for him or bad for you. 

didn’t matter.

you sit still for a while, just allowing yourself to get used to the girth of his cock before your legs slowly lift yourself up. you rise up until only the tip is in before you slam yourself back down, moaning and gripping onto him tighter.

he lets out a groan and keeps his hands on your hips, keeping you steady. you soon lift yourself up again, slamming back down and letting out another moan.

and quickly, the sound of skin slapping and your moans fill up the room. 

geto has a good hold onto your hips, helping you move. his eyes are fixated on the way that your cunt sucks his dick in. he was completely mesmerized by it.

“look at you, princess.. doin’ so fuckin’ good for me”

his voice is deep and it barely registers in your brain; the pleasure you felt making you too fucked out to even answer. 

he lets out a chuckle before he shifts positions, laying down onto the couch before he starts to thrust into you. you cry out and grip at him and the couch; you needed something to keep you grounded.

his hands are firm on your hips, fucking into you like some sort of dog in heat. 

you didn’t seem to care though. not when you were practically begging him for more. 

“look at ya.. lookin’ so fucking pretty under me like this. such a good girl.”

his voice comes out as a coo, his thrusts becoming rough with each second. your hands grip at his back, whines coming from your lips; drool slowly starts to roll down the corner of your mouth and onto the couch under you. it was too much. 

and it was making you so close to cumming. especially with the way he was hammering into you.

“g-gonn.. cum”

he lets out a chuckle at your attempt at talking; he knew just how fucked out you were just by the way you looked. it was cute. he doesn’t seem to say anything though, just continues to fuck into you. his hands come down and start to rub at your clit.

you cry out, his name falling from your lips as you cum. he grins cheekily and continues his movements, feeling his own orgasm starting to creep up on him. 

“good fuckin’ girl.. gonna make me cum”

he leans down and presses his lips onto your neck, his hips stuttering slightly as he keeps moving. you whine, sensitive from the over stimulation. 

and before you knew it, geto is spilling his cum into you; his hands gripping at your skin rough enough to leave bruises.

“love you so fuckin’ much.. such a good fucking girl for me.”

you let out a whine, trying to push him away from the weight he was currently trying to push onto you. the two of you stay in that position for a little while until he finally gets the strength to pull out.

“want another blunt?”

“you love me.”

he stares at you and scoffs, rolling his eyes. he knew you were going to say that. he had gotten caught in the heat of the moment, that's all it was.

“no i don’t.”

“well, i love you.”

“... what?”

“let’s get another blunt going!”

[hellishjoel]

ungodly and unprofessional

5.6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog

summary: who said anything about falling in love? you're just co-workers. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), smoking, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.) and wears a waitress uniform, explicit smut, consensual somnophilia, swearing, pet names, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers), lastly not beta'd (lmk if you're interested!) A/N: five or six months later, who really knows. believe it or not, I was never not working on this or thinking about it for all of those months... which is crazy. I completely wing these chapters which is probably why it takes so long but you guys don't mind, right? enjoy these cuties falling deeper <3 I almost forgot - shoutout to BistroHuddy on TikTok because one of their segments inspired something in here (but no spoilers!)

“To love someone is firstly to confess: I'm prepared to be devastated by you.” Billy-Ray Belcourt. 

You have this silly poetry book someone gave you as a birthday present or holiday gift exchange a few years ago. You’ve never picked it up until now. You’re shocked to say all of these cheesy love quotes and poems make you think of one very specific person: a guy with dark curls, a scruffy beard, amber eyes, and the perfect smile. Francisco. 

Falling for a man like Frankie feels like growing up— a sign of maturing compared to the ghosts of terrible boyfriend's past. 

Come to find out, it’s easier to go for the wrong guys, easier on your heart in a way — you don’t feel like you are actually losing anything. 

That’s why you would bet on losing dogs. Invest your emotions and need for romance in those who don’t reciprocate. The ones who despise commitment or lack emotional availability leave you in a state of disappointment. 

Better that than full-blown heartache. Better than ripping yourself open at the seams for another, only to be the one to sew yourself back up again. But not better than winning. 

The letter Frankie’s father sent him weeks ago had been burned into your brain. Every single word, each break of a new paragraph, lines of apologies, and convincing stories of ‘the good times’ they used to have. 

Frankie appeared to be just as wary about the letter as you were, neither of you so easily trusting. Frankie didn’t trust his father, but you did trust Frankie—end of story. 

You’ve never known Frankie to be so tightly closed about something that bothers him. He was the type of man who wears his heart on his sleeve, an open book. 

Aside from allowing you to read the letter, you two have barely spoken about it. And not due to your lack of trying. 

There wasn’t a need for you to bring clarity to the situation, it wasn’t up to you to encourage Frankie to allow his father back into his life. But there was still a lot of emotional trauma that he carried that he didn’t have to bear alone. You just wanted him to know that you support him in whatever avenue he decides is best. 

To forgive or to forget. 

Frankie releases a sigh from his parted lips, squeezing his eyes closed tighter as your alarm chimes from your phone on the bedside table. He hates the fucking morning shift. 

The air is sticky and thick, and the fan on his bedroom ceiling is doing little to help. Late August is still taking its toll on Texas and its residents, but he’s reminded that this time last year, he sunk down on his knees in the back kitchen and tasted you on his tongue for the first time. Can’t believe it’s been a year since then. Plus all the events that have transpired since. 

There’s no label between you two other than the fact you are exclusive— putting your focus on each other and not seeing other people. It was good, better than nothing with you. 

His eyelashes finally flutter open, seeing you shift in the dark to turn off the alarm, only to dig your face deep into your pillow. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. 

Frankie is by no means a morning person, but waking up beside you has changed his perspective. Your hair is a scattered mess, the ponytail having fallen loose in the tosses and turns of last night. The sunlight peaking through the blinds highlights the slope of your nose and Cupid’s bow. Arms tucked into your front, leg hiked up like a ballerina.

His mind starts to swirl at the conversation you shared recently, that you wanted to try something… new. To be surprised. To be taken by him in your sleep. 

He was shocked to hear you say it, all shy and meek - it’s not a side of you he sees often. But it’s the vulnerability talking, advocating the trust you share together. 

“I want to wake up with you inside me.”

Frankie had to blink a few times, his large hand cradling your jaw as you spoke in whispers between the sheets. “You— I didn’t know you’d be into that sort of thing.”

“We don’t have to if it’s not your thing. But there’s something about you moving me where you want me to be, being completely under your control, even a little helpless,” you pause, uncertain if your words would scare him off. 

The exact opposite. Frankie was intrigued. 

“The thrill of trying not to wake you up.” He continues, watching your glowing smile return, indicating that Frankie understands why this would feel good to you. 

“My natural reaction, trusting you, knowing that you’ll be careful, knowing that you’re using me— it’s hot, Frankie. You have my consent, I wanna try.” 

Frankie’s stomach churns with excitement, butterflies spreading through his abdomen and up to his chest, his heart thunking eagerly. 

He was slow and methodical, not wanting you to stir from your sleepy state. Nipping at his lower lip, teeth piercing the skin, he works up the courage to touch you. A rough and calloused hand travels up your side, pushing up your sleep tee and watching goosebumps line the tips of his fingers.

Frankie presses slow kisses to the top of your shoulder, feeling his cock swell against the plump of your ass in all of the excitement. He whispers your name, soft and raspy with the morning hour. Other than a small twitch of your nose, you’re out cold. 

“Shh, s’okay angel, m’gonna make you feel good.” The desire stirs in his stomach, urging him to please you in your sleep just like you asked. 

With two crooked fingers, he curls them around the band of your panties and slowly drags them down your soft thighs. You let out a slow sigh between your parted lips, Frankie pausing to watch as you settle once more. 

 Slipping two skilled fingers between your legs, he slowly massages up and down your folds. He’s surprised to already feel the slick between your legs, a low groan of approval leaving the depths of his throat. 

There’s a shift, your hips squirming for more of his touch. You’re so perfectly pliant for him, causing the embers low in his belly to grow with anticipation, the blood rushing to his cock as it hardens against the curve of your ass. 

“Good girl,” he remarks as you let out a little whimper upon the pads of Frankie’s fingers finding your swollen clit. “Even asleep, you’re nice and wet for me, princess.” 

Goddammit, he thinks, how does she have this much of an effect while perfectly asleep? He can’t stand the feeling of not touching her, the carnal need to take her was strong like a magnet, forcing their bodies together. 

One yank and he was out of his briefs, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. He needed to move you, to perfectly fit in the nook of your body, you’d have to be good and yield to him. 

Frankie hikes up your leg and fills in the spaces between your bodies, stroking over himself as he slowly lines his leaking tip along your entrance. Just as he notches his tip inside, a quiet and sleepy gasp leaves your perfect pillowy lips. 

“Right there, baby, you just stay right there for me,” Frankie growls against your ear, his hips flush with yours as he slowly lets inch by inch of him be swallowed by your warm cunt. 

After that, there wasn’t a lot of nicety to him. The level of control he carried was lost. He just wanted to take and take, feel and fuck. He wants to use you like his own personal toy; do whatever he pleases with no resistance. You were his to devour. 

He’s still inside you, but he’s gotten this far, and you’re still out. Even in sleep, you’re pulsing around his cock, so fucking tight around him that it steals the air from his lungs. There’s a hint of discomfort in your face, a quiet gasp held within your expression. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, the hand he holds firmly on your hip now moving under your sleep tee. 

You were so fucking accessible to him, so beautiful, so peaceful being fucked raw. 

He rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, getting the reaction he’s been waiting for all morning. A sweet, slow moan tumbles loose from your throat, your hips reeling back to grind against Frankie’s lap. 

He’s somewhat pleased he knows you this well, knows what gets you worked up and gushing. The fact that even in your sleep, you have this reaction towards him makes the fire burning inside his abdomen grow. Maybe a deep part of him gets off on knowing you so well. 

Frankie lets out a sigh at his own thoughts, lightly nipping the skin of your exposed shoulder as he slowly rolls his hips back and glides in again, feeling the drag of your tight pussy keeping him lubed up and warm.

If he weren’t so desperate to fuck you, he’d love to just sit inside you like this all goddamn day. It would probably give him the same comfort as the first cup of coffee. 

He gives your breast one more firm squeeze before returning the attention back to your clit, all desperate and tingling with each eager circle he gives you. 

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers against your ear, his hips continuing at a steady pace until he simply needs more. He hikes up your leg once again to allow himself more movement, smirking as your ass smacks against the front of his hips with each thrust that now jostles your body. 

You’ll surely wake any moment, shocked and sleepy and startled at his cock so deep inside your perfectly spent cunt. 

You whimper each time he fills you, your face digging into the pillow as you moan against the cover. Frankie’s efforts grow needy and demanding, fisting your hair out of his way as he sucks marks into your neck; teeth and tongue massaging the skin before leaving a bruise in its wake.

A sweet little sob exits your parted lips, Frankie groaning at the pretty little noises you make. 

“Take me so well, princess. You want me to keep fuckin’ you, huh?” He snarls against your neck, smirking as you hiss at the sensations you’re feeling all throughout your body.  

Suddenly, your eyes flutter open. They absorb the settings around you and it all clicks. A long, desperate moan crawls from the depths of your throat, your movements sluggish but your hand eventually clasps onto Frankie’s forearm, his fingers still swirling around your clit. 

“Ohmy— Frankie, fuck,” you gasp as you feel the full force of his cock drilling deep inside your pussy. Your voice is still thick with sleep, eyes cloudy with lust, and skin-prickling sensations that you had never felt before; a million emotions, but the standout being desperation to come undone like this with a man you trust. 

“This what you wanted, angel? Wake up with my cock stuffed between your legs?” Frankie smirks as he presses his lips against your cheek, jaw dropping against your own as you ride out the high together. 

You cry out something wrecked, a garble of syllables as your spine arches against his front. You weren’t given the pleasure of feeling the orgasm build and build; you woke up at its high heat. 

In an instant, your skin was clammy, hair sticking to your skin as desperate pants filled the room, along with broken moans of Frankie’s name. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, maybe better. Yes, way better. 

You’re so tight, literally clinging to every single inch he gives you as your slick drenches his cock. Your nails dig into his tan skin, feeling the muscles and tendons work to play with your clit. 

A whimper leaves you as the warmth in your stomach boils over, turning your head over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are dark, cast over with lust as he stole you in your sleep. In an instant, he meets you with a messy kiss, your bodies and the bed still jolting with each rough thrust he gives you. 

“Please,” you moan against his lips, nodding your head as you look into his eyes. “Come inside me, I wanna feel it, please, give it to me, Frankie,” your words turn into a whine as he begins to fuck you harder, deeper, his tip tickling your cervix as you damn near blackout from the pleasure. 

The pleasure inside of you finally reaches the surface. The feeling was like a wave breaching over your rocky shores, washing over you both in pleasure as your cunt spasms around his thick cock. 

Frankie spoils your clit as his hips snap against your ass, one, two, three more times before the feeling of you overcomes him. He braces you tightly in his arms, panting against your shoulder, eyes clenching closed as he lets out broken grunts of release. He paints your insides with his spend, both of you relaxing in one another’s hold as you slowly descend from heaven. 

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie breathes, shaking his head with a tilted smirk. “You don’t know what you do to me.” He remarks as you look over your shoulder in a haze. 

You whimper as you pull him in closer, fingers weaving into the curls at the back of his head and encouraging him to meet your parted lips. 

The words are at the tip of your tongue, and you can feel them spread heat throughout your body. You can hear both of your hearts beating, thundering against the human flesh, and signaling the feeling of being alive. 

Frankie waits for the words. The feeling of anticipation has been lingering for quite some time. Your touch of nervousness was welcome, expected even. A moment in time when your heart feels exposed but also overwhelmingly full. Only hoping that the other person feels the same way, yet uncertain of how they will respond. A game of chicken of who will say it first and who will have to respond. The leap of faith one will be forced to make and the right words the other will have to find.

Both roles are downright frightening. 

You’re risking everything, the biggest gamble one can make without physical currency. 

But he sees the panic behind your eyes, the nervewracking feeling of saying the sacred words to someone, maybe even for the first time. And he knows that they will be worth it to hear. 

“I know,” he whispers against your lips, shaking his head in a way that tells you he knows what you’re thinking. “I know.” 

You don’t attend church, so you have one question: why the fuck is God sending people to get brunch after Sunday’s service? Why is that their beck and call? 

Every Sunday morning, like clockwork, a flock of people flood the diner with their church clothes and a hankering for waffles and Frankie’s house lumberjack skillet (you wanna know what’s in it, don’t you?)

Frankie’s Secret Ingredients:

Potatoes: 1/4 lb (about 4-5 small potatoes)

Olive Oil: 1/2 tablespoon

Breakfast Sausage Links: 3 oz (about 4 links)

Onion: 1/8 of a whole onion, chopped

Red Pepper: 1/4 of a whole red pepper, chopped

Jalapenos: 1/2 jalapeno, sliced (omit if person looks too old to handle)

Butter: 1 tablespoon

Hickory Maple Seasoning: 1/2 teaspoon

Eggs: 2 large eggs

Milk: 1 tablespoon

Cheddar Cheese: 2 tablespoons, shredded

Anyway, Tommy’s Diner is slammed by mid-morning, and you’re working up a sweat. You’re wiping at your neck and forehead every few minutes, and the sun filtering through the windows does little justice to cool your skin. Tina called out sick, which is code for hungover from Saturday. It’s overwhelming. Your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you just plated for that family of four.

“Enjoy,” you whisper a little breathlessly, tucking your notepad into the front of your apron, rubbing at your temple with the heel of your hand as you walk past the rest of your tables. 

By the time you lift your head, you see a large potbelly man who is waving an arm up above his head, fingers already snapping incessantly. He looked like a chubby rat, with a large dark-haired mustache and a shirt that didn’t fully cover the beer gut he was sporting.

“Uhm, hello? Miss, can we get some service over here?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Your jaw tightens a few notches, pushing your hair out of your face and wrapping around to their table. You remember them; you took their table’s order a bit ago now - shit, did you forget their plates? No, you didn’t. 

Stopping at the head of their table, you smile politely at the large family. 

“Hi, can I get you something while you wait?”

The man scoffs and snaps, “Uh, yeah, our food.”

Taking a deep breath wasn’t enough; you were a ticking time bomb. “Sir, do you see how many people are in the diner? We’re at capacity with a line out the door. I understand you’ve been waiting, but our kitchen is backed up and-” 

“Bull-honkey-bullcrap, little miss,” the man raises his voice, spitting violently with each syllable, “This is ridiculous! We’ve been sittin’ here for nearly an hour. How hard is it to make some eggs and Mickey Mouse pancakes, huh? You just that stupid? What the hell is goin’ on back there? Are you people completely incompetent, or are you just ignorin’ us?”

Worse things have been said to your face, but you’re at your breaking point. You can feel your face flush with warmth radiating throughout your body. Now, the entire diner is staring at you from all the commotion. Your lungs feel tight, a headache casting heavy behind your face. Tears line your eyes, but you don’t dare let them fall. 

“Again, I’m really sorry, but like I said, the kitchen is backed up.” But apologizing isn’t enough. This guy just wanted someone to take his punches. 

“Don’t even try to apologize. I don’t wanna hear your pathetic excuses. How hard is it to cook some damn eggs? This place is a joke. You must be the worst server I’ve ever dealt with. ‘Nd I swear, if I wanted this kind of useless service, I’d go to a fast food joint. Is this how you treat payin’ customers, or ya’ll just this lazy? Do your job, or I’ll make sure everyone knows how worthless you and this diner is.”

You clutch the empty coffee pot tightly, biting your tongue. Turning swiftly, you head straight for the back swinging door. You don't intend to contribute to the chaos or the bustling mess in the kitchen, but here, in the safety of the back section, you allow a few stray tears to escape.

Shoulder blades hitting the cold brick, you wish to blend into the wall. It feels like the air’s been knocked out of you, your chest heavy and tight. Every sound around you blurs as the man’s harsh words replay in your mind, louder and louder each time. Your hands shake just enough to want to hide them behind your back, feeling afraid to have eyes on you in such a vulnerable state. Exposed. You’ve absorbed the anger meant for something or someone else, so now, it sticks to you, something you can’t wash away. 

Your name echoes once, twice. 

“Hey,” A calm amongst the rushing waves - it’s Frankie. You blink him into focus, bleary tears slowly fading away. His red bandana is tied tight around his forehead to catch the sweat from his forehead and hair. His face is laced with concern. He wipes his hands off on his apron, gently capturing your face as he shields you from the rest of the kitchen. 

And just like that, life returns to your body. You can feel the tips of your fingers, previously tingling, wiping under your eyes as you hiccup through your breaths. Frankie knows this high-traffic area will only make your anxiety worse. 

“It’s okay, take a deep breath and tell me what happen.”

The eyes of the kitchen staff are slowly starting to turn to you, asking if you’re alright and why you’re upset. Shaking your head dismissively, you blink away your tears and look down at the grubby floor that probably hasn’t been mopped since the invention of flip phones. 

“I’m fine. This customer just got pissed and yelled at me. He was upset that his food was running behind, and I tried to explain that the kitchen was backed up.” You part your lips to continue, but the jaw drops of the kitchen staff signal shock by your words. 

They all start honking in unison like a flock of geese. 

“He what?”

“Which fuckin’ table?”

“You okay, sweetheart? Fuck them.” 

Frankie's back straightens stiff, having previously been craning to see your face, now strict with annoyance. 

“Is that him?” Frankie asks as he walks to the window between the kitchen and the back counter, narrowing his eyes on the rat man and his family. 

“Frankie, please don't,” you huff, already refilling your pots of coffee and hoping to just forget the whole thing ever happened. "It's okay, it happens."

But it’s not okay. Because this guy made you cry, and what the hell was it for? Some scrambled eggs and bacon on delay?

The rest of the line cooks have abandoned their food to gawk at the asshole who thinks he can get away with yelling at one of their own like that. 

Frankie tightens his bandana and peels off his gloves, slapping them down in the trash. 

His boots thunder across the linoleum, catching the attention of many of the patrons on his way to the booth by the window where the rat man has continued to reside angrily. Even worse, he chuckles at the sight of Frankie. 

“Take a load of this guy," the rat man appears to mutter to his wife who looks between them both with startled eyes. "Okay, okay, just bring back the pretty waitress. I’ll tell her I’m sorry.” He sneers, shaking his head. 

“No, you’re done with her. You’re dealin’ with me now.” Frankie snags an empty chair from a nearby table, turns it around, and straddles the seat as he gets in the burly man's face. 

“I just feel terrible that we’re not meeting the quality of service you expected. So what exactly is the problem?” Frankie asks with a hint of venom lining his words. 

“Well- we’ve been waitin’ here for half an hour and-”

“Right, and what did the pretty waitress say?”

The man scoffs lightly, feeling embarrassed with all the eyes on him not once but twice now. “Well, she said the kitchen was backed up.”

“That’s right, that’s right, well, I’m the fuckin’ kitchen. You wanna yell at someone? Well, I thought I’d give you the chance to yell at me since, hey, I'm in charge of the kitchen today. Please, tell me your honest review.”

The rat man stares blankly, looking from left to right in surprise, but his family all gawks at Frankie. 

Frankie waits, eyes unblinking, face hardened as the man sputters up something weak in response. 

“This is ungodly and unprofessional,” he gargles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“You’re absolutely right!” Frankie says, smacking the table with his closed fist before pointing at the rat man, the tip of his finger inches from his face. “I am unprofessional, but that’s because I don’t have the great customer service skills of our waitresses. That’s her job,” Frankie juts a thumb backward towards the kitchen in your direction. “So now, instead of cookin’ you and your ugly wife and kids some food, I gotta come out here and knock some sense into ya since you seemed to have lost your manners. So you gonna let her do her job so I can get back to mine?”

You can only watch from the window in shock, hand over mouth, unblinking eyes - but it’s like a car crash you can’t look away from. The man is shocked into an embarrassed silence. 

“We’ll just… we’ll wait. There’s-uh-there’s a lotta people here.” 

Frankie sighs and smiles with fake relief. He stands from the chair, looking around the quiet restaurant. 

“Anybody else have somethin' they wanna say?”

They all seem too scared of Frankie to complain again to the psycho chef. Chants of ‘Everything’s great!’ or “Thank you!” echo through the dining room. 

You smile warmly, forcing yourself to turn away from the scene and clean up your teary makeup in the bathroom. But all you can think about is Frankie. Francisco. Stupid Catfish. Stepping in like that to protect you, to make that jerk take accountability. It makes your heart flutter knowing how much he cares. And you feel the same way.

It’s about time you tell him. 

Knuckles wrap against the bathroom door, and an echo of, “You okay?” follows. 

He comes in without a response, somewhat relieved to find you adjusting your hair and wiping at the smeary makeup. Your eyes soften at the sight of him, watching in the reflection. He looks disheveled and annoyed, shaking his head as he starts ranting about rat man. 

“I don’t get how people like that- the God-loving church people- come in here and act like they weren’t just told at a sermon to love thy neighbor or whatever bullshit.”

He continues, but all you do is stare.

A part of you thinks he defends others due to his childhood. No one picks on the people Frankie cares about. That letter riled him up, maybe more than either of you had realized. He’s thinking about those times of the past, the innocent hurt by the deviant. 

“You didn’t deserve that, I’m sorry, he’s a fucking dick. You don’t have to take his food out, I’ll do it. Honey,” he breathes, hand resting on your shoulder as he gently turns you around to face him. “Are you mad at me? I know you told me not to go out there, but no one makes you cry if I can help it, y’know? I don’t want him to think he can get away with that.”

Once Frankie starts ranting, it’s really hard to get him to stop. 

“Frankie,” you breathe out, resting your hand over the one he holds on your shoulder. 

“I mean, does he really think that it’s smart to be rude to the staff? I’ll spit in his food, and it will feel really good because he’ll have no idea.”

“Frankie,”

“You’re a good fucking waitress! Doesn’t he see the entire breakfast bar and all the booths filled with guests? The line out the door wasn’t an indication of how busy it is? Get a fuckin’ brain, I mean-”

In an instant, you tilt your chin up, catching his gaze just long enough to see the shift in his eyes before your lips meet. Your hands slide around his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls at the nape, gently tugging him down toward you. The kiss begins with an urgency, part playful, part to silence his words, but mostly, it's to thank him in a way that words never could.

Frankie’s initial surprise fades quickly as he melts into you, his breath hitching for a moment. His hands travel to your waist, sliding around until they lock just above your hips, anchoring you to him. He presses closer, his touch firm yet tender, and slows the kiss, savoring the warmth of your lips. You feel the way his body relaxes, how he leans in, letting the world around you both fall away as he holds you, close and unmoving, like he’s never letting go.

It takes every ounce of courage in your body to pull away, your lips lingering against his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if tethered by an invisible force. Slowly, you break the kiss, your breath shaky, heart racing. His forehead rests against yours for a moment, his eyes still half-closed, unaware of the words hanging on the edge of your lips.

You gently pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still laced in his hair, trembling slightly. His eyes search yours, soft and expectant, filled with something unspoken but unmistakable.

With a deep inhale, you let the words slip out, vulnerable and raw, barely louder than a whisper, but heavy with meaning.

“I love you.”

The world stands still as the words hang in the air, your heart pounding as you wait for the weight of what you’ve just said to settle between you.

And then he smiles like an idiot. And you’re joining him. 

“Did you say what I think you said? Did you say that you love me?" His voice is soft, teasing, as he presses his forehead against yours, capturing your lips with a few playful, quick kisses between his words. “Come on, say it again.”

You feel your heart flutter, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Frankie’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “I heard you say it. Now you can’t take it back,” he adds with a grin, pulling you tighter, his arms leaving no space between you.

You giggle, your hands pushing lightly against his shoulders, though he doesn’t budge. “Stop, that was really hard,” you huff, breathless, as though the words had stolen all the air from your lungs.

Frankie just shakes his head, his smile fading into something softer, more real, as the weight of the moment catches up with him. “I’ve thought about better places or times to tell you this, I wanted to wait until you were ready,” he whispers, his voice hushed with disbelief, eyes locking onto yours, “but I love you more than you’ll ever know. More than you’ll ever understand or dream. I love you.”

His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, a gentle, affectionate touch that sends shivers down your spine. The intensity in his gaze mirrors your own, both of you lost in this shared vulnerability, your hearts speaking in unison.

“I love you, too,” you breathe, the words falling effortlessly this time, as if they’ve always been waiting for this moment.

So, yeah. You sort of love your co-worker Francisco Morales. 

The sun is blinding—orange and yellow streams of light as it is forced to set along the horizon. It’s slow but noticeable, sinking into the land beyond what you can see.

The sun goes down in Texas once again. 

Frankie raises his cigarette, its glowing tip mirroring the fiery hues of the sunset.

His neighborhood is tranquil, lined with single-story homes and tree-bordered streets where autumn's touch is just around the corner. Children ride bikes, joggers and dog walkers pass by, and new parents push their baby strollers—a picturesque scene that feels meticulously arranged yet somehow distant. Frankie, too, feels out of place here.

"You got pretty worked up today—more than usual," you say softly.

Frankie lets out a dry chuckle, cigarette between his lips as he leans back on his elbows, squinting at the fading sun. "Yeah, maybe. You think I’m off right now?" He tilts his head, genuinely curious, as if searching for what’s changed.

You shrug, glancing at him with a fond smile. "I think that letter from your dad has you more rattled than you realize. I found it in your sock drawer this morning."

Frankie’s gaze drops to his lap, a flicker of shame crossing his face.

"I thought you said you were gonna toss it?" you muse gently, watching as his mind churns, cigarette hovering at his lips before he sighs deeply.

"You’re too observant," he smirks. "I don’t know why I haven’t crumpled, burned, or shredded it into pieces by now. I have every right to."

You rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing the tension there. "But you didn’t. Why?"

Frankie bites his lower lip nervously, glancing your way. "At the end of the apology letter, he asked to take me out for my birthday. Put down the time, place—everything. Said he’d wait for me."

Your expression softens, letting him know you’re here, really listening. "And you’re thinking about it?"

"Yeah… I guess so. But I don’t even know what I’d say. I’ve only seen him once or twice since I moved out. It’s been years. And when I do see him, I’m thirteen all over again, just yelling at him, so angry. I see his face, and it’s like a switch flips. And that’s not me. You know that’s not me," Frankie stammers, panic flickering in his eyes.

"I know," you whisper, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He pulls you closer, resting his head against yours as the weight of it all settles.

After a deep breath, Frankie gathers himself. "He used to bring out the worst in me. I don’t know if I still hate him as much. Time’s passed, maybe he’s changed. But I’m not holding my breath."

He’s an adult now, more guarded, wiser to the people who’ve hurt him. He’s fought through battles and traumas you don’t even know about. Yet, in his eyes, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe his dad has turned a corner, maybe he’s cleaned up, seen his mistakes. But you know better than to trust in maybes.

And you’d protect him from being let down again.

"Do you want me to go with you?" you offer quietly.

Frankie’s eyes snap to yours, wide and searching.

"Okay," he says after a long pause. "Let’s do it."

[pinknatural]

After googling “what to take to a stranger’s birthday party” and reading the top five articles thoroughly, the first two more than once, Castiel has determined that he should either bring candles, wine, or baked goods. 

A candle seems like a good, safe option, but the Walmart candle aisle is overwhelming. How is he supposed to know if Anna’s-friend-Dean likes oaky, woodsy smells versus lavender-linen smells? Castiel likes the one that smells like a waxy apple pie, but who’s to say that opinion is shared? What if he prefers pine, or something called Deep Twilight Mist? Castiel removes the lid for Deep Twilight Mist and smells the cream-colored wax curiously. It smells like the perfume Hael used to spray everywhere when she was eleven. He puts it back on the shelf. 

There’s a candle that smells like cupcakes. It is a birthday party, so perhaps he would like that. Castiel puts it in the blue plastic basket dangling from his arm, then puts it back on the shelf, tilting it so the label is facing perfectly outward. Maybe Anna’s-friend-Dean doesn’t like candles at all. 

Wine. Everyone likes wine. Well, unless Anna’s-friend-Dean is one of those guys who thinks wine is too feminine. Or if he doesn’t drink at all. Or if he drinks too much. Or, perhaps even worse, if he’s some kind of wine connoisseur and will mock Castiel for buying reasonably-priced wine from Walmart and then blacklist Castiel so thoroughly that he will never find a friend in this town. 

Wine and candles are too complex. But everyone likes baked goods. 

Castiel is stopped in the middle of the road, turn signal blinking to indicate that he would like to turn left into his apartment complex, when he realizes that Anna’s-friend-Dean could be diabetic. But the party is at a restaurant that specializes in hamburgers, so probably not. Hopefully not. All Castiel has to do is successfully implement chocolate chip cookies and then melt into the walls at the party. Be pleasant enough company that next time someone has a large event they allow Anna to invite him again. Go to enough social functions that he can claim to have friends and get Anna off his back. Live quietly, working at the Gas-N-Sip and writing papers about the science of Theology and perhaps even going to the library and reading secular fiction.

Castiel has no expectations of finding actual friendship at Anna’s-friend-Dean’s birthday party. Or ever, really. If he ever gets lonely, he can get a cat.

Anna thinks that Castiel and Dean will get along very well. Castiel thinks that living outside of their mother’s influence has made Anna believe in fairytales. Anna has known Castiel his entire life. She knows full well that he has never gotten along very well with anyone. 

Castiel cracks an egg over the batter. Maybe this whole baking thing will impress Anna so much that she’ll stop bothering him about making friends. 

Who knows, maybe these cookies will unlock something else to add to Castiel’s quiet life. He quite likes the idea of baking.

--

The firefighter is very beautiful. Maybe even the most beautiful person Castiel has ever seen, besides models on the sides of buildings who look so perfect they’re fake.

“You the guy who started the fire?” the beautiful firefighter asks. He puts his hands in his pockets. Castiel’s cheeks burn. Not from any fire. 

“They were just burnt cookies,” he says. “I didn’t know they would set off the smoke alarm.” In the entire building. The other firefighters are by the doors, writing things down, talking to other residents of Castiel’s building. How come the beautiful firefighter was the one who had to talk to Castiel? He sneaks a peek at the man’s arms, but they’re sadly covered by his coat. 

“You burned the cookies on purpose, then?” the firefighter raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Castiel says. The firefighter has green eyes and freckles splashed across his nose. Castiel wants him to take off his helmet so he can see what his hair looks like. 

“Right,” the firefighter says. 

“Am I in trouble?” Castiel asks. 

“No,” the firefighter says. He winks. Castiel feels his heart literally skip a beat. “Not a crime to burn cookies. Losing out on the cookies is punishment enough.”

“They weren’t for me,” Castiel says. “They were for a birthday party. Tonight.” For some reason, he wants the firefighter to know that he has a social life. Never mind if the social life was enforced upon him by his older sister.

“A birthday party? Today? Who’s hosting? I gotta fight for my honor.”

Castiel is baffled. What honor? What fight?

“What?”

“Everyone will come,” the firefighter says. He makes a pose, as if he’s flexing. “To see me and this other guy fight to see who’s the Supreme Birthday Boy.” He stretches one arm out, pointing it to the sky, then he opens his fist. “Pow! It’ll be me, of course.” He turns to look back at Castiel. His mouth is very pink. Castiel wishes he understood what words were coming out of it. 

“It’s my birthday, too,” the firefighter says after a moment, when Castiel doesn’t react.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I dunno. Trying to be funny, I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again. Behind the firefighter, he sees that the other residents of his apartment building are filing back inside. For some reason, despite the January chill, Castiel doesn’t want to go back in. Not yet. 

“You know, usually this is the part where people say happy birthday,” the firefighter says. 

“Happy birthday,” Castiel repeats. 

“Thanks!” the firefighter beams. “So do you think I should crash your friend’s party tonight?”

“No,” Castiel says, alarmed at the thought. A firefighter, and probably a bunch of other firefighters, crashing Castiel’s opportunity to stand beside the wall, holding a cup of sprite? When Castiel shows up with store-bought baked goods? And this beautiful firefighter will point right at him and say that Castiel invited them and then Anna’s-friend-Dean will hate him forever, and probably Anna will too? “Also, he’s not my friend.”

“He’s not? Then why are you going to his party?”

“He’s my sister’s friend,” Castiel explains. “I’ve never met him. She thinks I need to leave the house more.” Too late, Castiel remembers that he was supposed to pretend he had a flourishing social life. Oops. 

“Wait,” the firefighter says. His eyes sparkle. “Are you Anna’s brother? Cas-something?”

“Castiel,” he says, with the patience of someone who has had to explain his name a million times. He narrows his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Dude,” the firefighter says, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

Anna’s-friend-Dean is a beautiful firefighter, with green eyes and freckles? Anna’s-friend-Dean is the Supreme Birthday Boy? Anna’s-friend-Dean probably has very muscular arms, under his uniform?

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the firefighter says. 

“Winchester! Wrap it up!” one of the firemen calls from the truck. Castiel realizes that all the firefighters are about to leave, and everyone from his building is already back inside. When did that happen?

“Be there in a minute!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. When he looks back at Castiel, he grins almost shyly. “You were gonna make me cookies?”

“Yes, I--I thought it would be an appropriate thing to bring.” Castiel wonders again if Dean could be diabetic. Or perhaps allergic to something in chocolate chip cookies. Are chocolate chips made in a peanut-free facility? Maybe Castiel should’ve bought wine, after all.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was dead-fuckin’-on. But, uh.”

“But?” Castiel is sure, suddenly, that Dean is about to reject him and tell him not to come to his birthday party after all. Which would be a shame, because all of a sudden Castiel wanted to go.

“My favorite dessert is pie,” Dean says like a confession. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. Maybe he can swing by the bakery--maybe he can look up a bakery, and then swing by it--on the way to the party. Assuming he’s still going. 

“And, uh, not to toot my own horn, but I make a pretty mean one. I actually made myself a birthday pie, and I was gonna eat it alone, but maybe…I mean…”

“Yes?” Castiel asks. Dean is slightly taller than him, so he tilts his head back to meet his eyes. Dean swallows. Castiel watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Well, I could swing by after my shift is done,” Dean says. “Bring it with me. We could share. Before we go to the Roadhouse, I mean. If you want.”

“I want,” Castiel says before he can think about it. He snaps his mouth shut. Dean brightens. 

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be back. After my shift.”

“When does it end?” Castiel asks. Dean looks at his watch. He grins at Castiel, tongue poking between his teeth.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. 

“Okay,” Castiel says. “I will you soon, then.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Gimme about an hour, okay? And then we’ll have pie.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean turns to head back to the firetruck. “What kind of pie?” Cas calls after him. Dean turns. 

“Apple!” he calls. Castiel stands outside, in the January chill without his coat, for a long while after the truck leaves. What a strange man, making his own birthday pie. What a lovely man, sharing it with a stranger. Supreme Birthday Boy, indeed.

--

When Dean returns, in a soft flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his magnificent forearms, his hair a spiky mess that Castiel wants to run his fingers through, he has, as promised, an apple pie. And Castiel has a present for him. 

When Dean opens it, he laughs until he almost cries. He lights it right away, and the lingering aroma of burnt chocolate chip cookies is chased away by the apple pie candle from Walmart, a bright, steady little flame flickering between them.

(ao3)

[hurlingdown]

Please 🍶 anon. I’m a married man 👉💍

Though that does give me so many good ideas..

Pretending to be Muzan’s husband, a slayer finding you both in the cities so you have to press him against the wall and kiss him breathless to keep undercover. One thing leads to another and you’re fucking him in both his female and male form. He is humiliated with the noises he’s making and the way his body is trembling in your hold, he’s almost tempted to kill you.. but then you give him the most earth shattering orgasm and suddenly you’re his right hand man. Fucking him in every room of the infinity castle, sucking him off against the tree in the middle of an abandoned path, eating him out bent over against a well in the middle of a town during the night.

He even slips up and calls you his husband to one of the upper moons.

Toji getting married for money.. unhappy but not on the streets. His fat, rich husband dragging him to a fancy party - he’s bored out of his mind but he’ll do anything for a bag, and then he feels eyes on the back of his head - a cursed spirit under the guise of a tall, handsome businessman, watching him with burning insatiable need.

Toji’s done a lot of fucked up things for money, but none of them felt this good. Back arching as the curse fucks him deep and hard, his stupid husband calling his name as he gets fucked in the bathroom stall. Another fat wad of cash shoved between his tits to answer him, calling out that he’s fine and he’ll be out in a minute as your second set of hands begins to stroke and prod at his already stuffed hole.

Maybe big bad husband Crocodile finding no other option to discipline Buggy, calling you in - his prized bodyguard - to fuck some manners into the clown. Grabbing a hold of his bottom half as Mihawk grabs his head, forcing him to look as you and Crocodile kiss atop his decapitated body, your cock sinking inside him slowly.

Or even being Caesar Clowns ‘Work husband’ - a title he gave you and pretended everyone else gave it to you and he was disgusted by the prospect, though he never once stopped using it - you’re his assistant, bringing him snacks and drinks, getting files and viles.

One day bringing him a magenta vile labelled ‘dangerous’ ‘do not drink’ ‘do not inhale’, you’re oh so careful with this stupid little bottle when you’re tripped - Caesars tendril of smoke whisping back into his cloud coat. But instead of the vile landing on you like he had planned, it lands straight into his big mouth, draining the contents as his face turns bright red. Not even a minute later he’s leaking and begging you on his hands and knees that he needs your babies in him, he needs your dick inside of him and for you to breed him like livestock. Fucking little creep was trying to roofie you, well now you had all the means for some revenge.

Anyway, the bunny Zoro fic was fucking delicious. I need that bunny boy to come back whining for reader to cuddle and snuggle and fuck him stupid again.

Love you Hurlers.

- 🐉

Btw, have you watched My Hero? I have been trying to find someone to talk about All Might with. The way they have him in this newest episode has my dick drippinggg 😫😫

MUZAN AND TOJI??? WHAT A GOOD DAY TO BE ALIVE. just finished reading another banger thirst in my inbox and then i'm placed face to face with this. i seriously love you all.

no kidding. sugar baby toji is the singular best take on his character in the world of fanfics, and reader being a curse fits so well, i'm in awe. and caesar clown and aphrodisiacs mix so well, holy fucking shit. i'm going to be super busy after this month ends.

and yeah, i've watched mha. :) i'm not caught up with the latest two seasons, but i'm familiar with the lore up to s5. go ahead and rant about all might!!! thank you for the obscenely delicious thirsts!!!

[shibaraki]

THE ARSONIST’S LULLABY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: the theory is everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. a symbolic, younger version of the self that can still be saved.

dabi comes home with what seems to be a sleeping four year old in his arms and the look of a man who has just seen a ghost.

tags: GN reader, reader is a civilian, sorta established relationship (dabi is paranoid and allergic to labels), accidental child acquisition, angst and fluff, pre LOV (like right before), alludes to past canon child abuse, dissociation, family feels (dabi shithead big brother tendencies)

wc: 8K

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t,” Dabi hushed you frantically, far more frayed than you’ve ever seen him. Affronted, you open the door wider all the same, allowing him inside.

He’s careful with his movements as he kicks off his boots and ducks into the living room. The lump bundled in his jacket does not stir. Dabi lowers to a crouch and settles a young child on the sofa cushions. You note the deliberate care in which he slides his arms out from beneath the boy's body.

The coat lapels have slipped to reveal a child that can surely be no older than four years old. Waxen skin, full cheeks and a wind bitten nose. Most notable is the red hair, thick and fanning across the decorative pillow in undefined waves.

You feel inclined to tiptoe as you approach. Navigating the short space cautiously, knowing where to set your feet; avoiding the creaky floorboards you’ve long since memorised. Dabi lets out a shuddering breath and slumps back against the coffee table. Not once does he look at you even as you enter his vision.

Knelt at Dabi’s side, you evaluate the things laid out before you. The air remains tepid. There are no remnants of smoke clinging to his clothes. Your gaze sweeps over his body. He isn’t running hot, and the sutures aren’t weeping. Not a blood stain nor a burn mark to be seen. He is simply frozen, staring down at the boy.

The child, too, is unscathed. Under a thin T-shirt his small chest rises and falls. He wears an expression that can only be described as tranquil. Part of this disturbs you, and tempts you to poke the kid, if only to make sure he isn’t a doll.

You brush your knuckles along his jaw. The kid runs cold but he’s warmer than expected after being rushed through the late evening streets without sleeves. No shoes on his feet either. Odd, considering his socks are clean.

There are a million questions clamouring in your head that you lose the opportunity to ask—that all lead to a single, heartbreaking answer—because the little boy stirs at your touch. His eyelids scrunch together as if to protest his own consciousness, then gradually open, irises as blue as early spring periwinkles peeking through slits.

Nausea grips you. A dark amalgamation of anger, anxiety, confusion and jealousy knotted itself deep in your gut. Those eyes—eyes just like Dabi’s, staring back at you, head tilting with a blank expression.

You take far too long to notice that he’s stopped breathing. Stuck in place, likely frightened to be somewhere unfamiliar, crowded by people he does not know. “Hi there sweetheart,” you say, willing yourself to smile reassuringly. “I know this must be scary for you but I promise you’re safe. We won’t hurt you”.

At that the little boy puffs up. “I’m not scared!”

Dabi scoffs. He hasn’t looked in the boy's direction since he woke up. You nudge his side, brow furrowed in disapproval. “Good. 'Cause you've got nothing to be scared of,” you tell him, glare softening as it slides back to the couch. “Do you think you could tell us your name?”

The silence is oppressive. You’re stared at as if you were a battle to be conquered. You sigh, “Alright. You don’t need to tell me. Stranger danger, right?”

Oddly enough, the boy doesn’t appear disturbed about his surroundings at all. You’d prepared yourself for tears, or some wailing. Instead he casually pushed himself upright into a sitting position and stretched his short arms high over his head, as if waking from a routine nap.

You draw air through your teeth, gasping as his shirt lifts with the stretch and reveals his belly. Dabi’s jaw winds at the sight. The air around you expands, thick with ephemeral warmth. He’s considerate to keep it there, boiling violently under his skin. His reaction nags at your conscience, and you want to grab him when he stands to walk away, but you’ve no choice but to prioritise the situation in front of you.

There are burns around the child’s midsection. Mottled pink and swollen. He rejects your touch as you reach out to examine him further. “You’re hurt, kiddo. We can help. Let me—”

“No!” he yells. You startle at the genuine heartbreak in his voice. He scrambles down and shoves past you. Rabbit footed, he sprints to the bathroom and slams the door. You strain to listen, relieved that he does not turn the lock, and debate going after him. Something about that childlike anger is deeply familiar.

Ice crawls through your chest; it’s a dread that lingers in your periphery yet evades perception the longer you try to put a finger on it. You throw another glance down the hallway as you stride toward the genkan. “Dabi,” you call firmly. His hands, bloodied with the runoff dirt and ash, continue scrubbing at the sole of his boot in an almost mechanical fashion. “Touya,” you try again, quieter, exercising caution when wielding that name. And his movement stutters. “You can’t just—go! Not now. He’s badly burned. Where did you even find him?”

You’re patient as he exhales a harsh breath. He seems to grapple with his thoughts, a distant look in his eyes. Seeing him so unsettled is scaring you. “Does it really matter? He’ll probably be gone soon,” he mutters. A wave of defensiveness on behalf of the poor child bubbles to the surface. But before you can argue, he is tugging his cleaned boots on with sudden force.

Dabi stomps to settle the heel and pulls open your front door. It rattles on the hinges. A cold evening breeze billows into the apartment and bites at your bare arms. “I’ll be back later. Just pretend he’s not here,” he grunts. “He won’t notice the difference”.

“Wait, baby—!”

And he’s gone again.

You smother the frustrated yell that follows into your hands. There’s a faint sense of abandonment on the fringes, creeping in and forming a lump in your throat. Dabi always had to run first. You rub at your eyes until the sting disappears and exhale until all the air in your lungs is gone, taking with it your frustrations.

Somehow the hallway stretches that much longer. This time you press weight onto the old floorboards and hear them creak, making your presence known as you approach. There’s no noise behind the bathroom door. Your fingers curl around the handle but a gut feeling begs that you pause.

The soft knock of your knuckles to the frame echoes through the apartment. “It’s me,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, little guy. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in pain…”

Your ears prick at the quiet movement inside the bathroom. The latch clicks as the handle turns and you move away as much as the narrow space can afford, the front of your sweater bunched up in your fist; it mirrors the child’s own stance, shifting in place gripping his shirt.

Now under the cheap flickering light you notice an uneven patch of white in his hair. There is something uncomfortably broken about him that you can’t place. A dissonance between his outline and the world, as though he were a pencil drawing in a watercolour canvas.

“M’not little,” he insists with a stomp, looking like he might cry. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m a baby”.

“Alright. You’re not a baby, you’re a big kid,” you settle on your knees in front of him, lowering your voice in a way a child might consider more ‘grown up’, “But I still have to make sure you don’t need a doctor. So is it okay if I ask about the marks on your tummy?”

This time his reaction is far more subdued. Exhausted from his earlier anger, maybe. Or resigned to the fact that you will not let the injuries go. He jerked his shoulders and crossed both arms, staring down at his feet.

“Has someone been hurting you—did they do that to you?”

The kid huffs, indignant. “No,” he mumbles with a pout. Your eyes follow his fingers where they begin to anxiously clench and unclench. “My quirk…”

The admission is clearly difficult for him, like he has to force the words out of his mouth. You unfold your legs from beneath you and dip to try to meet his eyes, “Your quirk hurts you?”

“Not all the time!” there’s that flash of emotion again, racketing through him like thunder. If he were a kitten you think all the hair on his body would be on end. “If—if I train more I bet it wouldn’t,” he sniffs. “But father told me I can’t do that anymore”.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback at the mention of another father figure. You feel a growing dislike for the unknown man. “Well that’s kinda silly. How will you ever learn to use it safely if you don’t practice?”

Finally, the boy’s glassy eyes snap up and meet your own. He’s practically glowing; awestruck, as though you’d turned his entire worldview on its head with just a few words. “Right, right?” he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna be the bestest, strongest hero. Better than All Might!”

Your thoughts stall, reaction delayed. Only Dabi would bring home a kid who loves heroes—that is if they’re related at all. You find it hard to believe. Those eyes do not lie.

“That right?” you let yourself be influenced by his enthusiasm and mirror his grin. Whatever Dabi did or did not omit it’s not the kids fault. “Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. How about that?”

“Yeah! You’ll see!” your heart clenches at the sight of his little leg stomping excitedly as he rubs at his eyes. A hiccup wracks his body. Telegraphing your movements you rest a hand at his back, rubbing back and forth to calm him. Such an extreme response to such a simple praise.

After some gentle cajoling you manage to get him to sit on a stool in the kitchen with some apple juice that you miraculously had in the fridge. Your eyes linger on the glass in his hands as you apply the medicated cream to his stomach, barely big enough to hold it.

You exhale, fingers pausing by his waist. The sight is hard to swallow. The tissue is smooth to touch and irregularly shaped, as though the scar had outgrew the initial wound. Even as you reached the inflamed sections he hadn’t so much as flinched. Again you're reminded of Dabi, his impassive expression perched on the edge of your bathtub, skin swelling around his sutures, a merry scarlet waterfall weeping from the exposed wounds.

“Where did that man go?” he asks, pulling you from your reverie.

“Ah, he needed to go get something,” the lie is unconvincing even to your own ears. Discomfited, you clear your throat and add, “You can call him Dabi when he’s back”.

You search for his discarded shirt while he tests the name with his own voice. Small mouth shaped around the syllables, da-bi, and spitting it out quick again, dabi. “That’s right. Dabi. You like his name?” the kid staunchly shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes it back with both of his hands.

“S’dumb,” he says. The bluntness makes you laugh.

“I bet your name is cooler, right?” that catches his attention. He nods once with a firm hum. “You wanna tell me it now?”

Your efforts seemed to fall flat. The child would not tell you his name; during the numerous attempts in the hours that followed, you got the sense that he couldn’t tell you. And he would get this odd look about him, as if it was you asking that was confusing to him. As if you should already know.

Far more concerning to you is that he never asks to go home. Not once does he mention his mother or father of his own volition. After countless questions you can discern that his knowledge is strangely limited. He seems frozen in time, with no real memory of how Dabi found him.

The hours pass uninterrupted when your curiosity veers away from his circumstances and closer to him. To things he loves, and the like. You carry him on your hip, surprisingly light, and settle him back on the couch as he rambled about Caped Kid and Supertoon and the old All Might animated shorts that you forgot even existed. He kicks his feet along the cushions excitedly when you find some pirated clips online for him to watch.

By the time Dabi comes home the kid has fallen asleep, right back where he first left him. Your arms cross over your chest, the earlier anger rising once more, but something about his expression wills you to temper it.

Dabi is wet through. Soaked to the bone, clothes hanging on his frame. Black streaks are running down his cheeks, and despite your disappointment you hastily tug your sleeve over your hand as you start forward, bringing it up to dab away the dye before it seeps into his sutures.

It’s a relief that he doesn’t flinch away. Not even as his gaze drifts to the TV, which has automatically started up another All Might clip. No vitriol comes. A warm, savoury smell fills your senses and you notice that he’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Brought food,” he rasps. You look back up and meet his eyes, unnerved at how far away he sounds.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Casting a final glance to the young boy on your couch—laying suspiciously still—you wrap fingers around Dabi’s cold wrist and coax him into the kitchen. He sets the food on the counter and in letting go the plastic handle is left upright, misshapen from the responsive heat of his quirk.

He inhales, readying himself to speak, but you gently interrupt, “I think you should shower first. Change into something comfortable. I’ll… I’ll serve the food”.

Dabi sighs but slinks away to the bathroom at your suggestion. You watch him bristle and glare halfheartedly at the head peeking up from behind the couch cushions and the boy shrinks back. Not a moment later the door slams and he flinches, chubby fingers clutching tight to the upholstery.

“Is Dabi mad?” the small voice asks. Sullen in a way that draws you closer to comfort him. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, petting him now that he’ll let you.

“No, no,” you demurred. “Well. Maybe he is, but he’s just having a lot of uh, big feelings”.

“Big feelings,” the boy nods. Then he peers up at you searchingly, “…Is he melting?”

Having expected him to ask literally anything but that, you give a soft laugh. “Dabi isn’t melting. It’s the colour in his hair. He painted it and if it gets wet it washes out, like you saw”.

“Oh”.

The kid is calmer now, no longer ready to bury himself between the cushions. “He brought food back. Smells like curry,” you tell him. “Want some?”

Returning to the kitchen after an enthusiastic ‘yes’—pushed out between a big yawn—you unwrap the takeout boxes and begin to portion them. Dabi finished his shower, dressed in the loose fitted sweatpants and t-shirt you kept for the nights he felt comfortable enough to stay, and accepted the plate you put in his hands.

Together, you eat around the kotatsu in relative silence filled only by the limited ramblings of the child Dabi brought home. He’s the type to express things with his entire body, the type that cannot sit still, and you find yourself shooting Dabi the odd furtive glance, worried he might snap, almost daring him to try.

But Dabi does not snap. He doesn’t look at either of you. You note the tension in his shoulders, winding tighter with every mention of the word ‘hero’, and how his fist clenches and uncurls, knuckles white where the blood recedes. He keeps his head down, forearm curled protectively around the food on his plate as he eats, and doesn’t say a word.

You’ve never met anyone else who can so readily act as though they’re unfeeling. The embodiment of feigned indifference. Dabi was so confident in his detachment, with the scathing comments, comfort in violence and purposefully unapproachable demeanour, but you knew what lie underneath; you can tell when it’s an act and when it’s real, and right now he’s never been more transparent.

The boy starts to droop into his food some time during the next Caped Kid episode. Your hand shoots out to cup his chin when his head wobbles on his shoulders, close to using the rice as a pillow. “He’s all tuckered out again,” you comment aloud, licking your thumb to wipe at the sauce around his mouth. “Can you take the—?”

Dabi is already standing, stacking the plates atop one another without so much as trying to be quiet. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, seeking strength, and tuck the little boy to your front, hoisting him back up into the couch. He stirs and blinks around the room as though seeing for the first time.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” you whisper. He yawns, jaw stretching around such a tiny squeak that you can’t help but to kiss his hair.

Dabi is standing at the sink, back turned to the dirty dishes and leant against the counter. Your eyes meet, but you pointedly look away and say nothing as you step forward to gather the empty takeout boxes and throw them out.

He speaks, if only to fill the silence, “I shouldn’t have walked out”.

It’s the closest to an apology you’ll probably ever get. “Y’think?” you hesitated for a long minute, speaking only as you sensed his presence at your back. “Actually, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Really, your relationship with Dabi has always been chimerical in nature. Some strange patchwork attempt at being human. You fucked, kissed one another at the door, shared parts of your lives that you wished you never had. Labels only drove him away, like identifying the thing you’d woven together would bring it to actuality, make it corporeal, ridding you of plausible deniability.

It was never a question why he brought the kid here. This is where you play house, after all. Dabi’s shoebox apartment was empty, simply a place to go when he wasn’t out doing who knows what, like a waiting room. A space between spaces. Yours was far more appropriate for a child, and you’d thought that maybe—he chose to trust you enough, to finally ask for help, rather than doing it out of convenience.

Heat soaks through your shirt as his mottled, slender hand settles on your waist. You turn on your heel to face him directly, resolve weakening at the careful squeeze of his fingers. You sigh, palms brushing featherlight up the uneven flesh along his forearms and follow as he retreated backward to lower onto the nearby breakfast stool.

“I was hit with a quirk on my way back”.

“What?” your inner conflict falters. Concern superseding your anger you cup his jaw to tip his head back and side to side to get a good look at him. “When? Are you hurt?”

Dabi snorts, relaxed by your gentle countenance and fretting. “Not now. Earlier. Some middle schooler without a handle on her quirk yet. Quit fussin’, I’m fine,” he continues and shakes free of your hands, so you settle them on his shoulders. He walks his fingers behind your knees, cupping the back of your thighs, uncharacteristically restless.

“It’s where the…“ his jaw clenched and he pressed his forehead hard to your stomach, burrowing into the fabric. Anticipation grips your lungs when he doesn’t immediately explain.

“Talk to me,” you run your fingers through his hair and they come away stained black. “How did—what does the quirk do?”

“Fuck, I hardly had time to ask about specifics. The stupid kid knocked into me and suddenly I had my arms full,” Dabi’s snarling dwindles. He licks his lips, hesitant, and casts his eyes to the narrow space between your bodies. Quieter this time, “It’s where he came from”.

You register his words. The realisation slides through you with sharp clarity. It swells in you, all encompassing and painful, like love and heartbreak at the same time. “He’s not yours, is he?” you say, reminiscent of a whisper. “He’s you”.

“My inner child. Some pseudo bullshit like that,” Dabi supplies, as though the distinction was important. He looks up, the column of his throat pressed to your sternum, and your chest loosens a little, some of the fear ebbing. “Did you seriously think I knocked someone up?”

“Plausibly, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” he scoffs. “Either way, I don’t know how long we’re stuck with him”.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s a burden,” you frowned. Dabi’s eyes squint, and he makes a low, dubious noise. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

“Didn’t want you to know,” he shrugs. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. This is hardly the first time Dabi kept something from you. “Thought I could make the kid keep his mouth shut about my family”.

Inwardly you think he needn’t worry about that. They were as secretive and stubborn as each other, in that respect. Hell, it took Dabi three years to give up his name and that was only because he’d been delirious at the time.

“But you left anyway”.

“He woke up,” Dabi says, like that was enough explanation. You give a commiserate nod, cradling his rough jaw, because maybe it is. “Needed to blow off some steam. Figured I might look for the twerp that caused all this but she’d probably run if she saw me again”.

“Don’t tell me you scared the poor girl shitless?”

“Alright. I won’t tell you,” he snorted, biting at the heel of your hand when you mutter his name disapprovingly.

“So we just wait for him to go?” you brush the remaining skin between his eye and his cheek with your thumb, following the curve of his sutures. “Maybe it is psychological then. Make your inner child happy and the quirk might cancel out sooner”.

There’s something dark in Dabi’s expression when his mouth pulls wide into a smarmy grin, eyes burning as his fingers dig into your thighs. “Looking to rehabilitate me, sweetheart?”

You soon put that to rest, guiding him into a kiss. His grip falls slack, and then returns, more needy than dangerous. Dabi’s lips pressed back, insisted, softer than you thought possible. “Course not,” you murmur, admiring the resentful flush on his face as you draw back. “Maybe I like you as you are. Just a little”.

“Bad taste,” he breathes. His nose scrunches the way it always does when he’s feeling too much, and you kiss that too. You recognise Dabi’s flaws for what they are, and you’ve given yourself to him knowingly. Even so, in the confines of your mind, you do wish he might’ve had the chance to be something better.

This inner child incident could be a small step. You don’t expect his perspective on society will change; he could learn compassion and forgive himself for whatever led him here. But what exactly is an inner child?

The theory goes that everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. A symbolic, younger version of the self that can be talked to, supported, and guided—that can still be saved.

Dabi informs you with great reluctance that this little Touya was probably closer to five years old, and stuck in the time right after his first brother was born. You never knew he had siblings.

“Did something significant happen around that time?” you worry at your bottom lip, glancing out toward the living room, shrouded in darkness now that the TV has switched to standby. “Do you remember what you wanted most, from before?”

You hear your name. You’re startled by the intensity in Dabi’s stare, unyielding and sharp. A primitive part of you wants to shrink back from it. “Don’t push it,” he says.

It was on the tip of your tongue to remark something equally catty. Instead you swallow. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered. Through trial and error you’ve already memorised the ley lines that make up Dabi’s boundaries and know well enough that prying too far into his past, or encroaching on his future plans, is a hard no-no.

“We’re going to need a cover story for him if he’s here longer than a day,” you continue, a smile creeping in alongside your teasing inflection. “Guess you’re a dad—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dabi grimaces, skin taut around his scars. “If it comes to it, say he’s my nephew”.

“You’re no fun,” you concede. “Fine. Uncle Dabi”.

The discussion leads nowhere in the end. Dabi is unwilling to delve any further into his childhood and you know a losing battle when you see one. You turn your attention to the sleeping arrangements, and decide that it would be best to roll out your spare futons in the living room, just in case something happens.

And Dabi, despite his objections, despite puttering around with pillows under each arm and cursing under his breath, throws them down and sprawls out across the blankets. You feel his stare as you move Touya—as you’ve taken to calling him in your head—from his resting place to the space between your bodies.

Touya isn’t yet the light sleeper you know Dabi to be. His eyes shift behind closed lids and his lips curl in momentary discomfort but he doesn’t wake. “Does he have to sleep there?” Dabi all but sneers when Touya curls into your warm chest, much the way he would like to.

“Aw. Don’t be jealous,” you pillow Touya’s head on your shoulder and reach across to take Dabi’s hand, entwining your fingers through stubborn means. “He’s just a baby”.

A fresh wave of heat ripples around your hands and Dabi’s grip is solid, as though you’ve been soldered together. “He’s not a baby. He’s already five,” he mutters with a faraway look in his eyes, indifferent to the callousness in his words.

Your palms kiss and you aim for a lighthearted tone, “Stop being a dick. You’ll have me to yourself again soon enough”.

Dabi grunts and some of the tension is relieved from the atmosphere, his face thrown into stark relief by the sliver of moonlight flooding through your curtains. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels the after aches of childhood—if the hollow inside him felt that much deeper now that Touya was out here, safe in your arms—and suddenly holding his hand is not enough.

You entangle your legs and distract yourself with the feel of his boney ankle. Some things are better left unknown, you reason. A mantra that encompasses your relationship. Better not pick and prod. You’ve done quite enough of it already, more than you’re entitled to. Sometimes you worry that one day you’ll unravel the wrong thread and he’ll never stop bleeding.

Touya clutches tighter to your shirt. Kicks a tiny foot against your pelvis in protest of the movement, surprisingly hard. Dabi snickers at your restrained groan. “Guess you’ve always been a restless sleeper”.

“That's what you get for giving him my spot,” Dabi says, the beginnings of a smile in his voice. “Was worse when I was a kid”.

“Clearly. A fly could sneeze and wake you up,” you remove the heel from your stomach and let it tangle with the blankets. Touya suddenly flips onto his back, arm cast out toward Dabi, not far from smacking him in the face. “Atleast he feels safe, I suppose”.

The night settles, your apartment alongside it. Walls quietly groan as the wind picks up a fraction. “We should take him somewhere tomorrow,” you think aloud, staring at the hairline fracture in the ceiling. “The arcade, maybe?”

“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Dabi’s voice is lower, muffled, and a quick sidelong glance confirms that his mouth is half squashed into the pillow, fatigue starting to weigh on him. “Don’t even have clothes for him”.

“Kano-san might let us borrow some,” you offer tiredly. Though your neighbour's four children were all over five years old you had no doubt she kept hand-me-downs. “It’s not fair to just keep him holed up til he disappears”.

“I refuse…” Dabi mumbled. You snort, resting your chin on Touya’s crown, swaddled by warmth. Shadows creep in and blur the edges of your vision. You’re gently coaxed into sleep, final thoughts being the hope that Dabi would still be there tomorrow.

What you receive is far more. Where soft moonlight once drifted in through the cracks, harsh sun is striking through the dim room, right against your closed eyes. You flinch away from it, turning into your pillow. Half-awake, you aren’t quite in and not quite outside yourself, but you are conscious enough to hear Dabi laugh at your displeasure.

The weight in your arms is gone. Pawing at the yawning emptiness, you abruptly sit up and whip your eyes around the room. They land on Dabi, who is laid on his back and surrendering to his current predicament. He pointedly avoids acknowledging it.

Time stretches thinly as you take in the scene. At some point in the night, Touya had made his way over to Dabi and laid himself on top of him. Chubby cheek squished to Dabi’s sternum, lashes fluttering as he dreams. Fleeting, you consider that he may be trying to crawl right back into him.

“G’morning,” you sigh, blood rushing to your limbs as you contort and stretch. Unable to resist, you shuffle across the futon and press yourself to Dabi’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You tilt your head up to find Dabi looking down at you. “Kiss?”

“Your breath stinks,” but he kisses you anyway. His own is hardly better. You nip at his lip, licking over the faint sting and drawing back before he can reciprocate.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” his hands gesture toward the lump on his chest, “until this shit happened”.

“Now he’s taken my spot”. You could point out that Dabi had every opportunity to move the boy through the night, or however long he’d been there, but didn't. “Though it makes sense he’d want to be near you”.

“He doesn’t want anything. He’s not real,” Dabi drawls. He’s betrayed by the arm that supports Touya from beneath as he sits up exceedingly slowly, the other holding the back of his head. Dabi pivots the small figure into his lap, acting like a cradle.

Limbs akimbo, Touya lies on his back, mouth open and ribs expanding with each breath. His clothes are askew. Shirt ridden up his round belly, loose pants bunched up at the knees. To your relief the burn marks look no worse than the day before.

“Even though his body isn’t suited to his quirk, he still…” your voice is but a murmur as you sit up to trace a fingertip over the swell of his pink cheek. “He’s a very brave little boy”

Dabi held the toddler delicately in his arms, a fraction away from his body, and paled whenever he stirred a little. You see how his pupils soften, tension seeping from his shoulders bit by bit. “Or maybe he’s just stupid," he rasps.

“Well, many heroes are both of those things,” you offer, mouth curling as you hold Dabi’s half lidded gaze. His mouth presses thin so as not to give you the satisfaction of making him smile. When your attention returns to Touya an unfamiliar quietude comes over you.

“Last night,” Dabi starts. “I left because I thought it would be harder”.

You pause, peering up from the little boy curled in his lap. “To what?”

“Not to hurt the kid,” he says, quietly. “Or you”.

Then Touya sputters a first, clean breath, breaking into a drawn out sob that drags you from processing what that could mean. Dabi grows tense and your hand flutters across Touya, rubbing over his chest as you coo and hush. The louder he cries the stronger the tremor in Dabi’s hand becomes.

“There there, little guy. We’re right here,” you slip an arm around Dabi’s back, and suddenly your murmurings begin to soothe Touya’s distress. Red rimmed eyes squint up at you. “Did you have a nightmare, buddy?”

“Heroes—” Touya eventually hiccups and jolts. Frustrated he hits himself, face twisted in devastating anger. “Heroes don’t—have nightmares!”

You move to still his fists but Dabi beats you to it, fingers circling a pair of wrists and holding them firmly. “They will if I have anything to say about it,” he says.

“Really, Dabi,” you admonish, pursing your lips at him. He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out in response. Muffled giggling fills the room and you realise it’s coming from the bundle in his lap.

Dabi looks as if he’s been struck. A finger pokes at the skin above his puckered cheek. “Dabi made an ugly face,” Touya grins.

“Oh yeah?” Dabi growls and leans forward, spine bending uncomfortably just to get into the boy’s personal space. “Well I’ve got bad news for you, kid”.

Whatever the desired effect, Touya’s chime-like laughter only doubles, and while watching their interaction you feel warmth ignite behind your breastbone.

Not long after, you return from Kano-san’s upstairs apartment with a cotton sweater, discoloured patches sewn onto the elbows, and a pair of pants. They’re size five yet too big for Touya, so you roll them to the ankle. “How’s that?” you ask, getting to your feet. “It’s not itchy on your burns, is it?”

Touya wriggles. You’ve come to learn that he really can’t sit still, especially when you’re fussing. “No,” he says, flapping the sleeves that fall over his hands, silently asking that you roll those up too. “Where are we going? I want to train!”

“No training inside. You’re going to set off my fire alarm,” you reply, absentminded as your fingers gently fold back the shirtsleeves to his wrist. “And we’re going to try the arcades first. You can beat Dabi at all the games”.

“Yeah!”

“Fat chance,” Dabi calls from the bathroom. Light footsteps echo through the hallway and his voice grows louder. “We’re not going anywhere near Musutafu,” he adds, shucking on his dried black coat over a plain t-shirt and jeans that may as well have been painted on his legs. He pulls something out from his pocket and throws it, “Put that on him to be safe”.

You catch the lump one handed, bringing it down to inspect it. A beanie hat. “Is that really necessary?” you murmur, releasing your grasp when Touya decides he wants the hat for himself and stretches it haphazardly over his head.

Dabi rounds the couch and hooks his chin over your shoulder, watching the kid struggle. “Can’t have him being recognised…” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching at a thought that suddenly crosses his mind. “Or maybe we should. Hey, kid,” Touya’s head whirls around the room in search of Dabi, vision blocked by the beanie. He pushes it up above his eyebrows, periwinkle eyes peeking beneath.

“Wanna go to my old house and scare someone?”

Touya’s lips thin and his nose crinkles, managing to look down at Dabi despite being so much shorter. “Heroes aren’t ‘posed to scare people,” he argued.

“Whatever. This guy isn’t good,” Dabi huffs, wincing at the click in his knees as he crouches in front of the boy to fix the hat seam, and Touya positively preens under Dabi’s direct attention. “This guy hurts people. Hurts his family. Probably deserves it, right?”

You watch in disbelief as Touya hums and begins to consider it. “Okay that’s enough,” you circle and coax them toward the genkan. “We aren’t scaring anyone. We are going to the arcade and we’re not going to cause trouble. Yes?”

Dabi and Touya share a long, knowing look. You can’t say you’re unhappy that they’re connecting—they’re unbearably cute when standing side by side, dithering as you slip on your shoes. “Yes?” you repeat yourself with more emphasis.

They nod in tandem.

“Good. Now who is holding my hand?”

Daylight feeds in through the sparse grey clouds, upper wind guiding them east where they darken, likely raining over another part of the city. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. A couple smile at you as they pass. It is rare for anyone to glance your way when Dabi’s at your side. He knows the image he projects and he likes it that way. But today, with Touya in the middle holding one of each hand, you paint a far lovelier picture.

You think you must look like a family on the outside. It’s nothing you ever imagined for yourself. Especially not with Dabi, who was seemingly hell bent on getting himself arrested, or killed, in his spare time—not that you knew the finer details, but you weren’t dense.

“I can feel your street cred depleting,” you quietly tease as you stop at a pedestrian crossing, bridging the gap while Touya is preoccupied with counting down until the red man turns green. “Uncle Dabi”.

Dabi’s upper lip curls and he lurches half a step, as if to attack you, and you pull away laughing.

Your neighbourhood doesn’t see much in the way of funding, or heroes, and that truth is reflected in the surroundings. Buildings half constructed, shutters down, people lingering on the streets. Touya presses a hairsbreadth closer to Dabi, sensing how eyes turn to him, and you catch the way Dabi squeezes his small hand in response.

“Scared?”

Touya straightens, “No!”

Dabi snorts, “Thought not”.

The arcade isn’t far. Well beyond its years, an old musk clings to the carpets despite the open windows. Light bulbs flicker here and there. You can taste electricity buzzing in the air. The machines are outdated, but they work. High pitched, quick paced music paces from all directions. If you had to, you'd describe it as the embodiment of sensory overload.

As luck would have it Touya recognises most of the games, having been released around his time. He steps on your shoes to watch raptly while you try to win him a prize on the claw machines, and he kneels at your feet to steal any ticket away before you can grab them.

He frees himself of your grip the moment he spots Crimson Fighter. You sidle up beside Dabi as if to shield from it all. His knuckles brush the back of your hand and you smile to yourself. So starved for affection yet so intensely humiliated by it—that and the fact that he cannot seem to let Touya out of his sight, only a few feet away.

You loosely entwine your fingers and he relaxes. “Not gonna play another round with him?”

“Why don’t you?”

In that instant you hear the repeated call of your name. Touya bounces from left to right, waving you over. “Look at me! Come watch!” he beams. “Look at me, I can win!”

Dabi’s fingers flex, tighten, digging crescent moons into your knuckles. You shoot him a worried glance but the light in his eyes has dimmed once again, and you tug him over towards Touya like a kite on a string, keeping him tethered until he returns from whatever memory he’s lost in.

“I’m looking, I'm looking,” you titter, standing behind him and tilting to watch the screen. Dabi’s presence lingers. Your heart pangs when Touya stands on the tips of his toes to reach the controls. He picks the Endeavor avatar and the game opens up onto a floating platform, All Might standing at the other end.

“Fight!” Touya whispers in sync with the narrator, mashing all the buttons without direction or strategy. He clicks and clicks and clicks until Endeavor’s quirk bar is maxed out and he releases; pixelated flames burst across the screen, doing significant damage to All Might but not enough—and too much to himself. The Endeavor avatar drops to his knees, overcome by dehydration and exhaustion, defeated by his own flame.

Apparently brought back to the present, Dabi laughs.

“No…” Touya’s eyes grow round in disbelief and then harden. He kicks the machine with as much force as he can muster. Before he can do it again you’ve wrapped an arm under his armpits and herded him outside. “Let go!”

“Absolutely not,” you grasp his elbows and settle on your haunches. Touya turns his head away from you in dramatic fashion. “That isn’t okay. These games belong to someone else. They’re not yours to damage”.

“Shouldn’t’a picked Endeavor,” Dabi remarks.

Your neck aches as it snaps up to glare at him. “Not helping,” you hiss through gritted teeth. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender and you inhale until your lungs feel tight. Exhale.

Touya has fallen suspiciously quiet, chin tucked to his chest, and thankfully nobody inside noticed his brief outburst. “Hey,” gently, you run your palms along his shoulders. “Talk to me, kiddo. I promise you’re not in big trouble”.

Your ears pick up fragmented parts of his mumbling, “Lost… M’weak… Endeavor… stronger… not ‘posed to lose”. Something about his reaction is both fragile and momentous, and with Dabi nearby your instincts are telling you to tread carefully.

“Hey, listen to me. I don’t know much but I do know you’re not weak,” you begin to smooth down his sweater, and fiddle with the seam of his beanie while you talk—fretting, admittedly, and determined to wipe the heartbreak off his face. “You’re the strongest little dude I know”.

Touya sniffs, unconvinced. He waddles further into your embrace and you take it as a win “Gotta be stronger than All Might”.

“One day you could be,” you reason, gathering him against your front and hoisting him up as his legs wrap around your waist. A firm body stands behind you. Dabi is closer than anticipated and you falter, meeting his half lidded eyes. Reality stomps over the little charade you’ve created—recalling that the boy in your arms, so desperate to reach the pinnacle of heroics, will one day be Dabi, the self proclaimed villain.

“Y’know, even All Might didn’t become the number one hero until he was twenty,” you tuck a wayward curl back into Touya’s beanie and use your sleeve to wipe his damp cheeks. “He had to learn to control his quirk and get through hero school, just like you will. It takes time”.

“R—really…?” you’d be remiss not to notice the hope in his voice as he fists at his sweater, stretching the fabric further. “But I need to be strong now,” he insists thickly, a fresh round of tears at his waterline.

Dabi steps closer as more people pass by, nudging you into a dead end alley. There’s heat emanating from his skin, making ripples in the air. You hold his gaze with purpose, turning until Touya is once again enveloped by your bodies, and the boy instinctively reaches for his adult counterpart.

“You are strong,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to Touya’s temple. “Wanna know what Dabi and I were talking about while you were sleeping this morning?”

Touya’s mouth quivers, sneaking a furtive glance. He nods. You narrow your eyes at Dabi, try to tell him that this could be it, and he relents, accepting the weight as it is passed to him.

Touya settles in his arms. “We…” Dabi’s jaw ticks. There’s a depression in his cheek where the inner flesh is held between teeth. “We said that you’re brave”.

You circle your arms around his middle, around Touya, and rest your cheek on his shoulder. Touya blinks in awe. “Brave?”

“Brave for trying so hard to reach your goal,” Dabi continues. The harsh edge to his voice has puttered out into melancholy. “Even when it hurts. Especially then”.

“I am?”

“You are,” you murmur, cradling the back of Touya’s head. There’s an odd sheen to his skin. Translucent, almost. Your heart jolts. The quirk was wearing off. Conflicting emotions swell in your chest, leaving you torn. “That takes courage. I heard heroes have that in spades”.

Eyes bright and wide, undoubtedly that of a child, Touya looks at Dabi, and Dabi looks back. “You’d be one of the good ones, kid,” he rasps. It comes like pulling teeth but he means it, and Touya must know—the quirk must hear the sincerity, because the little boy beams and the air tastes sharp. He lights up, eyes first, like dusk catching on stained glass windows, robin egg blue overcast with shades of pink, heat suffusing through his bones until—

Your fingers enclose around the limp fabric of Touya’s beanie. Dabi shudders an exhale. The patched sweater falls limp over his crossed arms.

“That… worked?”

Dabi’s mouth opens and closes, lips shaping around words he doesn’t know how to say. You cannot read his expression at all. You yourself can hardly register Touya’s absence, left like a bruise that you just know is going to start aching the second the adrenaline wears off.

“I guess it did,” he finally agrees, quietly. Not quite whispered, but his voice carried no strength. Through the discomfit cuts an abrupt, shrill beep. Dabi swallows, and after pulling out his phone his expression sours.

“Who is it?”

“An associate,” he says, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Another blatant cover that you know better than to peel back. “…He wants me to meet his new colleagues. He thinks I’ll work well with them”.

“Do you need to go now, or…?” your skin prickles with unease, leaning into him as close and psychics would allow, not wanting to part with him.

“Think you’ll miss him?” Dabi asks instead, bordering on hesitation. Your head tilts at the sudden change in topic. His gaze dips low to avoid yours. You rest your hand over his chest. His heart beats against your palm, hard and steady. You wonder what, if anything, Touya’s time here might’ve changed.

“I don’t have to,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. “He’s right in here”.

Dabi hums in that way he often does when he thinks you’re being ridiculous. Your thumb moves back and forth, shifting the fabric of his shirt. “…He deserved better,” you say, heedless of the cold determination setting into Dabi’s bones. And later, despite being the truth, you would come to regret voicing it.

He looks back at the message on his phone, typing out a reply with his screen tilted away from prying eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters.

“He did”.

[lionneee]

Little Princess

English is not my first language, please be kind

Masterlist

Taglist

•Warnings: taking of sexual themes, drinking, smoking, smut, age difference.•

Previous part <- Current part

Modern!Father’s!Best!Friend!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Aemond didn’t know why he did that.

He also didn’t expect to feel such a bastard for turning you down for your own good.

He sighed and rubbed his temple as he took another sip of his bourbon.

He was tired.

He groaned loudly as he heard the doorbell ring, and he got out of his office to see who was here to annoy him.

He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Please don’t be here again.

“Alys.” His voice was a grunt of surprise, his expression pure annoyance. “If you’re here to fuck, it won’t happen.”

He grunted as he turned his back at her and walked deeper in the house, leaving the door open for her.

“I’m not here for that. We’ve already done it after breaking up.” She smirked at her own teasing as she followed him inside. “I’m here to talk.”

“Not in the mood for that too.” He said as he grabbed another glass, and filled it with some other alcohol.

He didn’t even care what he drank, he didn’t even look.

It could have been bleach and he would have been fine with that.

“You messed up.” She stated as she moved closer, grabbing the same bottle he poured and read the label. “And since you’re drinking when it’s ten in the morning, I suppose you don’t even know how to fix it.” She put down the bottle and walked to his couch, sitting down and lighting herself a cigarette.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He hummed as he took another sip of his drink, the alcohol burning his throat, but he accepted the pain like it was his medicine. “And I’ve already fixed it.” He added, looking back at her.

She raised her pack of cigarettes and he sighed, taking one.

“You think that rejecting the daughter of your best friend after fucking her in secret will fix it?” She raised her eyebrow, looking at his deliveshed appearance as she took a puff of her cigarette.

Messy air, like someone that had passed his hands in them too much, and some sweater suit, that she knew he reserved only for moments when he felt like disappearing from the world.

“I think I have less problems now.” He said as he smoked.

“Do you?”

“Why are you here, Alys?” He sighed, feeling more annoyed than anything. She pressed her lips together and turned her head to the side.

“Me and Criston are together.” She said.

Aemond looked at her.

Her and Criston.

He couldn’t help but start laughing.

It was ridiculous just the idea, they were too different.

She cared too much about appearance, and looking perfect, too active in the nights for Criston.

Criston just wanted to settle and relax.

Criston just wanted to raise his daughter with Dayana, and have a happy life.

Aemond rubbed his temples with his fingers as he felt a headache coming just at the thought of how he fucked up his life.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Alys hissed at him, turning her eyes back at him.

“Yeah, well, you knew how I was when you fell in love with me.” He answered back, looking up at her.

She clenched her jaw and stood up, fixing her skirt, as Aemond simply watched her.

“You know losing an eye doesn’t give you the right to be a bastard your whole life, right?”

Aemond glared daggers at her, but she simply stared back, then she walked out of his house.

Aemond walked in the kitchen and threw the cigarette in the sink, then clenched his hands into fists, so much that the glass broke in his hand, cutting his skin.

He hissed in pain and opened his hand, letting the shards of the glass fall in the sink.

“Fuck.”

You kept jumping your leg up and down nervously as you sat at the table with your father.

“I never wanted to disappoint you.” You sobbed. “I swear, dad, I love you! I-I am so grateful for everything you gave me, the life you provided me-“ You stopped yourself as you sobbed. “I never wanted to hurt you.” You bit your lip as you looked at your father, as he clasped his hands together over the table.

“I know, kid, I know.” He sighed. “It was…” He looked away for a moment, shaking his head. “Terrifying, seeing you in your bed with… with Aemond.” He growled his name.

Even hearing his name pained you.

“I-I thought…” You took a deep breath. “I thought we loved each other.” You looked away too. “It was stupid.” You said then, realizing how lame it sounded.

“It’s not stupid to love someone, kid.” Your father said firmly, slowly, making sure you would understand his words. 

“Its stupid to love Aemond.” She said, looking up at him. 

The side of your fathers mouth twitched, an amused smile spreading on his face.

“Yeah, don’t tell me about it. He’s my best friend, remember?” He humoured. You smiled too, nodding.

“Yeah, I remember.” You leaned forward on the table, looking back at him. “Do you forgive me?” You asked with a trembling voice, looking at him, your eyes full of hope and regret.

“I do, kid.” He leaned forward too, covering your hands with his. “I… I have something to tell you too…” He admitted.

You furrowed your brows, curious of what he had to say.

“You killed my cactus?” You smiled, making him chuckle.

“No, no, even if sometimes I think it moves on itself only to sting me.” He sighed with a smile.

“No, it’s about me… and Alys.” He said, looking closely at your reaction.

“Alys?” A shiver ran down your body, jealousy spreading in your chest as you remembered when Aemond brought her home.

“Yes, me and her…” He blushed a bit as he tried to contain a bigger smile. “We are… a couple. I like her a lot.”

“What?” You were stunned. “I-I thought… she and Aemond had… something.” You stuttered.

“No, I mean, yes, but it was a long time ago.” He squeezed her hands. “It happened so suddenly, I wasn’t even looking for someone… After your mother, I thought I would never know love again.” He smiled to himself. “But she… she is beautiful, strong, independent and beautiful…”

“Yeah, you said that.” You smiled and your father chuckled. “It’s okay dad. I’m happy if you’re happy.” You nodded and he smiled at you.

“Come here, kid.” He stood up and walked to you, you quickly stood as well too, melting in his embrace, snuggling your face in his chest.

“I love you.” He kissed the top of your head.

“I love you too.”

Aemond stood by the window after Alys left, his mind spiraling back to the chaos he had caused. He had thought pushing you away would save everyone pain, but he felt emptier than ever. Criston had warned him, time and again, that you were off-limits, that messing with his best friend’s daughter would only lead to disaster. Yet Aemond hadn’t listened.

His phone buzzed on the counter. Hesitant, he picked it up and saw Criston’s name flash across the screen. The message was brief but filled with fury:

«We need to talk. Now.»

Aemond knew this conversation had been brewing since the moment he’d crossed that line with you. There was no more avoiding it. He slipped on a jacket and left the house, the knot in his chest tightening with every step towards the bar where he, Criston and Dyana would spend most of their evenings and nights when they were young.

When he arrived at the doorstep, he paused, he saw Criston sat at the counter with a drink in front of him, eyes down. He sighed and walked in, sitting beside him, giving the bartender a nod to have the same drink his friend had. When he turned to Criston, his face was set in a cold, unreadable expression, but his eyes betrayed him. Anger simmered beneath the surface, barely restrained.

Criston took a sip of his drink and turned to face him. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was low but trembling with restrained fury. “You were supposed to be her goddamn protector, Aemond. You were supposed to keep her safe, not… not use her.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Aemond immediately corrected him, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He knew they wouldn’t ease Criston’s anger.

Criston scoffed, shaking his head, trying to contain his rage. “What was it, then? You seduced her, slept with her, and then what? Tossed her aside like she meant nothing? She’s my daughter, Aemond!” His voice cracked, and the pain in it hit Aemond harder than any physical blow.

Aemond ran a hand through his hair, unsure of what to say. “I tried to end it more times than you think.” He shook his head. “But… she is… she’s just…” He sighed. “It wasn’t easy.”

Because I wanted to fuck her every time I saw her.

Because I’m sick, and the same woman I saw grow up, I end up fuck too.

Criston’s eyes flashed, his hands clenched into fists. 

Criston leaned back, staring at Aemond with a look that was a mix of anger, disappointment, and something deeper, something more broken. “I trusted you with her, Aemond. I trusted you like a brother. But after this…” He sighed, shaking his head again. “I don’t know if we can ever go back to how things were. Not after what you did.”

Aemond’s chest tightened at those words, the weight of them crushing him. He knew this was the cost of his actions, but hearing it from Criston himself made the loss all too real. He hadn’t just lost you, he’d lost the only family he had left outside of his own blood.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond said quietly, though he knew the words would do little to ease the hurt.

Criston stood, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of their conversation had finally taken its toll. He looked down at Aemond, his face hardened with resolve. “You’re not the one who needs to hear that apology, Aemond. She is. You’re going to talk to her, and you’re going to explain yourself. “ He sighed. “Do you even love her?”

Aemond froze at Criston’s question, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t expected to be asked outright if he loved you. But there it was, hanging in the air between them like a sword poised to fall.

Did he love you? He didn’t know if he even understood what love meant anymore. He’d been drawn to you in ways that terrified him, ways that made him feel like he was drowning every time he was near you. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop wanting you, hadn’t been able to stay away despite knowing how wrong it was. But love?

“I…” Aemond began, his voice faltering as he searched for the right words. He wanted to lie, to say that it had meant nothing, that he could walk away without looking back. But that would be a lie, one Criston would see through immediately. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if it was love… or if it was just… something else.”

Criston’s face twisted with disgust at his hesitation, his fists clenching tighter. “Something else? Something else?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You mean lust. That’s all it was to you, wasn’t it?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, shame burning through him. He didn’t have an answer that would satisfy Criston. He wasn’t even sure he had one for himself. All he knew was that the pull he felt toward you had consumed him in ways he hadn’t expected, and now, everything had crumbled because of it.

Criston shook his head in disbelief, the pain and betrayal etched deep in his features. “She’s not just some conquest, Aemond. She’s my daughter. She trusted you, and you… you broke her heart.”

Aemond’s throat tightened, the guilt threatening to choke him. He could see the depth of Criston’s hurt, could feel the weight of his own actions pressing down on him like a vice. He had betrayed the one person who had always stood by him, and for what? A momentary lapse in judgment? A desire he couldn’t control?

“I didn’t want this to happen,” Aemond said, his voice raw with regret. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far. But once it did… I couldn’t stop.”

Criston’s gaze hardened, his hands trembling with barely restrained fury. “You could have stopped,” he spat. “You should have stopped. You had a choice, Aemond. And you chose her. You chose to betray me.”

Aemond’s chest ached at those words, the truth of them cutting deeper than he’d anticipated. He had chosen you, again and again, despite knowing it would destroy everything. And now, the price of that choice was staring him in the face.

“I know I can’t fix this,” Aemond said quietly. “I know I can’t undo what I’ve done. But I will talk to her. I’ll tell her the truth. She deserves that much.”

Criston’s expression remained cold, unyielding. “You’re damn right she deserves the truth. But don’t expect her to forgive you. Don’t expect me to forgive you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, accepting the reality of the situation. He didn’t expect forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it.

Criston took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of their conversation seemed to settle over him. “You’ve lost me, Aemond,” he said softly, his voice laced with sadness. “But more than that, you’ve lost her. And I hope, for your sake, you understand what that really means. You stay away from her.”

Aemond watched in silence as Criston stood up and walked out of the bar, leaving him alone with the echo of those final words. The emptiness that followed was suffocating.

And for the first time in his life, Aemond wasn’t sure if he could live with the consequences of what he’d done.

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[beansprean]

Familiar interviews continue...

My Familiar’s Ghost part 82

Masterpost Masterpost 2

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Upholstered chair on a mottled brown background. Sitting on it is a tall thin white man with short blond hair and a goatee, wearing a light blue leopard print suit over a white vee neck with white heeled boots and a chunky pinkie ring. He is lounging confidently, legs crossed, one hand poised up in the air as he says smugly, 'I graduated top of my class at New York Familiar College.'

2a. Reverse shot, waist up of Nandor and Guillermo sitting on the couch opposite. Nandor brightens and replies, 'Really? That is very impressive...' Guillermo glares at the applicant suspiciously, arms crossed and finger tapping rapidly. 2b. Reverse shot of the man on the chair as a stream of water sprays in from offscreen and hits him in the cheek. It burns and steams where it hits his skin and the man shrieks, rocking back and pulling his legs up from the floor in shock. His disguise immediately poofs away to reveal none other than... Simon The Devious! 2c. Reverse shot, full body, of Nandor sitting at one end of the couch, clipboard in his lap, as Simon rushes past and out the door, hissing and smoking. Guillermo has leapt up from his seat and is posed with feet shoulder width apart, holding a spray bottle in both hands like a pistol and pointing it at Simon's retreating back. He shouts after him, 'Get out of here, Simon! You're not welcome!' Nandor shrinks back against the couch to stay out of the line of fire.

3. Back on the chair, now featuring Sean, who is hoisting himself out of it by the armrests with a confused expression. He mutters, 'I was just, uh... lookin' for the bathroom...'

4. Reverse shot waist up of Nandor and Guillermo on the couch. Guillermo is slumped in fatigue, eyes closed, briefly removing his glasses as he groans, 'You live next door, Sean...' Nandor cups his hand around his mouth and turns toward the hall, calling out, 'Laszlo! Come collect your friend, please!'

5. Close up of Guillermo's clipboard, which has a few handwritten pages clamped onto it. The top page is divided in half by a line of ink, the left side labeled 'Applicant' and the right side labeled 'Recommended by'. Every line has been crossed out in red ink. The list of prospective familiars includes: Clara Tran, John Merkt (recommended by Nancy the Relentless), Farrah Baker, Sarah Colleton-Hampstead (recommended by Pamela), Kayvan Novak (recommended by Nancy the Relentless), Sky Velasquez, Marshall Vu (recommended by Elvis), Devon Simmons II (recommended by ???) scribbled out more than the others, Katie Blum (recommended by Greg Blum), and Muhammad S- before the panel cuts off. From offscreen, Nandor calls out, 'Thank you for your time; we will be in touch. Please do not get eaten on the way out. Next!'

6. Back to the chair, this time with Sam the cat sitting in it and letting out a polite mew. From off screen, Guillermo says, 'Well, that's disappointing to hear, Sam.'

7. Reverse shot, full body of Nandor and Guillermo on the couch as Sam walks toward the door, tail held high. Nandor is slumped toward the center of the couch, head propped up on his hand and clipboard abandoned at his side. Guillermo, clipboard in hand, waves after Sam with an awkward smile and says, 'Good luck at your new position! And let us know if anything changes?' Sam meows in reply. /End ID

[lavendermin]

Kindergarten teacher reader attempt at sending nudes but it's not fully nudes but gradually ykwim??? At first it was just a shy tease....like showing cleavage or collar (and jing yuan is seated, almost busted even) and then gradually increasing to hips until she showed him her in lingerie AND THEN FULL BLOWN TITS and jing yuan is losing his mind, he can't stop thinking about it that he burned breakfast, even almost recklessly driving to the kindergarten parking (yanqing is praying for their lives)

Also if you don't mind I can be 🦭 anon thee

🦭 anon your brain is massive massive. Dining finely on this concept like it’s a tender steak with a fine wine. Mwah mwah

Jing Yuan would almost find it rather endearing and coquette of you to send such modest (in his humble opinion) temptress pics. The modest cleavage shot to get his heart racing after a board meeting. Cute and stunning and makes his day (and his heart flutter).

cw | mentions of nudity, suggestive

You’re almost setting up a false sense of security that you wouldn’t send him risqué pics. Because why would such a sweet teacher do that? (Honestly the idea itself turns him on a bit) And it’s not like you would ever do that during working hours (yours) but weekends are a nice little treat when you’re a little hot and bothered and feeling somewhat bold. That little bit of liquid courage has you bite the bullet and send that cute pic of you in your little black dress at a bar with friends with a low sweetheart neckline.

Needless to say even that makes Jing Yuan almost burn dinner he’s cooking. (Poor Yanqing has to be like baba the food is making a cloud of smoke.) Unexpected, is what he would label it. But not unwelcome. He’s more in awe that you would send these. Perhaps a bit of corruption on his part? Who can say.

He’s at a bar after work with some colleagues when you first send that pic with a lingerie set and your arm modestly holding up your tits where the lace would leave too much to the prying eyes. His neck feels hot and he quickly has to lock his phone and excuse himself from the table. Fu Xuan only quirks a brow, unimpressed and perhaps a little annoyed at his antics. She’s well aware her boss and long time acquaintance is a fool in love right now. As long as it doesn’t create a PR nightmare she’ll turn a blind eye. That old man needs spice in his dry life.

Jing Yuan locks the bathroom door, letting out a pained sigh at the uncomfortable heat coursing through his body. But he’s nothing if not a man with a man’s brain, so he foolishly opens his texts again to get another look at the picture.

11:34PM [Yanqing’s Hot Teacher] sent an attachment.

11:35PM [Yanqing’s Hot Teacher] maybe you’d like it

11:43PM [Jing Yuan] I’d consider myself a fool if I didn’t appreciate all that you wear.

11:49PM [Yanqing’s Hot Teacher] sent an attachment.

11:49PM [Yanqing’s Hot Teacher] And what about what I don’t wear?

And oh. Oh. That’s a picture of your bare tits. Jing Yuan is lucky he’s still in the bathroom when you send that because his slacks are uncomfortably tight right now. You’re going to take years off his life at this point because he’s stuck at this company outing instead of being able to call a cab to your place right now.

Have mercy on this poor old man’s heart, will you?