#for now I’m just trying to get used to drawing on the regular

[virmire]

a shadowheart for everyone!

[strohller27]

.

[deansbeer]

making a request appropriately instead of screaming in our messages on discord 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ pls indulge my jason heart with the “current boyfriend” tiktok trend bc i know mans would not be impressed

anything for you, wifey <3 he’d be so offended that you even thought to say it to him and to make matters worse, in front of the camera 😭

warnings 𓏵 smut | fluff | jealous!jason | spanking | rough wall sex | possessive!jason | unprotected sex (use the damn rubber) | latina!reader | pet names (baby, bebita, mami, corazón, mi vida, mi amor).

you’ve been scrolling through tiktok for the past hour, curled up on the couch in your apartment while jason’s in the kitchen cooking breakfast. the smell of whatever he’s cooking — something with garlic and onions that makes your stomach growl — wafts through the space. you come across another one of those “current boyfriend” videos and can’t help but grin.

the trend is everywhere lately, girlfriends filming their boyfriends’ reactions to being called their “current” partner instead of just boyfriend or husband. some guys laugh it off, others get adorably confused, and a few get genuinely offended.

“jay,” you call out, already pulling up the camera on your phone. “come here for a second!” you hear him turn off the stove, probably giving whatever’s in the pan one last stir before making his way over. he appears in the doorway wiping his hands on a dish towel, looking unfairly good in just sweatpants and one of his tight compression t-shirts that stretches across his chest.

“what’s up, mami?” he asks, that little smirk playing at his lips when he sees you with your phone out. “if this is another one of those videos where you try to catch me off guard...” he’s gotten used to your tiktok antics by now, everything from rating his red hood gear to filming his reactions to celebrity thirst traps. he usually plays along, even if he pretends to be annoyed.

“no, no, nothing like that,” you lie smoothly, patting the spot next to you. “just want to show my followers what you made for breakfast. you know they love when you cook.” it’s true — the comments always go crazy when jason appears in your videos, especially when he’s doing something domestic. who knew the notorious red hood would have such a dedicated fanbase of people thirsting over him making pasta?

he eyes you suspiciously but comes over anyway, dropping onto the couch beside you. his arm automatically goes around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “you’re up to something,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling. “i know that look of yours, baby.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say innocently, adjusting your phone to get both of you in frame. “just smile for the camera.” you hit record before he can protest further, turning slightly to make sure the lighting is good. jason just shakes his head but doesn’t move away, fingers playing with the ends of your hair absently.

“hi guys!” you start brightly, using your regular tiktok voice. “so i’m here with my current boyfriend—” the change in jason is immediate. his hand stills in your hair and you feel him tense beside you. his eyebrows draw together in confusion as he turns to look at you fully.

“current?” he repeats, voice dropping an octave. “the fuck you mean current?” the genuine bewilderment on his face is already making it hard not to laugh. you can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out what you’re playing at. “no. try again.” his tone is firm, that edge creeping in that usually only comes out when he’s in vigilante mode.

“okay, okay,” you concede, trying to keep your composure for the video. “this is my curre—” but jason cuts you off before you can even finish the word, his hand coming up to gently but firmly turn your face toward him.

“husband,” he corrects, eyes intense. “not current. forever. ‘til death do us part.” he pauses, seems to think about it, then shakes his head. “actually, no, even after death. you think i came back from the dead just to be called your ‘current’ boyfriend? absolutely not.”

the possessiveness in his voice makes your stomach flutter, even though you know you’re riling him up on purpose. “jay, we’re not married yet,” you point out, still filming. his eyes narrow dangerously, and you can practically see him calculating how fast he could get you to a courthouse.

“yet,” he emphasizes. “and that’s only because you said you wanted a proper wedding with your whole family there. otherwise, we’d have been married months ago.” his thumb strokes across your cheek, and despite his irritation, his touch is gentle. “but make no mistake, corazón, you’re mine. permanently. forever. in every universe. current implies temporary, and there’s nothing fucking temporary about us.”

“baby, it’s just a tiktok trend,” you try to explain, but he’s already shaking his head, pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. the angle is awkward for filming but you keep going because his reaction is pure gold.

“i don’t care if it’s a trend,” he says firmly. “you’re not my ‘current’ anything. fuck that. you’re my future wife, mother of my future kids, my everything. you’re it for me, mami. thought i made that clear when i put that ring on your finger.” he lifts your left hand where your engagement ring catches the light, a vintage piece he’d tracked down because you’d mentioned once that you loved art deco designs.

“you’re being very dramatic about this,” you tease, but your voice comes out softer than intended because the way he’s looking at you makes your heart race. even after two years together, he still has this effect on you. “the people in the comments are going to have a field day with this.”

“let ‘em,” jason says, addressing the camera directly now. “let everybody know. this is my fiancée. my future wife. my forever. not my ‘current’ anything.” he turns back to you, and there’s something vulnerable mixed with the possessiveness in his eyes. “you know i don’t do anything halfway, right? especially not this. especially not us.”

you stop recording because the moment feels too intimate suddenly, too real for social media. “i know, jay,” you say softly, setting your phone aside to cup his face properly. “i know. it was just supposed to be a funny video. i didn’t mean to upset you.” the last thing you wanted was to actually make him feel insecure about your relationship.

“i’m not upset, baby girl,” he says, but his jaw is still tense. “just... that word. current. like you’re planning on trading me in for a newer model or something.” he pulls you fully into his lap now, arms wrapping around your waist. “i know it’s stupid, but after everything we’ve been through to get here..”

you know what he means. the long road from friends to lovers, complicated by his night job and his resurrection trauma. the fights in the beginning when he tried to push you away, convinced he’d only bring danger to your life. the night he finally broke down and admitted he loved you, had loved you since before the joker took him away. the way you’d worked together to build something real and lasting despite all the obstacles.

“hey,” you say firmly, making him meet your eyes. “you’re it for me too, you know that right? mi amor, mi vida, my everything. forever.” you press your forehead to his, feeling him relax beneath you. “even if you weren’t literally too stubborn to stay dead, i’d find a way to keep you.”

that gets a real laugh out of him, the tension finally breaking. “yeah?” he asks, hands sliding up your back. “you’d what, make a deal with the devil? learn necromancy?” his tone is teasing now, back to normal, but his grip on you is still possessive.

“whatever it takes,” you confirm, stealing a quick kiss. “now, are you going to let me post that video or are you going to be grumpy about it all day?” you’re already reaching for your phone again but he catches your wrist gently.

“oh, you’re posting it,” he says with a grin that’s slightly dangerous. “want everyone to see exactly how not ‘current’ i am. and mami?" he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “you’re going to pay for that little stunt later.”

the promise in his voice sends heat straight to your core, and you have to clear your throat before you can speak. “is that a threat, todd?” you try for casual but your voice comes out breathier than intended. his grin widens because he knows exactly what he does to you.

“it’s a promise, bebita,” he confirms, giving you one more heated look before standing up with you still in his arms. “now c’mon, food’s getting cold. and you’re going to need your energy for later.” he sets you on your feet but keeps one arm around you as you both head to the kitchen, and you pretend not to notice how his hand has gotten significantly more possessive on your hip.

later that evening, you’re both back home after dinner at the wayne manor. the tiktok had blown up exactly like you’d expected, comments flooding in about how intense his reaction was, how lucky you were, how they needed someone to love them like that. jason had grumbled about it going viral, but you’d caught him reading comments with a satisfied smirk when he thought you weren’t looking.

“three million views,” you announce from the couch, scrolling through your phone while jason locks up. “and climbing. you might be my most viral video ever.” you’re grinning at your screen, reading through some of the funnier comments. “this one says ‘that man was ready to fight the concept of temporariness.’”

“damn right i was,” jason mutters, coming to stand behind the couch. his hands settle on your shoulders, but there’s tension in his grip. “still am. can’t believe you really posted that shit.” but you can see his reflection in your phone screen, and he’s fighting a smile. “my phone’s been blowing up all day. dick won’t stop sending me crying laughing emojis.”

“because it’s cute!” you defend, tilting your head back to look up at him. “you got all protective and possessive. the people love a man who knows what he wants.” you’re about to show him another comment when he plucks your phone from your hands, tossing it onto the coffee table. “jay!”

“i’ve been waiting for this all day,” he says, voice low as he rounds the couch. “every time someone commented about your ‘current boyfriend,’ i wanted to remind you exactly who you belong to.” he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the wall. “told you you’d pay for that lil’ stunt of yours.”

“jason,” you breathe, but you’re already getting wet from the look in his blue eyes alone. “what are you gonna do about it?” the challenge in your voice is deliberate, and you watch his eyes darken further.

“gonna show you,” he growls, hands already pushing up your skirt. “gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.” his lips crash into yours, the kiss all teeth and desperation. when he finds you’re not wearing panties, he groans against your mouth. “fuck, mami. you been walking around like this all day?”

“maybe,” you gasp as his fingers find your clit. “maybe i knew you’d need easy access when we got home.” your hands are working at his belt, desperate to free him. “maybe i wanted you to prove all those things you said in the video.”

“yeah?” the first slap to your ass makes you yelp, the sound echoing in the apartment. “that’s for calling me ‘current,’” he says against your ear. another slap, harder this time. “that’s for posting it.” a third that has you moaning his name. “and that’s for making me think about it all fuckin’ day.”

before you can respond, he’s spinning you around, pressing your chest against the wall. you hear his zipper and then he’s pushing into you in one smooth thrust. “this what you wanted?” he growls, setting a punishing pace immediately. “needed me to fuck you against the wall to prove you’re all mine?

“yes,” you cry out, not caring if the neighbors hear. “yours, only yours, always yours.” every thrust pushes you harder against the wall, and you have to brace yourself with your palms flat against it. “never anyone else, papi. you’re it.”

“damn straight,”, he grunts, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. “gonna marry you. put my last name on you. gonna make sure everyone knows you’re mine forever.” each word is punctuated by a thrust that has you seeing stars. “nothing temporary or current. just my wife.”

the possessiveness in his voice combined with the perfect angle has you coming embarrassingly fast, crying out his name as you clench around him. jason follows right after, holding you tight against him as he fills you up. you both stay there for a moment, catching your breath against the wall.

“feel better?” you ask eventually, turning in his arms to press soft kisses to his jaw. “got it all out of your system?” you’re teasing him, but there’s affection in your voice because you love how intense he gets about you.

“for now,” he says with a grin that promises this isn’s over. “but next time you wanna go viral, maybe pick a trend that doesn’t imply i’m replaceable.” he scoops you up suddenly, carrying you toward the bedroom. “because we both know that’s never happening.”

“never,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his neck. “you’re stuck with me forever, jason todd. even after death, remember?”

“especially after death,” he corrects, laying you on the bed with surprising gentleness after the roughness from moments before. “if i can come back once, i can do it again. you’re never getting rid of me, baby.”

you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[companioncute]

Syncopate my skin to your heart beating

Pairing: Mark Grayson (Invincible (2021)) x fem!girly!reader

Summary: Unlikely friendship, even more unlikely relationship… or is it?

Notes: hey divas… I am soooo bad at posting sorry :(( I get stuck on the nsfw part bc I honestly suck at writing it, but I see the differences in how my nsfw vs sfw posts do, so I guess I’ll be a sellout

Cw: making out, penetrative sex, reader is very stereotypically feminine, reader implied to be upper middle/upper class (or have a suspicious source of income? Up to interpretation), reader is a nerd at heart, reader described as able-bodied (can stand/walk), reader attends university, idiots in love, friends-with-benefits (?) to lovers

Tw: graphic descriptions of sex

From an outside perspective, sure, you and Mark Grayson are an odd pair of friends. By outward appearances, Mark is comic posters with frayed edges, wobbly vintage second-hand vinyl, collared shirts underneath sweaters his mom has bought for him, and windswept hair that not even the usual pound of hair gel he used could tame. You, on the other hand, are glittering tennis jewelry, style section, alabaster pink matelassé nappa leather, and lace-trimmed silk.

On the inside, however, you and Mark are one and the same… to some extent.

“Does it look weird on me?” You ask, your upper body twisted 180 degrees as you look at the back of your new skirt in the mirror. “Is it the slit? I’m not sure I have the legs for this.”

The embroidered sequins catch the light, causing a shimmering effect to draw attention to the pink mini skirt (though Mark would argue that it’s a micro skirt). Two chunky leather buckles clasp the item together at the front, buckled one hole up so that it hangs as ideally low on your hips as you desire.

“Where would you even wear that?” Mark asks, his cheeks flushed as his eyes trace the way the skirt digs into the fat of your hips. “Seems… impractical.”

“It’s cute,” you say with a shrug. “Do you not like it?”

“I— I love it,” he laugh nervously, giving you small grin. “Just not much of a fashion guy. I’m sure I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m trying to give, like, Sydney Sweeney for Miu Miu meets Lily-Rose Depp for Chanel,” you sigh, continuing to twist around yourself to look at the skirt.

“I’m not even going to pretend to know what that means,” Mark snorts, rolling his eyes as he return to the comic you’ve drawn his attention away from. “But… you look, um, good. Great. You always do.”

A part of you wants to tease him, to draw out that pretty flushed pink color on his face, but instead you simply smile.

“Thank you, Mark. That’s really sweet.”

“Yeah, um, don’t mention it,” he laughs softly, unable to look up at you.

You slip out of the skirt, uncaring for the way your lower half is only covered by a pink lace thong and a pair of scrunched-up white ribbed socks that dig into your upper calf.

Changing in front of each other is nothing new. Back when you’d barely grown out of being a toddler, the two of you would run naked around in his backyard while jumping over Debbie’s garden sprinkler system. The difference now is that you’re not children anymore and you certainly don’t look it either. The weight of adulthood is taxing on you both, shown both physically and mentally.

There’s a permanent crease etched into marks forehead, right between his brows. His jaw always looks a little more crooked than the last time you saw him, and whenever he needs to regrow his teeth, they don’t always assume the correct position.

He’s still beautiful.

You’re tired, too. Although you’re no Atlas like Mark, the responsibilities of your education and student assistant jobs and clubs are also taking their toll on you. You hide it well, your concealer always brightening the chronically dark circles around your eyes.

You unbutton your top as well and slip out of your bra before throwing on something more comfortable. A trusted staple; a pink negligée, trimmed with lace. You’re a regular Naomi Lapaglia.

Crawling into the plush pink sheets, you curl up in Mark’s arms.

“I missed you,” you murmur into his neck.

Mark slides the John Constantine, Hellblazer omnibus across your bedside table to wrap his strong arms around you tightly.

“Missed you more,” he replies, running his fingers down your spine.

Your room, your home, is his sanctuary (not that his own home isn’t, but yours is different). It’s just the two of you here, just you and Mark—not Invincible. He’s never Invincible here. Lines tend to blur and you’ll spend hours tangled up in each other only to still call it friendship later.

“Missed you most,” you say, smiling sweetly up at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers, fixing the morganite pendant of your necklace. His fingers are warm as they brush against your skin, holding onto the pale pink gem while sliding the hook on the chain onto the back of your neck.

“I’m not doing anything,” you whisper back, blinking heavily as you struggle to keep your eyes open. You’ve spent too many hours staring at a computer screen today.

Mark laugh softly, shaking his head.

“Liar.”

“Nuh-uh,” you murmur, grinning softly. Finely manicured nails scrape gently along his forearm, running over the fine layer of dark hair.

Mark only smiles, then leans down to kiss your forehead.

“Is this new?” You murmur, fingering the material of his shirt—a deep blue boxy t-shirt.

“Mhm,” he hum softly. “My mom got it for me.”

You chuckle softly.

“Debbie has good taste. Blue is your color.”

“Yeah?” He whispers, his breath hitching. It doesn’t matter whether or not it was before… blue is suddenly his favorite color. In fact, he might only wear blue from now on.

“Uh-huh,” you say, your nails carefully trickling down his chest. Your fingers dip under his shirt, splaying out against his abdomen. A sigh leaves you as you rest your head against his chest.

Mark tightens his grip on you, tugging the pink covers up over your shoulders.

“I love you,” he whispers; words he’s spoken many times before, yet never so tenderly. “You know that, right?”

“I love you, too,” you respond, angling your face up to look at him. “More than anything.”

“You can’t just say things like that,” he laughs quietly, his chest rumbling underneath you. His fingers run over your scalp, down your neck and spine again. “You’re gonna give a guy the wrong idea.”

“It’s different when it’s you,” you say, delicately tracing little hearts into the warm skin of his stomach.

It’s things like that which take Mark back to when he’d first introduced you to William, who had been all but bug-eyed at 17, staring at you with wonder. According to him, there was simply no way a girl like you had any reason to show interest in Mark other than to bully him. Then, within the first ten seconds of you opening your mouth, you’d begun gushing about William’s ‘cunty’ LEGO Batman: the video game (PS3) t-shirt which sent you off on a tangent about your chronic overuse of Poison Ivy’s toxic kiss back when you were eight years old, which, yeah, was totally a moment of self-discovery for you.

And then William got it, but Mark still finds himself mulling over his words.

Is he only good enough to be your friend (whom you may or may not kiss every once in a while)?

No. You’ve never made him feel less. If anything, his dorky personality and cringe one-liners only seem to make you adore him more.

“Does it have to be?” Mark asks softly, tapping his finger against the tip of your nose only to get some of your highlighter smudged onto the pad.

You tilt your head, laughing softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Just…” he begins, swiping his thumb across your cheekbone (much to your displeasure, as he always manages to smudge your otherwise perfect blush placement), “no, nothing. Forget it.”

You purse your lips (cutely, Mark notes), smacking your glossy pink lips as you sit up to straddle his lap. Routinely, Mark’s hands find your hips.

“Don’t give me that tone,” you say, raising a brow. “Defeated. Pathetic. Like nothing you have to say has any value.”

He sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s stupid,” Mark argues, his fingers dipping underneath the lace trim that lays flush against your creamy thighs.

“Nothing you ever say is stupid,” you say softly, then grin. “Okay, maybe some of the things you say are… but not this time.”

Mark laugh softly, then leans up to kiss you. It’s not the first time he’s kissed you, but it’s not something you ever really talk about.

A hum leaves you as you melt into the kiss, his strong arms circling your hips and pulling you closer.

“Don’t try to change the topic,” you murmur in between kisses. “I’m not gonna let it go.”

“Stubborn as a mule,” he laughs softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your jaw. “I just… do you never get tired of this?”

You pause, frowning.

“What— us?”

“Wha— no! No, no,” Mark reassures you, his fingers running up the sides of your ribs. “Never us, never you. Just… this uncertainty. I mean, sometimes I… I don’t know if you’re just not looking for more or if it’s because I’m me and—“

“Stop,” you say, curling your fingers around the nape of his neck. “What’re you talking about?”

Mark sighs, his shoulders slumping.

“If there’s one thing I know to be true about you, it’s that you always just go for what you want. If you want something, you take it. And sometimes I just wish you would…”

“What?” You ask, a smile tugging on the corner of your lips. “Take you?”

He laughs, his head slumping down against your shoulder.

“Okay, not great phrasing, but you know what I mean.”

You snort, grinning crookedly at him.

“I know what you mean,” you repeat, sliding your hand delicately up his neck to cradle his jaw, tilting his head back.

He sighs, closing his eyes.

“Consider this,” your murmur, leaning down to kiss his forehead, then both eyelids, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, “me taking what I want.”

Mark swallows a moan, his grip tightening on your hips as he leans into the kiss. Strong, deft fingers dig into your flesh, then slide down the curve of your ass.

“Mh, love you so much,” he whispers in between kisses, sliding your negligee up alongside his hands’ movement back up to your waist. “You’re too good for me.”

Part of you is tempted to counter with ‘you’re literally Invincible’, but Invincible isn’t a name allowed inside your home—only Mark, your Mark. You’re not going to equate his worthiness of being with you to how strong he is; Mark is enough.

“Love you more,” you whisper, smiling sweetly as your lipgloss gets smeared across his own lips. “It’s always been you.”

You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, tugging it down as you apply pressure.

“Desire suits you,” you murmur.

Marks stares up at you, pupils blown wide. There’s something about your tone…

“Oh,” he says, grinning boyishly and proudly. “Oh, I get it. That’s the shade name.”

You grin brightly, letting an undignified giggle escape your lips.

“Sure is,” you laugh, kissing him again. “This is a 38 dollar lip balm.”

“That price has to be a criminal offense,” Mark chuckles, his hands running up your sides. “But I’m honored that you’re wasting it on me.”

“It’s never a waste if I’m kissing you,” you tut, brushing his hair back.

“You really mean that, huh,” Mark states softly, smiling to himself.

“Mhm,” you hum, cradling his face in your hands. Long, pinkish nails scrape against his scalp as you run your fingers up and through his hair again, then settling them behind his neck. “I could also just let you borrow some. It suits you.”

“Don’t make me get the spray bottle,” he jokes, pinching your hip.

“Oh, bite me,” you counter, rolling your eyes playfully. “Like there’s anything you wouldn’t let me get away with.”

“Okay, yeah,” Mark says with a soft grin. “Maybe I’m biased when it comes to you.”

“Just a smidge,” you murmur, punching your thumb and index finger together for emphasis.

“Just a smidge,” Mark repeats, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

With a giggle, you capture his lips in another slow, deep kiss. You tug lightly on his hair, tilting his head back before letting your lips trail down the column of his throat.

A strangled groan leaves Mark, his grip on your hips tightening as he pulls you closer.

“Baby,” he whispers, “don’t— don’t start something you’re not gonna finish. I’m not strong enough for that.”

“I’ve been considering getting the Tom Taylor Nightwing omnibus when it comes out this summer,” you say simply, peppering soft kisses further down his neck and leaving behind a shimmering pink smudge. “Thoughts?”

“There are literally no thoughts in my head right now,” he laughs softly, smiling dazedly down at you. “Go for it. I’ll— I’ll get it for you.”

“Yeah?” You whisper, smiling sweetly. “You will? Oh, Mark, you’re the best.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, still grinning. “That’s me. The best.”

You reach down, tugging on shirt.

“Off, please,” you say in a polite tone.

“As you wish,” he laughs softly, reluctantly letting go of you to shrug the t-shirt over his head—and not without struggle.

“No, no, I got it,” he says sheepishly, smiling brightly through the darkening of his cheeks as he manages to discard the shirt.

“There we go,” you murmur, running a hand down his chest. “Handsome. You’ve gotten really big these past few years, y’know.”

Sometimes it’s almost too easy.

Mark’s spine straightens and his grin brightens.

“I know, right? Cecil has me on this tight program—“

You slip the negligee off your shoulders, letting the silk pool around your hips and expose your breasts.

“Hoo, boy,” Mark murmurs, grinning boyishly as his train of thought is interrupted. “You don’t know how hard it is having you change around me. I mean, the— the girls are just out, y’know?”

“That’s just, like, on purpose,” you snort, grabbing his strong hands and sliding them up your waist and settling them on top of your breasts, squeezing through his hands.

“Oh, fuck me,” Mark exhales with parted lips and furrowed brows, leaning down to press warm, wet kisses down your sternum.

“About the Tom Taylor run,” you begin, letting go of his hands and settling your fingers in his hair, “I know the art is gorgeous, but is the storylines actually worth it? Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a slut for beautiful comics.”

“Uh-huh,” Mark murmurs, nosing up the underside of one of your breasts. “S’probably fun. I don’t know.”

His tongue runs over your pebbled nipple, closing his lips around the peak with a gentle suction. He mouths at your nipple repeatedly, groaning softly against your skin. The calloused pads of his fingers trace down your back and slip underneath the lacy elastic band of your thong, digging into the fat of your ass.

“Let’s get you out of these, handsome,” you sigh, gently chewing on the inside of your cheek as you reach down to unbutton and unzip his (honestly fugly) khakis.

“Wha— oh. Oh, yeah,” he pants softly, letting his forehead thump down against your chest. He lifts his hips enough to tug the pants down, shuffling to kick them off his ankles without moving you too much. “Got it.”

“You sure do,” you murmur, your voice a soft purr as you brush your lips against his temple . “So strong and capable.”

“Fuck you,” Mark laughs breathlessly, kissing down your sternum again. “I’m trying so hard not be easy right now.”

“I thought you were Invincible?” You whisper with a soft grin.

Mark draws back with a crooked grin.

“Nuh-uh. You just broke the first rule of—“

“If you say Fight Club, I’m kicking you out,” you laugh, gently pushing him down against your covers.

He rests his weight on his elbows, then looks up and smiles softly.

“I’m just Mark, right?”

You nod, kissing him tenderly.

“Mark. Sweet Mark, my Mark.”

“Oh, out the window with not being easy,” he laughs softly, tugging you down and steadying you with his hands as he switches positions so that you’re below him. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, then lifts your hips with his left arm while peeling the negligee off you with his right. Gently lowering you back to the bed, he begins to plant soft, wet kisses up your stomach.

“Mh, oh,” you sigh, your nails scraping down the nape of his neck. “You know how often I’ve thought about you? Just— just thinking about you?”

“If it’s anywhere near as often as I have,” Mark pants, slipping your thong down your legs and ghosting his fingers across your sensitive flesh, “yeah. I think I have an idea.”

“Kiss me again,” you command in a soft tone, and Mark complies.

His lips capture yours in a slow, tender kiss that speeds up your heart rate. His thumb circles your clit, slow at first, then faster as he’s overcome by sheer excitement of being close to you.

“Mark,” you whisper shakily, losing your concentration on the kiss and dipping your face into the crook of his neck. “Mark—“

A soft laugh escapes you, followed by a small moan as you press your lips to his neck.

His middle finger slips inside you—long, strong, deft—as he continues the stimulation on your clit. Moments later, his ring finger follows.

“Mh-“

Long nails dig into his firm back as you claw him down closer.

“C’mere, c’mere,” you whisper, tilting your head up to kiss him again, and when you come, it’s with a soft moan against his mouth.

With a confident grin, he retracts his hand and slips his finger into his mouth to suck them clean.

“Dirty boy,” you comment playfully, brushing his jet black hair back. “Someone’s been getting laid these past few years.”

“Yeah, as if. No, I— I just wanna make sure I treat my girl right, yeah?” He murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again.

“Oh, your girl, huh?” You tease.

“You agreed to it,” he laughs, kissing your cheek, “just before.”

“Mhm,” you hum, kissing his cheek back. “I just like hearing it.”

“Yeah?” He responds, excitement lacing his tone. “My girl? My pretty girl? My sweet girl?”

He plants soft kisses up your jaw.

A silly, girlish giddiness overcomes you much to your own embarrassment.

“You do like it,” Mark laughs, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Shut up,” you laugh, tugging on his boxers. “Off.”

“Bossy,” he says with a grin, slipping out of his boxer shorts before slotting his hips against yours. “Now be still.”

He reaches over you, his hand blindly fumbling through his wallet before retracting with a condom. Biting the inside of his cheek in concentration (definitely not a habit he’s picked up from you), he rips the package open and rolls the latex down his hardened dick. He grips your hips firmly but gently as he lines up with you before slowly, gently, pushing inside.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up to splay out against your stomach. “Easy. There we go.”

“Who’re you reassuring?” You exhale with a dazed grin. Your stomach is slightly tensed up, struggling to relax at the foreign intrusion. “Me or you?”

“Both,” Mark responds softly, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he bottoms out. “You make me nervous sometimes, you know.”

“Yeah,” you whisper with a soft nod, eyelids fluttering. “You and me both.”

Slowly, gently, carefully, Mark begins to rock his hips into yours. His lips ghost over the junction between your neck and shoulder as he connects with you through languid strokes. His thumb returns to your clit, and you jump at the sensitivity.

“Mh… ah,” you laugh softly, smiling as you find his lips with your own. “S’nice. That’s— that’s good. Yeah, jus’ like that.”

Your voice turns more and more breathless, the sound partially swallowed by Mark’s mouth against yours.

“Love you so much,” he whines, panting into your mouth. “God, you don’t even— you don’t know.”

“I get it,” you whisper, arms wrapped around his neck tightly, practically clinging to him. “I get it. It’s just us, yeah? For the rest of our lives.”

Mark lets out a groan as he nods, the snap of his hips becoming more fast-paced as he loses his rhythm. It doesn’t take long before he comes, his hips stuttering into yours and his voice breaking as he utters your name. You fall apart in the same moment, underneath his fingertips and safe in his arms.

“You mean that?” He whispers carefully, and you pretend not to notice the sheen to his eyes.

“What?” You ask, dazed and confused.

“Forever,” he reiterates.

You nod.

“Just you and me. Forever.”

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → fluff

Summary → Whenever Peter's bored in class, he doodles on your notes or your hands.

It was another boring day in chemistry class. The teacher droned on about formulas and compounds, but Peter Parker wasn’t paying attention. He rarely did, not because he wasn’t smart, but because he was too smart. He’d figured out the entire lesson within the first five minutes, and now, like always, he was bored.

You felt a light tug at your notebook. You turned your head slightly, and there he was—Peter—already doodling on the corner of your notes. A tiny stick figure appeared, standing next to a smaller one. You couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he looked, his brows furrowed in concentration like this was the most important thing in the world.

“Peter,” you whispered, trying to suppress your grin.

“Hm?” He responded absentmindedly, not even looking up from his little masterpiece.

“You’re doodling again.”

“I know,” he murmured, now adding a little flower between the two figures. “It’s art. I’m improving your notes.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly loved it. Peter's doodles had become a regular part of your class routine. He always managed to sneak little drawings onto your notebook pages, whether it was stars, flowers, or stick figures that looked vaguely like the two of you. Sometimes, they’d even be little hearts, but he was always too shy to admit that.

“You’re gonna get caught,” you warned, glancing at the teacher.

Peter glanced up quickly, eyes scanning the room like he was Spider-Man on patrol, then went right back to doodling. “Nah, I got this.”

As if on cue, his hand slid to yours, and before you could protest, he started drawing a flower on the back of your hand. You watched as his fingers gently held your wrist, the tip of his pen tracing delicate petals. There was something calming about the way Peter focused on his drawings, how his touch was light and careful, almost as if he was afraid of hurting you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart fluttered every time his fingers brushed against your skin.

“And yet, here you are, still letting me doodle,” Peter teased with a playful grin, eyes twinkling as he met your gaze.

Suddenly, the teacher's voice cut through the air, loud and clear. “Mr. Parker!”

You both froze. Peter’s hand jerked back from yours like he’d been caught stealing something, and the entire class turned to look at him.

“Care to share what’s so important that you’re not paying attention to the lesson?” The teacher asked, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Peter stammered, scrambling for an answer. “Uh...well, y-you see, sir... I was, uh—”

“He was just taking notes,” you quickly interjected, flipping your notebook closed before the teacher could get a good look at the doodles.

The teacher narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “A warning, Mr. Parker. Pay attention, or it’ll be detention next time.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter muttered, ducking his head.

Once the teacher turned back to the board, Peter gave you a sheepish smile. “Thanks for saving my butt back there.”

“You’re welcome,” you whispered back. “But seriously, Peter, you almost got us in trouble!”

Peter’s lips quirked up, and he leaned in closer, his voice low. “Totally worth it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head at how goofy he was. Peter Parker, the brilliant boy genius, could be such an adorable idiot sometimes. And you loved him for it.

---

Class finally ended, and as you gathered your things, Peter was at it again—this time drawing a tiny heart on your wrist with a quick flourish of his pen. You tried to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks as he admired his work.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now you’ve got a piece of my art with you all day.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you repeated, shoving your notebook into your bag.

Peter grinned, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“Maybe,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge. “But next time, try not to get us caught, okay?”

“No promises,” he winked, grabbing your hand as you both made your way out of the classroom.

As you walked down the hallway together, Peter glanced at your hand and smiled, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You know, I doodle on your notebook because it’s more fun than paying attention.”

“And here I thought you were just trying to annoy me.”

“Well,” Peter said, his voice softening, “I also like having an excuse to hold your hand.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you glanced at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. Peter’s goofy grin faded into something more tender, more real, and in that moment, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist—just the two of you walking hand in hand.

“You don’t need an excuse for that, you know,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand back.

Peter’s smile widened, and he looked down at your linked hands, his thumb brushing over the tiny heart he’d drawn on your skin. “Good to know.”

And with that, you both stepped out into the afternoon sun, the doodles on your notebook and the warmth of his hand in yours a sweet reminder of the little things that made Peter Parker so special—his intelligence, his playfulness, and his unwavering affection for you.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[moonlightcycle571]

Lantern Corps and a 10 year old Child

In a last post, I said the Lantern Corps would love Captain Marvel because he’s omni-lingual (and there’s so many different species so it makes sense that they would feel comfertable around a guy who can speak their mother tongue, no matter how obscure it is).

And then it came to me in a glorious vision, the Cores would LOVE or absolute HATE Billy Batson, be it as a kid it as Captain Marvel.

First on the Love Captain spectrum:

Red Lantern: that’s the corps that’s the most insistent. Man’s fights littéral Wrath and demons alike on a weekly basis. Man’s go to weekly poker night with Satan and other Wardens of Hell. Why? Because he has his own prison dimension in th Rock of Eternity, who also holds the strongest demons.

Yellow Lanterns: as champion of magic, he holds a lot of weight. Especially for magic users. One flick of a wrist and boom, your magic is gone. The whole concept of ‘The Champion’ is enough for most to fear him. That and one does not play poker with The Devil from The Bible and other figures from various religions, and just have a normal presence. He’s terrifying when he wants to be. In his Cap form, he needs to actively tamp down to appear more family friendly, and not the eldricht horror he knows he could easily look like.

Green Lanterns: Homeless Child Superhero dealing with horrors must adults can’t handle. That takes willpower. Even before Captain, I’m pretty sure off willpower alone he could qualify. But what’s the real ringer is his imagination. The Rock of Eternity has access to magical dimensions that no amount of crack could dream up. Man’s had to learn how to use Looney Toones Logic irl and it works. Man’s got a while Disney Dimension with Ballerina Hippos with their Croc partners. Mans has debates about files with littéral walking talking dinosaurs. Billy is hella creative, and who knows what would be made with a ring.

Blue Lanterns: do I … do I need to explain? There are the lantern corps of Hope, I think the rest is pretty self explanatory. I will say though, he was close to accepting when he found out they got a Corgi. Even closer when Dex Starr, the red lanterns cat got a

Orange Lantern: bro fights the physical manifestations of the Seven Deadly Sins , including Greed on a regular basis. By right of conquest, he really should be wearing the ring rn. They be trying to put a ring on it for ages.

Black Lanterns: he once revived Freddy and or Mary by reconnecting them to the rock, and since then is considered a ‘nécromancer’. Also (similar to the Avatar State) he has memories of past champions, including death, so one can argue he’s in a life and death loop.

White lanterns: same reasons as the Black Lanterns. They’ve been trying to get Billy to also out-do said Black Lanterns (who in turn try to recruit him some more). It’s just one vicious snowball effect now.

Now for the Hate Captain spectrum:

Star Sapphire Corps: The thing about Billy is that he’s AroAce. Very Aro and Very Ace. So those who draw power from love and try to flirt are met with the disgusted face of someone who’s famously nice. It was a devastating blow to the whole corps. At some point Hal decided to hide behind Cap to escape another Star Sapphire who fell inlove with him, and they just, lost their power. No longer had the ability to fly and everything. He’s Ace-ness is crippling. And it did bring memes. The Ace community was winning.

Indigo Tribe: he’s too autistic for them. And while being the warden of multiple dangerous beings fits their MO and all, they ain’t touching the bullshit magical logic with a ten foot pole. That, and the first time a ring was sent to him to recruit him to keep the evil ones in line, he roasted their whole system, their ugly ass uniforms (that particular shade of indigo clashed with his Hero Outfit way to much) and ended with a comparison to them with a guy called ‘King Kid’ and the fucking ‘Easter Bunny King’ that somehow did a much better job at Machiavellic while also being uhly. They never sent a second one. The red lanterns sent more.

Ultraviolet lanterns: again, man’s fights the Seven Sins on the regular, is their warden along with other sick evils, lies to the Justice League on the regular and plays poker with Demons (and wins) despite being one of the most honest people there is. That and he’s so dad shaped, it counters their power of daddy issues.

Bonuse:

It’s not uncommon for various JL members to receive lantern rings. They just don’t want to. So the standard procedure is to find your local lantern, and give them rings. At some point all the Corps made a lantern offers chart (and maybe the JL got a bit competitive).

Problem, that screen was using old alien tech that didn’t have colour. So they knew Cap had the most lantern offers, but they didn’t know which colours. Until it got fixed.

J’le looking at the rainbow that’s Captain Marvels Ring List: …

Batman: Captain, why is there so many red ones?

Billy, sweating: …

Hal, not comfy with the amount of yellow: I… I need to make a few phone calls.

John, the one who’s been receiving all of his rings: Uh, don’t remind me. I’ve been getting cramps with the amount of times I had to input the different colours.

Dinah: I don’t think even I’m qualified for the amount of therapy everyone is going to need.

WonderWoman: How to you have Negative Pink Rings??? You can’t get a negative number in a list

Billy, inputing the Zeta Tube: haha, it’s so weird

John: … do I need to add AroAce as a weakness for the Sapphires???

Bonus points if the results are open to the galactic public, and just wonder who tf are and ‘Billy Batson’ and Captain Marvel and why they are dominating the top ranks. What is in the Terra city Fawcette.

Extra Bonus Point if the JL go: Who tf is Billy Batson, and why is he ranked above Captain Marvel.

I’ve been waiting to do this one for a while. But never got the motivation. Let me know if I missed any, and feel free to write fanfic (please tag me if you do, I wanna reeeeead).

Final note, I want to give a certain someone a comment of appreciation.

@wonderjanga you are my favourite person on this app. You are the reason I decided to get out of my procrastination slump. Thank you for you content, it’s always so creative and I deeply enjoy it.

For those who don’t know them, I recommend checking out their content. It’s genuinely inspiration for me to start writing again. I don’t think I’ll be writing on ao3 soon, but maybe one day.

[sirxaibs]

Do you know that scene in 'Regular Show" when Rigby tells Mordecai that his dating someone? You know, this one.

https://youtu.be/mTj87DvP0zE?si=dHh1sLPRuU5AA7RU

Right, so this is the exact same way I Imagine Sal telling his gang about him and his S/O. Right so you can just do whatever with it, you can turn it into a fic, use it in one of your other request, or just don't do anything with it. I just wanted to rant ig💀

OK GUYS PRETEND IM READING MY REQUESTS AND NOT BUSY!!!

this is a short one and is a heavily silly one!! I guess this can go with for popular reader AU! (modern au? idk i make a zoom reference)

masterlist

synopsis: gang minus ashley (supposed to be a dude hang out until the reader crashes it) finds out youre dating sal. Larry is as dramatic as fucking always.

“Dude,” Larry groaned, voice raspy like he’d just woken up which he had, two hours ago. “I think I’ve hit a new low.”

Todd didn’t even look up. “You say that so often bro.”

“No, no, this one’s different,” Larry muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I stayed up late watching compilations of goth girls with nose rings reading poetry last night. I don’t even know why. My brain’s starving, bro.”

Sal snorted softly, while drawing. “You’re unwell.”

“I’m deprived, man,” Larry said, dragging himself into a slouched sit up. “I haven’t been touched in, like, months. Not even accidentally. I brushed hands with some chick at 7 Eleven and popped a big one.”

Todd grimaced and finally looked over. “You need help.”

“I need a miracle,” Larry said, pointing between them like he was conducting a funeral. “I’m surrounded. Whores to the left of me ” he gestured to Todd, “virgins to the right ” he tossed a finger toward Sal, “and here I am, balls dry and brain fried.”

Todd pushed up his glasses. “Being in a committed relationship with Neil does not make me a whore.”

“tell that to neil, i think he would say otherwise” Larry replied, picking up a cold chicken nugget from the coffee table and eating it without hesitation.

“That’s private.”

Sal blinked. “youre actually so gross man”

“Don’t act surprised,” Larry said, pointing a chicken finger at him. “You’ve got that hopeful little ‘I believe in true love’ look in your eye. It’s disgusting.”

Sal gave a noncommittal shrug. “I just think you find the right person when the time’s right. Someone who sees you. Who, like, actually wants to sit in your mess and love you anyway.”

“Okay, Plato,” Larry scoffed. “You say that like someone’s gonna come knocking on the door and say, ‘Wow, Larry, I love how you smell like weed and sweat. Let me fix you.’”

Sal offered a small smile. “Maybe they will. You never know.”

Larry stared at him, deadpan. “Dude. No offense, but I’m not taking dating advice from the other virgin in the room.”

Sal opened his mouth like he might respond, then just shrugged again. “Fair enough.”

“Like, I’m dying out here,” Larry groaned, tossing his head back. “I’m the whole package! like you both think I am!”

Todd was trying not to laugh now. “You are… impressive.”

“Don’t parronize me, Todd. You’re out here getting laid between being a smart fuck and fucking smart and I’m just trying to remember what it feels like to make eye contact with someone who isn’t in a Zoom lecture.”

“You haven’t been in a Zoom lecture for months,” Sal said helpfully.

“Exactly!” Larry snapped. “I’m practically a ghost!”

Todd sighed, rubbing his temple. “You do realize that you could… I dont know, go outside and meet someone, right?”

Larry leaned forward with a dark grin. “thats not in the cards mate”

Sal let out a laugh that made Larry smirk. “dude then that's fully on you”

“Thank you,” Larry said proudly. “I may be dying inside, but I’m still funny. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Maybe you should try actually dating instead of just flirting with sad bookstore cashiers and girls who sell crystals on Instagram,” Todd muttered, standing to stretch.

“I like sad girls!” Larry defended. “They’re mysterious. not to manic pixie dream girl these girls but fortunately for them, it makes them on my radar, they've seen things”

“They’ve seen you,” Sal muttered under his breath, grinning.

“Exactly. And they ran,” Todd added.

Larry flopped over. “You’re both cruel. I open my heart and you throw shade.”

“much needed shade,” Todd muttered.

“literally shut the fuck up” Larry said with a shrug. “Anyway, if either of you know anyone hot, weird, emotionally damaged, and preferably into aliens or tarot, please send them my number.”

Sal gave him a look. “You say that like you’re a good investment.”

“I could be,” Larry corrected.

Todd rolled his eyes. “dinner could come faster if you shut up.”

“mmmm sure,” Larry said, suddenly perking up. “And if it’s pizza, I’m sitting next to you and giving you a personal special gift.”

“God, please don’t,” Todd muttered

Sal stretching. “We’re getting you a hobby.”

“Sex was supposed to be my hobby!” Larry called after them.

Sal blinked slowly, coming back from his stretch. “Dude, calm down.”

“I won’t!” Larry flailed his arms dramatically.

Todd shifted just enough to rest his chin on his hand. “You have issues.”

“I have needs, Todd. Human ones. I’m touch starved and mentally unstable. It’s a great combo if you’re into damaged goods, but apparently no one is!”

Sal sighed, still sketching. “Maybe you need to stop going after people who are guaranteed emotional disasters.”

“Oh, and what would you two know about my kind of dating?” Larry snapped, voice getting sharper. “Todd, you skipped the trauma part and jumped straight into cozy domestic bliss with Neil like it’s some damn romcom. And you ” He jabbed a finger at Sal. “You’ve got the dating experience of a damp napkin. Don’t lecture me on romance when your only action comes from drawing mysterious girls in your sketchbook like it’s 2005.”

Sal’s pencil froze for half a second. Larry leaned back, huffing, muttering under his breath. “God, even my insults are sad now.”

But Sal didn’t respond. He slowly set the pencil down and looked up. The room was quiet.

Larry glanced up. “What?”

Sal gave Larry a long, tired look. His voice was low and calm. “Actually, smart guy, I have been dating someone.”

Larry froze. “What?”

Sal shrugged once. “Yeah.”

“…Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.”

“No. No, you don’t just drop that like it’s nothing. Who? Who the hell would date you?” Larry excitedly looked at him. “No offense, but if i were into you, I would but that’s because we match each others freaks, who else would?”

Sal leaned forward slightly. “It’s Y/N.”

Larry blinked. Todd looked like he was trying not to visibly flinch. Larry sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry what?”

Sal nodded, a little awkwardly but without backing down. “Yeah. It’s been a little while now.”

“You’re telling me… Y/N. Our Y/N. The only normal person who tolerates our lame asses. That Y/N.”

“hey im normal”

“youre literally not todd”

“Yes.”

“And you’re dating her?”

Sal just nodded again.

Larry slumped back into the couch like he’d just been slapped across the face with a cold fish. “Unbelievable. I am literally in hell.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” Sal added quickly. “We were just… taking it slow. Didn’t want to make it weird.”

“Didn’t want to ” Larry laughed, raspy little noise. “Bro. Everything is weird. You should’ve led with that like, weeks ago! That changes the entire dynamic! I’m out here crying about not being loved while you’re sneaking off to make googly eyes at the one decent human being left in our orbit!”

“It’s not like I did it to spite you,” Sal muttered.

Todd held up a hand. “Okay, let’s not turn this into a thing ”

Larry ignored him. “You didn’t even tell me! ME. im highkey offended.”

Sal actually looked a little guilty. “I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“’Hey Larry, stop crying into your ramen, I’m dating the coolest person we know!’ That’s how you bring it up!” Larry exclaimed.

Todd muttered under his breath, “You’re being a little dramatic.”

“I earn my drama,” Larry hissed. “You guys are all out here winning at love, and I’m over here making up scenarios in my head.”

Sal’s voice was quieter now. “I get it. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

Larry let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Nah. Nah, it’s fine. I’m happy for you, man. Seriously.” He looked off to the side and added, “I’ll just go sacrifice a lock of my hair to the moon goddess or whatever the hell it takes to not die single.”

Sal chuckled. “Want help with that?”

“Not from you, traitor.. You don’t belong in my trenches anymore.”

Sal offered a faint, slightly guilty smile. “youll find someone ”

“I know,” Larry mumbled. “its just so rough”

The three of them fell into silence again Larry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Whatever. At least I still have pizza.”

“I actually thought we would warm up some leftovers” Todd pointed out.

Larry stared blankly into the void. “I have nothing.”

then the front door creaked open.

“Hey, losers!” came Y/N’s familiar voice. The warmth in her tone was immediate, She kicked off her shoes in the hallway with a thunk, holding a tote bag full of snacks and energy drinks. “I brought sugar and caffeine. Prepare to worship me.”

Larry didn’t even look up. “Oh, look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N paused, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “What’s with the tone?” She walked in further, holding out the snacks proudly. “I got those weird sour gummies you like, Larry.”

“Oh, wow,” Larry said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sour worms. Truly, you do care.”

Sal was now refusing to make eye contact with her, suddenly very invested in the corner of his page. Todd, meanwhile, was watching the scene unfold like it was a sitcom. Y/N squinted at all three of them. “…Did someone die?”

“Not someone,” Larry muttered, resting his chin on his knees. “Just my faith in friendship. And honesty. And romantic transparency. But whatever.”

Y/N blinked. “Okay. Definitely weird vibes going on here.”

“Is it?” Larry asked, dramatically pulling the blanket tighter around his body like he was the heartbroken lead in an indie film. “Or is it just the smell of secrets festering in the air?”

“What is going on?” Y/N laughed nervously, looking between the three of them. “Why are you all acting like you just got caught burying a body?”

Todd hummed. “Could say something was buried.”

Sal cleared his throat and didn’t look up. “Larry’s being dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m being dramatic?” Larry whipped around to glare at Sal. “You kept your little romance saga under wraps like it was state security, and I’m the problem?”

Y/N’s smile faltered. “…Romance saga?” Silence. Too long. “Sal?” she asked slowly, eyebrows raised.

“Hmm?”

“Wanna fill me in?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

Todd let out the tiniest chuckle. Y/N looked back to Larry, confused. “Okay, am I missing something? Why are you glaring at me like I just kicked you in the face?”

“Oh, don’t play coy, Juliet,” Larry hissed. “You think you’re slick. Romeo told me everything”

“did he now?” Y/N laughed, exasperated now.

“i would argue not everything” sal peeps in

Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at all three of them, eyebrows furrowed in panic. “Wait. Wait. What do you think you know?”

Larry stood, pointing dramatically. “Don’t play dumb! I know about you and Sal!”

“Oh my god,” Y/N finally muttered. “He told you?!”

“Damn right he told me,” Larry snapped. “Dropped it right in my lap like it was no big deal.”

Y/N flushed. “It wasn’t supposed to come out like this ”

“Oh, you think?”

“I didn’t mean ”

Larry threw up his hands. “Do you know how long I’ve been bitching about being single to both of you?! You could’ve at least let me know you were off the market so I could suffer in targeted isolation!”

“I was going to tell you eventually!” she said, defensive now.

“When? At your wedding?” Larry barked.

Todd: “Oof.”

Y/N rubbed her temples. “Okay. Okay, fine. It’s true. We’re dating. Happy?”

Larry crossed his arms. “Not really. I was hoping one of you was secretly wanting to date me.”

Sal smirked faintly, still not looking up. “Sorry.”

Y/N looked over at Todd. “you're such a bitch”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to help,” Todd said casually. “Watching it click was the highlight of my week.”

Larry exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. So congrats, lovebirds. I hope you’re very happy. I’ll just be in my room. Alone. Googling shit for special time that looks like one of you.”

He stomped toward the hallway like a man defeated. Y/N looked to Sal. “…Should we talk to him?”

Sal shrugged. “Give him fifteen minutes. He’ll come back for snacks.”

Todd held up the sour gummies while opening them. “I’m hiding these until he calms down.”

Y/N sighed and flopped down onto the couch with an audible groan. “dawg i’m so confused, i feel like i just cheated in him.”

Sal finally looked up, his voice quiet and honest. “Ew me too, but at least its out in the open.”

Y/N gave him a small smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Todd smirked to himself. “About time.”

[kyri45]

✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 06/01✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

Anonimo ha chiesto: Do the little monkeys on Flower Fruit mountain ever see at Wukong and Macaque bickering like an old married couple and think to themselves 'just kiss already'?

Yes. They keep doing and Wukong tries to stop them otherwise Macaque could hear them (he already does)

Anonimo ha chiesto: Been reading up on Macaque Body Language and found this: "A peculiar behaviour displayed by macaques is lip smacking. Between macaques, lip smacking is used to show submission, affection and reconciliation. This behaviour is a form of communication and is sometimes accompanied with cooing vocalisations and mild raising of eyebrows." So now I can't stop imaging Monkey King and Macaque just smacking lips and raising eyebrows to each other instead of saying "I love you" or after a fight just smacking lips and then hugging. But then I also started questioning, do the two monkeys in your AU actually use monkey body language to communicate? Or is it just human language they use? Great work on your AU btw! Loving the art and story ^^

Mm some? Like a little but not too much. But that’s an adorable trivia!!

Does macaque know about Wukong's stage fright?👀

Yes.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Baby MK lives in my head rent free. If Wukong or Macaque were trappen in the calabash than their perfect world would be one where they could raise mk without him having to fight or get hurt and traumatized

I THINK the fanfiction series Squashed Apricots is just about this if it can interest you.

@abbytheslothwitch ha chiesto: In your AU or your general opinion, which monkey dad is the taller one; Wukong or Macaque?

Macaque

Anonimo ha chiesto: The way you draw Pigsy honestly is one of the best I've seen I mean just look at him!!! He doesn't have the proportions of a regular human because he's not human and it works so well! I dunno he just looks cool in your artstyle and design That all I had to say :]]]]

Thank you so much!!!♥️♥️♥️ He’s honestly quite hard to draw exactly bc of that, but it’s good practice! Him and DBK are generally harder, I’m not super used to draw animals.

@peach-fury ha chiesto: Ello! Sorry, it's me again But just had a thought, sense Macaque has died and went to Dìyù or the underworld. (I think that's were the book of death is) Wouldn't he be at least scared or nervous to go back? Idk like bad memories like their fight or the lady bone demon or something? Idk maybe overthinking or that I just like angsty :P (P.s I fricking love your art and your AU's so much!!!!)

Yes. I believe he wouldn’t like the idea. I like to think he”s actually terrified. But he wouldn’t care less if it means to protect and help his baby.

Anonimo ha chiesto: will MK try to try change his name into nobody or something form of loophole name so that can be like ohhhh nobody us in trouble! Everyone is safeeee! And nezha’s dad is like wait no

Ahah that’s a good idea! Unfortunately that isn’t the plan

Anonimo ha chiesto: Hear me out we know Wukong made the bed because he made it bigger. It's made out of peach tree wood. And carved moon and suns and stars on the headboard.

AWWWW!!😭😭😭😭😭

@a1teruniverse ha chiesto: What's the hardest panel you've drawn

It is a panel if it’s an animation?

Anonimo ha chiesto: Will u ever do flash backs for shadowpeach thats “happy” like them first meeting realizing there in love a jealous mac courtnapping the monkey king just being young and in love.

Mmm yeah i wanna do smth like that. Don’t know when or how but i wanna.

Anonimo ha chiesto: does Wukong ever/will ever let glamours down and let like everything hang out like Mac would come in and his husband just causally has his boobs out and he’s like sweet my husband got hotter bc he’s pan(?) like I think you said that in an earlier post

I mean. I don’t think he has any issues dropping his glamours in front of macaque. I don’t think he would stay too much without his glamours bc still, I guess he would have some slight dysphoria. Also I mean, yeah Macaque loves him with or without boobies. But if Wukong could choose he would prefer not to have them out if he can.

Anonimo ha chiesto: which bottle is every ship in your lmk comic chugging? (I’m talking about your red bubble stickers for ao3 tags I would find it but I’m lazyyyh)

Shadowpeach is hurt & comfort (which I saw now I didn’t uploaded but yeah I got that one as well.), slowburn, enemies to lovers, and angst cause- duh.

Spicynoodle I would say is fluff, oneshot, enemies to lovers, found family.

Anonimo ha chiesto: im so embarrassed to ask about this but, later when mk and red boy r dating, who would ask the other first on a date? What would the date be? Also what does dbk and pif personal opinion of their relationship? SORRY IF THIS HAS BEEN ASKED BEFORE😭

I think MK, because dates are something a little more human, and cause Red Son is a workaholic. It can either be something like a training session, a videogame session at Red castle, or just also the traffic light trio being competitive. DBK and PIF are supporting, mostly bc they know their family will be even more powerful with an union such as theirs. Of course PIF is supporting also cause MK is Mac baby.

@kandymaneuwu ha chiesto: On a scale of 1 to 10 how fluffy is macaque this is very important

10 with merits

@5hadowm0ch1 ha chiesto: When will Shadowpeach kiss? It's always head-to-head Pats (I'm trying to predict what happening)

b-b-b-b-b- but head-to-head pats are cute…

@majesticgazell ha chiesto: Ooohhh I’m just imagining Li Jing catching wind of the plan and activating MK’s fillet while he’s in the shadows… maybe he wouldn’t lose himself under normal circumstances, but with that thing tightening around his head? 👀 Just a thought

Hehe, isn’t that a possibility?

@nataszaluiz ha chiesto: So I have a few questions. First: do you plan on ending it before Season 6 releases or do you plan on continuing it and mixing it up with your AU? Second: have you heard theories that a fragment of Azure's Soul is placed in the blue flower that appears after it's sacrifice? Third: Will characters like Yellowtusk and Peng appear in your AU?

S6 seems to either happen next year or never, so I ve3ry much hope i finish my story sooner.

no i haven’t

mmmm i don’t know

@cheddarcheesebiscuit1 ha chiesto: I gotta ask, if MK would to ever get injured in his monkie form, then would Macaque/Wukong try to take him to a human doctor or a vet?

I know we all want to see Macaque and Wukong freaking out when their baby is sick, but I think we forget sometimes that, even though they aren’t medics, Wukong has a basic understanding how to heal wounds and medicine. Macaque is head-canoned many times to be an expert in fact. And I think there are demons/demonic doctors in case MK has some kind of curse or demonic sickness, which would be what actually makes them worry in the first place.

@ainnur ha chiesto: Mei and Wukong team up?! Wasabi Duo the party crasher🎉✨ Love them💕 They need more love as a duo

Their name IS WASABI DUO????????? AAAWWWWWW

@sleeo-goos10 ha chiesto: Hi kyri! Thank you for sparking my LMK hyper fixation and I’m really curious: Will we get more Nezha? How will he react knowing that the Buddha approved this? IF the Buddha approved it at all 👀

Yes you will have plenty of Nezha. Also if youo guys really want to know, yeah, the Buddha themself approved of this. No, Li Jing wasn’t lying.

@saphstories ha chiesto: KYRI PLEASE IF I ASK FOR NOTHING ELSE I NEED TO SEE HELICOPTER AUNT PIF AND UNCLE DBK IN THAT FIGHT BECAUSE *HEAVEN DID WHAT TO THEIR NEPHEW???* And I'm sorry but of freaking course Red Son being the brat he is would call Mommy and Daddy to tattle about how mean Heaven is for stealing his Monkey before he could. 😂😂 Can you tell how insane the extended Monkey Fam makes me? 😂😂😂 I love this AU, I can't wait to see more!

When they heard the news they wanted to come to help attack the palace as well, but Red Son stopped them saying smt like “HE IS MY FUTURE HOUSBAND AND I GET TO KIDNAP HIM OUT OF HEAVEN MOM!”

@anxiousbb-witch ha chiesto: Do I have a reason to fear the possibilities of the golden headband being used on MK and all the emotions and tears coming from it?

oh year, absolutely.

Anonimo ha chiesto: I just have the funny thought that MK woke up one morning in his true form and get jumpscared by looking at himself and see he has boobs again

nooouuuu poor baby! But yeah it’s a funny image

@monkieshad0w ha chiesto: HELLOO HELLOO! What’s ur opinion on sundial duo :D (if you don’t know what sundial duo is, it’s basically Macaque and Wukong being duos and besties but not lovers) :3

oohhh well I do live any pf my ships as besties as well! Platonic love is just as important as romantic one for me personally!

[tthoroughfare]

garden daisy (part 3) // ellie williams

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: things are sort of back to normal. ellie lends you the fuck ass gray hoodie, and you do what you will with it.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: modern!ellie x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: nsfw. masturbation and fantasizing, you're a loser

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 2.6k

this is part three of this series! find part one here

masterlist

i'm back for real!! thank you for your patience while i took a break. i don't wanna lose my momentum with writing so if anyone has any requests for blurbs feel free to let me know. i really love the way this part turned out, i hope you do too :)

for a little while, you feel comforted by your half-admission. you note that ellie, subconsciously or otherwise, draws back towards you. she starts planning more things for the two of you again, stops talking about haley so much.

while you feel a selfish relief, something still feels off. you get pangs of guilt out of nowhere, hoping she’s doing it because she wants to and not simply because she doesn’t want to upset you. she’s a selfless pacifist when it comes to your friendship, never wanting to disturb the balance. you’ve barely had three arguments the whole time you’ve known each other, each over pathetic things, each ending with her crawling back and settling herself at the side of you, quipping an ellie version of an apology.

while her pride would always get in the way of the words i’m sorry actually coming out of her mouth, you knew what she was trying to say. she’d always show, never tell.

you also feel guilty for lying to her. try to soothe yourself by saying you’re not lying, just not telling her the whole truth. is lying by omission still as bad as regular lying? you can’t decide. 

still, it feels a million times better than the anxiety clenching at your chest whenever you entertain the concept of telling her.

“no jacket?” ellie’s voice sounds as she emerges from down the hall, breaking your train of thought.

you snap out of it, glancing down at yourself. maybe not layering in early spring was a risky one; regardless, you’re too lazy to walk back to your room. “nah, last time they were blasting the hot air in there. and we’re only walking to and from the car, right?”

“your call,” she shrugs, shoving her wallet into her backpack and picking up her keys. “ready?”

“yessir.”

the drive to the nearest cinema is a short one, ellie nevertheless deliberating on which playlist to choose for the equivalent of half the journey.

“bro, just pick one,” you groan, head falling back against the seat as you watch her flick through spotify. “coulda’ fucking been there by now.”

“jesus, my bad for trying to curate the vibe.”

“you’re so stupid,” you reply, but the fond sheen in your eye and the way your mouth curves gives you away. “who says ‘curate the vibe’?”

“uh… me? thank you very much.” she catches your eye briefly as she finally hits play, putting her old ford into reverse and backing out of her spot.

“the only vibe you’re curating is that pink monstrosity dina got you for christmas.”

her nose scrunches as she lets out a chuckle, checking either side for traffic before pulling out of your building’s parking lot. “shut up.”

taking a pause, your gaze flits between your hands and ellie’s profile. you keep your tone light, teasing. “you actually used that thing?”

ellie answers without thinking. “nah, it sucks. it’s, like, a cheap ass battery powered one. i think she got it from a corner store.”

“damn. didn’t realize you were so picky about your… vibes,” you jest, noticing the way her freckled cheeks flower a light dusting of pink at the topic. despite your closeness, you never really talked about sex. “what’s wrong with battery powered?”

“nothing, just…” she trails off with a small shrug, laughing uncomfortably.

it’s hard not to continue poking at her when she gets like this. while a somewhat awkward individual, there aren’t many subjects that make ellie squirm. “is this why there’s an aux cable plugged in next to your bed?”

“stop.”

“what? i’m intrigued.” sitting back and folding your arms, you tut. “thought you were trying to play music through the walls.”

“i will turn the motherfucking car around,” she deadpans, unable to keep her act up when she takes her eyes off the road for a split-second to meet your gaze. the both of you share a laugh, ellie’s face still tinged beet.

you know you’re only joking, but you have to try and ignore how the thought of it makes you feel. the way your lower stomach twists a little at the idea of ellie making herself cum in the room next to you, skin the same pretty tone of pink as it is now, muffling her sounds so you can’t hear.

readjusting yourself in the seat subconsciously, you swat the image firmly from your mind. it’s one thing to fantasize about your best friend under the shield of nighttime and solitude — another entirely while she’s right next to you.

upon arriving, you begin to question your choice of clothing. the last few times you’d been to this particular cinema, you’d dressed for warmth only for them to apparently be attempting to cook the movie-goers. this time, once you’d gotten settled in and the trailers were rolling, a chill started to permeate. you don’t think they have the heat on at all. 

classic.

you do your damndest to convince yourself you’re not cold. not only do you not want to admit to yourself you made a mistake, you don’t want to admit it to ellie. ‘well, i did say…’ her know-it-all voice chimes through your head.

however, it gets much more difficult to pay it no mind. you shuffle and reshuffle in your seat the whole first half of the movie, tucking your arms around yourself. in your peripheral, ellie’s clearly taking notice; she turns her head each time before finally leaning in. 

“you cold?”

you’re stubborn, pausing before answering, avoiding looking at her. “no. these seats just suck. not comfortable.”

“dude, you’re cold,” she scoffs quietly. you think she’s just making to sit back again, until you realize she’s slipping her arms out of her hoodie. 

“no, no, it’s fine,” you whisper, resting the back of your hand on her upper arm to try and stop her. of course she doesn’t listen, tugging it off all the way and holding it out.

“it’s fine, i have my jacket.” when you don’t do anything, she shoves it gently into your hands with a smirk. “if you aren’t cold, don’t put it on.”

pulling a face at her, you relent to the playful challenge. ellie’s smell, the one you’ve grown to associate with home, envelops you as the fabric passes over your face. it’s still warm from her wearing it, the goosebumps prickling at your arms soothed.

satisfied, she grabs her jacket from the empty seat at the side of her and slips it on. you almost think you’re scot-free until —

“i did say ‘no jacket?’” she mumbles at you, leaning in once more. you just keep your eyes trained on the screen, flipping her off from the armrest with an amused smile.

after the movie ends, she doesn’t ask for it back. you decide to grab food after, and she doesn’t ask for it back then either. it’s only when you get home that you tell her you’re gonna take a shower, and try to hand it over.

“just give it back whenever,” she responds, looking at her feet when she continues. “kinda… suits you more, anyway.”

her eyes flicker back up at you, then across the room. you can feel your cheeks turning red, unable to help the way a smile spreads across your face. that could mean nothing, you say to yourself. tone it down.

“what are you gonna wear in the meantime?” you joke, a meager attempt to reestablish your footing after the way her comment flustered you. “never see you in anything else.”

ellie blinks slowly, corners of her mouth twitching and shrugging lightly. you’re sure she’s blushing a little, too.

there’s another pause, one that feels heavier than normal. after a few seconds of the both of you doing your best to avoid eye contact, you speak softly as you pass her to get to the bathroom. “whatever, weirdo.”

the whole encounter replays in your head while you shower, you convincing and unconvincing yourself she was flirting ten times over. there had been strange moments like that littered throughout your entire friendship with ellie.

most notably, the time you were both fifteen and she stole a bottle of whiskey from joel, the two of you passing it back and forth on the living room floor. it was childish, each sip and grimace getting your lightweight heads fuzzier, giggles increasing in volume. at one point, you were leaning back against the sofa when she inched closer to you, resting the side of her face on the upholstery.

“i gotta tell you something,” she’d stated lowly, trying to hide the slight slur in her words. you nodded, pivoting your body to face her. you’d been so close, you could smell the liquor on her breath.

“it’s, like, totally cool if you don’t wanna be friends with me after this—“ she paused, visibly thinking before interrupting herself. “—actually, no it’s not, you’d be a really shitty person.”

that had made you laugh, a burst escaping you before you could stop it. ellie had shushed you so as to not wake joel, trying not to laugh herself. “stop. i’m trying to be serious.”

“okay, be serious.”

“uh… i, uh… damn, lot of pressure now…”

you smiled and let out a groan of her name, her floundering around both irritating and adorable.

“okay, i… uh…” she’d looked down and her face had twitched before meeting your eyes again. “i like girls.”

you remember having a funny feeling in your stomach upon finding that out. you already knew you looked at girls differently, too. maybe even ellie.

still, all you could muster was an earnest smile and a quiet, “that’s okay.”

a moment had passed, ellie fidgeting slightly and swallowing. “okay.”

something hung in the air. in your state, you’d accidentally caught yourself looking at her lips too long. and you thought she’d done the same — no, you were positive. you even thought she could have been about to lean in, eyelashes fluttering, right when the ceiling light was hit and joel’s voice rang out.

“do you know what time it is? get the hell to bed,” he’d grumbled, rubbing at his forehead. you and ellie had leapt apart, and you’d felt so guilty at the proximity you’d forgotten all about the mostly-empty bottle at your feet. 

that is, until joel had rounded the sofa and spied it, grabbing it with a sigh and muttering under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen. “jesus christ, you couldn’t have picked the cheap shit.”

you sat like a scolded dog as he placed it back in the cabinet, messing awkwardly with your hands. you didn’t look at ellie once, not sure if you’d be more nervous to see her looking away, or at you. joel had turned back around and padded over towards ellie, more frustrated than angry. “you know tommy bought that for me? was supposed to be savin’ it.”

she’d pursed her lips, sheepish. “my bad.”

everyone in the room knew he wasn’t going to get an apology out of her. so, he’d simply blown air out of his mouth after a beat, turning with a hand on his hip and the other pointed towards you. “you’re lucky i’m not gon’ call your parents.”

“thank you,” you’d replied pathetically.

“what in the hell were you thinkin’?” he stated, looking between the pair of you before shaking his head, knowing there was no point attempting to debate. “you know what, i ain’t even — just get to bed. go on.”

you hadn’t said another word to ellie that night, slept facing the wall as far away as the bed allowed. sure, you felt terrible for being caught stealing alcohol, but your spinning head was honing in on the moment before.

in the morning, you woke up to raging nausea and ellie pretending she was too drunk to remember anything. you could see through her, though.

out of the shower, you sift through your drawer for something to sleep in, yet your eyes keep falling on ellie’s hoodie atop your chair. you pull out an old t-shirt you got at a concert, fingertips brushing against the sweater underneath that was relegated to nightwear when you spilled coffee down it. you don’t want to wear either of them.

“stupid,” you murmur to yourself, grabbing a pair of shorts and slipping them on then stuffing the drawer closed. the hoodie’s swiftly tugged back over your head, light flipped off and you’re in bed before you have time to scold yourself into taking it off.

as much as you try to settle, there’s too much on your mind. too much of someone. it starts off as ruminating over if you stand a chance, culminates in imagining what could happen if you do. 

how it would feel to kiss her; plush lips you try so hard not to look at working against yours. her mouth moving downwards and tongue darting out, wet and hot against the skin of your neck.

letting out a sharp breath, you turn over onto your back. you allow a hand to slide underneath the fabric of ellie’s hoodie, gently kneading at your breast, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger. as you trail the fingertips of your free hand over your stomach, you give a squeeze to your waist. you tell yourself you don’t know why you did that — you know. you’re pretending it’s her hands all over you.

you’re still pretending when you dip underneath the waistband of your shorts, allowing a gasp to escape as you arrive at your clit. you’re soaked just from thinking about it. beginning a steady rhythm, your brain flashes back to the conversation before, the one where you’d been messing with ellie. the consequential images littering your mind’s eye.

what if that’s what she’s doing now, too? pressure builds as you delve back into the concept you’d so intensely shut down earlier, allowing it to take hold. thinking of her fucking herself on the other side of the wall, mouth in the crook of her elbow as she grinds her puffy clit into the pads of her fingers. forgoing that to reach for her vibrator, desperately fumbling at the buttons as she presses it between her slick lips.

you know you could make her feel so much better.

the way she’d tilt her head back as you brushed over her pussy, stopping to firmly circle at her sweet spot. the pretty noises she’d make, sighs of your name punctuated by breathy moans. the way you’d suckle at her collar, easily sliding two fingers inside and savoring how blunt fingernails dig into your shoulder.

you’re right on the edge imagining it — grabbing for your throw pillow in an attempt to mask the sounds you’re incapable of holding back, you’re met with it just beyond reach. desperate, you go for the next best thing.

balling up the fabric of the hoodie, you tug it over your mouth. the familiar scent overwhelms your already on-fire senses, a layer of immersion. as much as you’d never admit it to yourself, you know that’s what tips you over; heat spiraling until it comes crashing down, waves pulsing through you.

you twitch your way through it until you’re spent, allowing one hand to drop to your side, the other resting over your sweat-sheened forehead. the collar of the hoodie keeps its position by your mouth, your breath fanning back over you.

fuck.

you’d just wash it before you gave it back.

tags: @abbysleftbicepp @dollinrehab @liztreez @vahnilla @xaaaavleg @fatbootymuncher @sqandroct14 @yasmilks @piercedome

[yuriosakawa]

Jason wasn’t sure which was worse—having the Batfamily freak out over his ghost powers, or dealing with the relentless ghost hunter currently trying to blast a hole through his chest.

"Come, whelp!" Skulker’s mechanical voice boomed through the Gotham skyline. The massive specter hovered above a rooftop in his signature battle suit, a glowing net launcher primed at Jason. "Face me like a true warrior!"

Jason, still in his ghost form, stood at the edge of the adjacent building, spinning one of his pistols in his hand. “Man, I don’t know how to break this to you, Big Ugly, but I don’t do the whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing.”

Skulker snarled, raising his weapon. "You are an abomination! A creature neither truly alive nor truly dead! I will mount your pelt upon my wall as a trophy!"

Jason sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, that’s so not happening.”

Without warning, Skulker fired. A crackling green net shot toward him at high speed, but Jason was already moving. His form flickered, and in an instant, he phased through the attack, letting it pass harmlessly through where he’d been standing.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that," Jason taunted, landing on a nearby fire escape.

Skulker snarled and activated his shoulder-mounted cannons. "You will not escape me, whelp!"

Jason smirked. Oh, buddy, I ain’t running.

Reaching into his holsters, he pulled out his twin pistols, but instead of regular bullets, a cold, eerie green glow spread through the metal, crackling with ghostly energy. The barrels hummed with power, and Jason felt the familiar thrum of ectoplasm mixing with gunpowder.

Skulker hesitated for just a moment. 

"What is that—"

Jason pulled the triggers.

Twin bursts of green energy exploded from the barrels, cutting through the night like streaks of lightning. Skulker barely had time to dodge, but one shot grazed his shoulder, sending a violent shockwave through his armor. 

Sparks flew, and the mechanical suit groaned in protest.

"What—?" Skulker stumbled back, clutching his arm. "That hurt!"

Jason grinned. "Yeah, turns out when you mix ghost energy with high-velocity lead, you get some nasty results." He twirled one of his guns. "I call ‘em Ecto Rounds."

Skulker’s glowing green eyes narrowed. "You—"

Jason didn’t give him the chance to finish. He moved like a blur, zipping across the rooftop in an inhuman burst of speed. Before Skulker could react, Jason appeared at his flank, pressing the barrel of his gun right against the ghost’s head.

"Here’s the thing, big guy," Jason murmured, voice low and lethal. "You’re used to hunting ghosts. You ain’t used to hunting me."

Skulker growled, but Jason could see the hesitation in his eyes now.

Jason smirked. "I ain’t prey." He cocked his gun. "I’m the one that shoots back."

Before Jason could pull the trigger, a Batarang whizzed through the air, knocking his gun aside.

Jason blinked. "What the—?"

From the shadows, Batman himself emerged, his cape billowing in the wind. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held that familiar Bruce Wayne Disapproval™ look.

“Enough.”

Jason scowled. “Are you kidding me right now? I was handling it!”

Bruce ignored him, instead focusing on Skulker, who took the distraction as his cue to retreat. "This is not over, whelp!" Skulker snarled before activating his cloaking device and vanishing into the night.

Jason cursed under his breath. 

"Damn it."

Bruce folded his arms. “You infused your weapons with ectoplasmic energy.”

Jason twirled his pistol before holstering it. “Yeah. And?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “You modified your guns to be lethal against ghosts.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Again, yeah. Problem?”

Bruce studied him for a moment before sighing. “…No.”

Jason blinked. “…Wait, what?”

“I said no,” Bruce repeated. “You’ve developed your own combat style, one that accounts for your unique abilities. That’s good.” He glanced toward where Skulker had vanished. “But you’re also drawing attention. More ghosts will come.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “When do they not?”

Bruce looked back at him. “I won’t tell you to stop. But I will tell you to be careful.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. ���…That’s it? No lecture?”

Bruce gave him a flat look. "Would you listen?"

Jason considered it. “…Fair point.”

Bruce turned away, heading back toward the Batcave. “Come on. You’ll want to analyze that ecto-tech Skulker was using.”

Jason hesitated for a second before following. He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips.

Maybe—just maybe—being the Red Ghost wasn’t so bad after all.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 || 𝚊𝚞𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which aubrey needed a little sweetness in her life

The bell above the bakery door jingles with a soft chime—a sound you’ve grown used to, one that usually signals your regulars or the occasional out-of-town tourist who heard about “the best croissants in Minneapolis.” You barely look up from your mixing bowl, wrist deep in a batch of cinnamon roll dough, when the door opens.

But something—or maybe someone—makes you glance up.

She's tall. Taller than most people who duck into your cozy bakery on the corner of Washington Avenue. Dressed in simple joggers, a Lynx hoodie, and a beanie tugged low over her curls, she doesn’t immediately draw attention to herself. But her eyes scan the space with quiet curiosity, like she’s taking in every detail—the chalkboard menu, the pastel walls, the soft jazz humming from the speakers, and the faint smell of cardamom and vanilla that hangs in the air.

She smiles at no one in particular, and your stomach flips before your brain catches up.

She’s new.

And she’s beautiful.

“Hi,” you call from behind the counter, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “First time here?”

She nods, stepping a little closer. “Yeah. I just moved here a couple weeks ago. Trying to get to know the city.”

“Well,” you say, brushing flour from your apron as you step out from behind the counter, “you found the best bakery in Minneapolis, so I’d say you’re off to a solid start.”

She laughs—a quiet, warm sound that settles somewhere in your chest. “Good to know. I was just walking around and this place caught my eye.”

You glance at the sign hanging in the window. The hand-written one that says Homemade. From the heart. It’s always drawn in a few romantics.

“Well, I’m glad you came in,” you say, then extend a hand. “I’m Y/N. Owner, baker, and occasionally the person who burns the caramel.”

She laughs again, and this time it’s brighter. “Aubrey. Griffin.”

You pause. The name rings a bell. Slowly, your eyes flick to her hoodie.

“Oh… like that Aubrey Griffin?” you ask, teasingly, motioning to the Lynx logo.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “That’s me. Just got drafted.”

“Congrats,” you say, genuinely impressed. “You’re gonna kill it here. Minneapolis is crazy about the Lynx.”

“I’m starting to see that,” she says, glancing around at the few other patrons who are now subtly peeking over their coffee cups in recognition.

You offer her a seat by the window and slide a small menu toward her. “Here, sit. Take your time. First coffee’s on me—rookie discount.”

“Dangerous offer,” she murmurs, eyes scanning the menu. “I could make this a regular stop.”

You smile, not daring to hope yet, but liking the way she says it.

“I’d be okay with that.”

She comes back.

And the day after that.

Always alone, always with the same gentle smile and shy “hi” as she walks in. Sometimes she tries a new pastry. Sometimes she brings a book. Once, she shows up with a dog-eared journal and scribbles things down between bites of a lemon scone.

You learn she likes blueberry muffins the best. You learn she played at UConn. You learn that the adjustment to pro life is a little overwhelming, but that Minneapolis feels like home already—"because of little places like this."

You try not to read too much into that. But your heart does cartwheels anyway.

A few weeks passed.

It’s pouring. Like sheets of rain slamming against the glass, lightning streaking the sky kind of pouring. You think it’ll be a slow day, so you start closing up early—just you and the sound of Billie Holiday crooning through the speakers.

Until the door swings open again.

Aubrey. Soaked to the bone.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says, a little breathless, drenched hoodie clinging to her frame.

You rush to grab a towel. “Are you crazy? You could’ve called!”

“I didn’t have your number,” she grins, teeth chattering.

You blink, towel in hand, realizing she’s right—and also that she wanted it.

“Okay,” you say, handing her the towel. “Sit. I’ll get you something warm.”

You return with a mug of hot chocolate and a warm apple tart, sliding them across the table. She’s already taken off the wet hoodie, left in a plain white tee that does little to hide the muscle in her arms. You try not to look.

You fail a little.

She catches you.

You both laugh softly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, taking a sip. “I think this place is becoming my safe space.”

Your stomach flips again. “I’m honored.”

“Don’t tell the team,” she teases. “They already think I’m quiet and weird.”

“You’re not weird,” you say softly. “You’re… warm. Gentle.”

She tilts her head, eyes searching yours.

“No one’s called me that before.”

“Well,” you say, heart racing, “they should.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—

“Can I have your number?”

You grin. “Took you long enough.”

After that, the bakery becomes your thing.

She shows up almost every day. Sometimes just for coffee, sometimes to talk, sometimes just to sit quietly near you while you knead dough. It becomes your favorite routine.

One morning, she brings you flowers. “For the best baker in Minneapolis,” she says, a little pink in the cheeks.

Another night, she invites you to her first home game and beams when she sees you in the stands, cheering louder than anyone else.

It’s all soft touches, lingering looks, nervous grins over cinnamon buns and café lights. She walks you home after late closings. You learn she’s more of a touch-starved romantic than she lets on.

You brush flour off her cheek one day and her breath catches.

You both pretend not to notice.

You’re sitting on the floor of the bakery after closing—too tired to move, covered in powdered sugar and laughing over a mutual love for 2000s rom-coms. She leans in, hair falling in front of her eyes, and tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear.

“Y/N,” she says, voice a whisper, “I think I’ve been falling for you since the day I walked in.”

You freeze. Look up. She’s so close. So soft. So Aubrey.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” you whisper.

And then—finally—she kisses you.

Warm and slow. Gentle but sure. The kind of kiss that tastes like honey and home.

You lock the bakery and walk out hand in hand.

The city lights glow. The rain has stopped.

And you swear, with her beside you, everything smells just a little sweeter.

[rumble-aint-a-rumble-without-me]

Could you do something where the gangs (including Tim and curly) s/o has older brothers who are also greasers and just really intimidating in general?

A/N: This was such a fun concept? Dude, I had a lot of fun writing these, thanks for requesting them <3 and look at the little cuties, god they're the cutest things-

DARRY CURTIS

Darry’s not used to having older siblings? He is the oldest, that’s just the way the world is-

Your brothers though? I have a feeling he’d be one of the boys who are the least afraid of your brothers

Like yeah, your brothers are well-known for being the tough hoods they are, there’s practically your own little family gang just between them

But Darry’s not going to be cowering beneath them, shaking in his boots afraid of them

He’s going to try and be a gentleman? He’ll shake your brothers’ hands, make conversation with them when he picks you up before dates

It’s just Darry being Darry, his mama taught him his manners and he’s going to use them <3 he’s a good person

SODAPOP CURTIS

I just have this gut feeling that without a doubt, Sodapop’s going to be at the very least, slightly afraid of your brothers

At least in the beginning, y’know? Meeting your brothers was probably one of the scariest moments in his entire life

They’re just sort of intimidating, I’m sure they’re the type to try and strike fear into all of the suitors who come for their kid sibling

After he proves himself though, either by protecting you from something or standing up for you somewhere, your brothers are pretty alright with him

Now he’s just got a few more older siblings who like to nag him for things!

I feel like he’d get along with them too, now they’re asking for you to start bringing him around more     

PONYBOY CURTIS

Unlike his older brothers, Ponyboy is, in fact, used to having scary older brothers! So yours probably won’t bother him at all

He’s very used to the whole tradition of giving your younger sibling’s date the third degree whenever you meet them for the first time

But honestly? There really isn’t a reason for your brothers not to like Ponyboy, he’s doesn’t really do a lot of bad stuff

Unless your brothers have beef with the Curtis gang for some reason, Ponyboy’s a pretty safe choice to bring home to them!

He’s respectful with them too, he does his best to make conversation when the occasions call for it and he’s polite when he stops by your house

They like to say hi to him when he walks you home from school, waving from the house or the front yard when you guys show up

DALLAS WINSTON

Do we really think Dallas is going to be off-put by you having big, scary, older brothers? Cause I don’t-

Your brothers don’t scare him in the slightest, and if they do, he’s never going to admit it Dal likes to brag that he’s seen worse up in New York and that your brothers are nothing in comparison to some of the hoods he’s dealt with

He’s going to be rude, he’s going to push your brothers’ buttons a little and pull you closer and kiss you deeper than is polite 

Honestly? I bet your brothers don’t really like him, they think you can do a lot better than Dallas Winston and will probably tell you that on the regular

However, if Dally takes down some Socs for you or something, plays a protective role that your brothers usually occupy, maybe they’ll start to like him a little more

That it doesn’t mean they’re going to be any more lenient when it comes to the rules about him hanging around though-

JOHNNY CADE

Probably your safest choice of a boyfriend when your brothers are as big and bad as they are, they’re very overprotective of you probably

Johnny has never done anything wrong in his life, is super duper polite and won’t push any of the lines your brothers draw

They don’t want him spending the night at your house? Johnny’s alright with that, he’ll give you a soft kiss on the porch before he heads off for the night

He’s respectful guys, he’s not going to push the rules and he’s going to be considerate of your brothers

If you ask him, he’ll probably tell you that he’s not afraid of them, only slightly scared but I can see Johnny kind of looking up to them like he looks up to Dallas

Don’t tell Dally that though, Johnny doesn’t think he needs to know-

TWO-BIT MATHEWS

Hoohoo, oh boy, Two-Bit is going to run your brothers ragged-

Two-Bit likes to be annoying and your brothers are overprotective and it’s just so easy to get them all riled up

He’ll try and push the line sometimes, argue with them about silly things and just be a menace whenever he’s around them

Two’s not afraid of them like at all, he probably should be at least a little afraid but there isn’t one ounce of fear in his body when it comes to them

It’s another one of those, he’s gotta prove himself to your brothers? They think you can do better than Two-Bit, blah blah blah

But just one time where’s comforting you when you really need it or just being there for you when you need him, your brothers are a little more accepting of the hood

STEVE RANDLE

My version of Steve is an only child, so that’s going to affect this a little cause my Steve isn’t used to having siblings in general-

Is Steve afraid of your brothers? The answer is yes, very much so, thoroughly afraid of them

But he won’t act like he’s afraid, he just tries to toughen up by pushing his shoulders back and his chin up whenever he’s got to talk with them

Their approval is sort of important to him? He wants your brothers to like him, that’s really all he wants, he seeks the validation

Steve’s going to be polite then, making sure to have you home on time so you won’t break curfew

Your brothers probably think he’s a good enough kid, they’ll nag him every now and again, tease him just enough to keep him on his toes, it’s a brotherly kind of love guys 

TIM SHEPARD

Tim’s not afraid of your brothers, like at all-

He’s a gang leader guys, he deals with “big and scary” guys all the time so your brothers aren’t going to be any different

Tim’s got an attitude, that’s for sure, and it’s not going to change when it comes to your brothers, he’s still going to be a jerk and pester them and push all their buttons

He’s not rude? Like he follows the rules they’ve set for you, but he’s a little passive-aggressive, whispering comments that you’ll smack him for and just being a menace

Tim doesn’t take too kindly to teasing, he’s not going to let them push him around and your brothers will probably figure that out really fast  

Again, your brothers probably don’t like him, whether they don’t like Tim himself or they don’t like the Shepard gang? No one will ever know

CURLY SHEPARD

Your Brothers Either Don’t Like Him Or Just Don’t Like The Shepard Gang Pt.2

Curly’s not the greatest kid, he gets into trouble and does things he shouldn’t, but he’s used to having a scary older brother

Tim’s pretty good about keeping him in line, so he’s not too surprised when your brothers make rules about him coming around

Is Curly going to follow all of them? Probably not, he treats them more like guidelines than actual rules, curfew is more of a recommendation in his mind than a hard rule to follow

He takes care of you though, that’s something your brothers have to admit about Curly, he takes good care of you

From making sure he’s between you and whatever danger you might find yourself against to simply sharing his food with you if you’re hungry <3

[moonlitrapture]

Clean Hands, Dirty Mouth 1/2

Black! Nurse Reader x Smoke x Remmick Modern Au

Summary: By day, you’re a nurse in the underfunded, overburdened psych ward of Saint Ashcroft Hospital. The fluorescent lights flicker. The walls sweat secrets. And the patients? Some stare right through you—others see too much.

You tell yourself you’re just here to help people. But it’s not enough. Rent’s high, and your past has left you buried in debt. So by night, you disappear into alleyways, neon-lit motel rooms, and backseat encounters—selling what’s left of your body to keep your life from caving in.

And then he arrives—

A new patient. Or someone claiming they just got “lost” in the ward’s labyrinthine halls. You’re not sure what’s real anymore. He stares too long. He says things no one should know.

“You carry death in your scent,” he says, brushing past you in the hallway.

You’re unraveling. You’re not sleeping. Your night clients whisper the same strange names your patients scream in their sleep. And when you try to quit, leave it all behind—

You find a note in your locker.

“You were never just a nurse.”

The hospital smells like bleach, sweat, and something rotting just beneath the surface.

They say you stop noticing it after a while. That’s a lie. You just learn to breathe through your mouth and pretend your uniform doesn’t cling to you like a second skin soaked in ghosts.

Room 4C/5C is humming again.

It always hums when the new patient is inside.

I don’t ask why. The other nurses know better, too. We draw straws, whisper bets, and laugh just a little too loud when we pass him in the hallway. Because the alternative is admitting that none of us sleep right anymore.

I enter quietly. He’s sitting up this time—back straight, eyes empty. But they track me.

“Rough night?” His voice is smooth, disarming. Like a lullaby laced with static.

“You could say that.”

My fingers fumble at the tray of meds. I don’t flinch when he stands. I’ve learned not to. Predators love a flinch.

“You’ve got city on your skin,” he says, stepping closer. “Perfume and sin. You shouldn’t come here smelling like that.”

I look up, meet his stare dead-on. “And what do you smell like, Remmick?”

He grins. “Graves.”

⸻

I don’t see Smoke until my shift ends.

He’s waiting outside, leaning against a streetlight like he’s part of the night. Black Nike hoodie, half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, Black Jordans , scuffed like they’ve walked through every wrong part of the city and liked it.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice like gravel and heat.

“You here for work or for me?”

His smile never reaches his eyes. “Same thing, ain’t it?”

He walks me further down the block, where the red lights start flashing again . Where my second life begins. We don’t talk much on the way. We never do. But his presence says what words can’t—he sees me. Not the nurse. Not the girl on her knees. Me.

At the curb, he turns to face me, steps in close.

“I saw the new guy , watching you again.”

“So?”

“So,” he says, voice low, “you think you’re running this little double-life of yours, but you’re not. You’ve got wolves at both doors now.”

I should be scared.

But I’m not.

Because the truth is—I don’t know which part of me they’re chasing.

The nurse.

The whore.

Or something even darker in between.

Smoke pulls a long drag from his cigarette, eyes cutting sideways at me. “You’re late.”

“I had to clean up after Remmick again. He’s getting bolder.”

He exhales slowly, smoke curling around his face like a veil. “He’s not your problem past 7 PM. I am.”

There’s no cruelty in his voice—just fact. Cold, familiar, intimate.

By day, Smoke hands me IV bags and charts. He helps restrain patients when they get violent. He slips me pills when I need to numb out. But once the clock ticks over, he’s the one who handles the cash. The one who picks the clients. The one who reminds me what surviving costs.

His hand grazes my lower back. Not tender. Possessive.

“You’ve got three tonight. No nonsense. One’s a regular. The other two are new.”

I nod without looking at him. My stomach twists.

“Don’t make me come looking for you,” he murmurs.

“I never make you look.”

He laughs, low and tired. “Not yet.”

Smoke turns and walks off into the dark, his shadow swallowing the street behind him. I stay still, waiting for the moment I can become someone else again. Not a nurse. Not a whore.

Just something that survives.

——————

By the time the ride-share drops you at the second location—a sagging apartment building with graffiti-covered mailboxes and the smell of weed clinging to the stairwell—you already feel like a ghost in your own skin.

Smoke’s waiting by the stairs, arms folded, hoodie pulled over his head.

“You’re early,” you murmur, brushing past him.

He stops you with a hand on your arm—gentle, but firm.

“Clients canceled. Still paid the deposit.”

He shrugs. “Your lucky night.”

You laugh, brittle. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Smoke tilts his head, eyes scanning you like he’s trying to read past the makeup, past the mask.

“You’re tired,” he says.

“I’m always tired.”

There’s no pity in his face—just understanding. That quiet, hard-edged kind that doesn’t ask for explanations. He exhales slow through his nose and tugs you toward the concrete steps.

“Come inside,” he says. “Five minutes. Just sit. That’s it.”

You hesitate, then follow.

The apartment isn’t much. Peeling paint, a stained couch, the hum of something broken in the walls. But it’s quiet. Warm. Dim. And for five minutes, you let yourself melt into it.

Smoke doesn’t say anything. But pulls out his phone and , sits next to you on the couch, and lets your head fall onto his shoulder. His hand finds your thigh—steady, grounding. Not asking for anything. Just there.

You close your eyes.

You don’t cry.

But if you did, he’d pretend not to notice. That’s his way of showing love as your pimp.

The next shift at the hospital is brutal.

You’re running on two hours of sleep and a bottle of flat vending machine Coke. Your scrubs smell like disinfectant and city sweat. A patient in 3B tried to swallow her own tongue. Another one smeared blood across the walls like a warning no one’s willing to read.

You smile through rounds. You pass pills with shaking hands. You nod when the supervisor talks about cutbacks like they aren’t bleeding you dry already.

By the time noon hits, your vision blurs when you blink too long. But you don’t stop.

Because you’re not allowed to stop.

And because somewhere between exhaustion and numbness…

Smoke’s voice is still in your head.

“Just sit. That’s it.”

You wish that was enough.

But it never is.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you grab your clipboard from the nurses’ station. It’s just past shift change, and the ward hums with tired conversations and footsteps echoing through the sterile halls.

“You ready for the new guy again “? Mary asks, sliding her coffee cup onto the counter with a sigh.

You nod, pulling on your gloves. “He’s been here less than 48 hours, right? What’s his story?”

“Supposedly some kind of breakdown. No real history yet. Quiet, but watchful.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Word is, he’s got a temper. Not like the usual flare-ups—more… cold.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Cold how?”

“Like he’s always measuring you, weighing if you’re worth his time.”

Mary shrugs and sips her coffee. “He’s got to take his meds in the next half hour. I’ll come with you, just in case.”

You head down the hall toward 4C, the sound of distant TVs and muffled voices growing louder. The door to the room is cracked open, and you peek inside.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the room. His hands are clenched loosely in his lap, fingers twitching.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping inside. “I’m here to help you with your meds.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flick to you, sharp and assessing.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you add, keeping your tone light. “We’ve all been new here once.”

His jaw tightens. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

You pull the medication tray closer, and Mary slips in behind you with a reassuring smile.

As you hand him the pills, you can’t shake the feeling that this one’s story is just beginning — and that the quiet ones are always the most dangerous.

Mary’s radio crackles.

“All available nurses, ER wing. We’ve got a code red incoming—multiple.”

She meets your eyes with a silent question. You nod once.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, already moving. “You got this?”

“I’m fine.”

And then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos erupting beyond.

The door to 4C clicks softly shut behind you. You’re alone with him now.

The patient still sits on the edge of the bed, watching you—not like you’re staff, not like you’re an authority. No. Like you’re a puzzle. A mirror. Something that might show him who he is if he stares long enough.

The silence stretches, thick and warm. The kind that settles on your skin like something alive.

“Rough night?” he says finally, voice low and calm.

You glance at him, surprised. Most patients this early in intake don’t bother with small talk.

“You could say that,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral. “It usually is.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t seem like someone who minds the rough stuff.”

Your spine stiffens just slightly. Professional wall back up.

“I’m here to help you take your meds,” you say. “That’s all.”

He smiles—not wide, not cruel. Just enough to show he’s been studying people longer than he should’ve.

“You’ve got that tired look,” he murmurs. “The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep.”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t need confirmation.

“Let me guess,” he continues. “You work doubles. You take extra shifts. You pretend it’s for the paycheck, but it’s not really. It’s because the silence outside these walls is worse than the noise inside them.”

You cross your arms. “Do you always try to dissect people who bring you medicine?”

He chuckles. “Only the ones who walk in looking like they’ve been chewed up by the world and still came back for more.”

His gaze lingers too long, too deep. Not sexual. Not exactly. But intimate in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says, softer now. “I just… I see things. In people. And I think I see it in you too. That thing you keep buried.”

You step back, reaching for the door. “Take your pills. I’ll check back later.”

His voice stops you. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re alone.”

You glance over your shoulder. And for a second—just a second—you wonder how he knows exactly what to say to crack the ice from the inside.

But you shut the door behind you, harder than necessary.

And still, you feel his eyes on you long after you’ve left the room.

——————

Smoke’s at the front desk, one foot propped against the filing cabinet, typing slowly into the patient database. His fingers tap with deliberate boredom, the monitor casting a cold blue light across his sharp features. He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

“You look like hell,” he mutters.

“Feels worse,” you reply, dropping into the squeaky chair next to him.

A beat of silence. You glance at the screen—new intake paperwork, standard protocol—but you can tell he’s already tuned into you. Smoke always listens before you start speaking.

“That guy in 5C. New one.”

You pause. “He said some things. Personal things.”

Now he looks at you, one brow arching.

“Patients say weird shit. Comes with the job.”

“Yeah, but this wasn’t just weird,” you say, lowering your voice. “He… knew things. About me. About how I feel when I’m not here. The kind of stuff I don’t even tell you.”

Smoke leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. For a second, something flickers behind his eyes. Not concern. Calculation.

“Name?” he asks.

You glance down at his screen. “Already in there.”

He swivels the monitor toward you. You scan the info. Standard red tape. Nothing that screams danger. Nothing that explains what he said.

“See?” Smoke shrugs. “Sometimes they guess right. Sometimes it’s coincidence.”

“Or sometimes,” a new voice cuts in, “they’re just looking for someone to latch onto.”

You both turn. Mary stands in the doorway, balancing a tray of med cups, chewing gum like she hasn’t slept in days. She walks past you, doesn’t stop.

“Don’t give it too much air, hon,” she says. “These guys? They sniff out cracks in your head and pour gasoline into ’em. Nothing personal.”

Then she’s gone, hips swaying, the scent of her perfume trailing behind like static.

Smoke watches her go, then looks back at you.

“You gonna let it go?” he asks.

You don’t answer. Because you know what he wants you to say.

But when your next shift starts, the first room on your rotation is 4C.

And behind that door, you can already feel the tension waiting—like something holding its breath.

——————

Your called again soon to the inevitable , Room 5C. Again.

The lights flicker as you push the door open.

Remmick sits cross-legged on the bed, hair a tangle of copper flame, wrists tucked neatly against his knees. He looks up like he’s been waiting all day just for you.

“You’re late,” he says, with a faint smile. Irish lilt curling under every word.

You check the clock. You’re on time.

He tilts his head. “But time doesn’t mean much in here, does it?”

You don’t answer. Just hand him the cup with his meds. He takes it slow, fingers brushing yours too long.

“Don’t let them break you,” he says, suddenly quiet.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “You’re already cracked. I can hear it in your breath.”

Before you can respond, he swallows the pills dry, lies back, and closes his eyes like nothing ever happened.

——————

By the time your shift ends, you can’t feel your legs. Your chest hums with static. The walls whisper when you lean too close.

You press your forehead to the break room mirror, eyes bloodshot, teeth clenched.

Maybe Remmick’s right. Maybe you are cracked.

You haven’t slept in two days.

Smoke hasn’t looked you in the eye since yesterday.

Mary laughs too loud now, like she’s trying to drown something out.

You dig your fingers into your scalp until it hurts. Just to feel something.

And still, when you walk out of the hospital, your shadow feels just a little too long behind you.

——————

The shower does nothing.

You stand under the boiling water until your skin is blotchy and raw, but the hospital still clings to you—the stink of bleach, the sound of restraints snapping shut, the distant screams echoing long after they stop.

You dry off with shaking hands. Your phone buzzes.

Smoke: You got the heels or am I grabbing them?

You sigh, thumb out a reply.

You: Already in the bag. Be down in 10.

⸻

The car ride is silent at first. Just the low throb of a bass-heavy beat from Smoke’s shitty speakers and the occasional sound of him lighting a cigarette. He glances over when you rub your eyes too long at a red light.

“Long day , My Heart ?”

You scoff. “Define long.”

He nods like he already knew. Like he’s always known. “Remmick again?”

You don’t answer.

⸻

The apartment is dim, reeking faintly of weed and old perfume. Smoke empties his jacket onto the table—condoms, gum, a burner phone, and a wad of cash.

He starts counting.

You slump onto the couch, heels kicked off, your thighs still sticky from someone else’s sweat.

“Two clients,” he mutters. “Rich assholes. Good tippers. Nine hundred, all in.”

You swallow thickly. “Smoke…”

He stops counting. Looks at you. Waits.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

The words fall out of you before you can catch them. “The hospital’s killing me. This—this is killing me. It’s all starting to feel the same. The screaming. The staring. The pretending.”

Smoke sits on the edge of the coffee table, bills still in his hands. He leans in close, voice low and steady.

“This city doesn’t care what kills you. It only cares what you’re willing to do to stay above it.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“You think you can make rent on nurse pay? You think the kind of life you want just happens if you work hard enough?” He laughs, bitter and short. “You’re smarter than that.”

You stare at the cash. Neatly stacked. Tangible. Real.

“This is the only way,” he says, quieter now. “It’s ugly. But it’s ours.”

You want to fight him. You want to scream. You want to throw the cash in his face.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just nod—once.

And when Smoke touches your chin, when he kisses you like it means something, you let him.

Because at least here, in this rotting apartment with its flickering light and greasy floors—you know the rules.

And you’re too tired to try and change the game.

Somewhere between clock-ins and code blues, I stop feeling real.

I forget if I brushed my teeth. I wear my ID badge like a noose. The fluorescent lights hum a little louder every day, like they’re telling secrets in a language I’m too tired to learn.

Mary catches me staring too long at the wall.

“You need sleep,” she says.

I nod, but I don’t go home.

⸻

The new patient, Remmick, watches me like I’m a burning church.

Sometimes I find him already sitting at the door before I open it. He never knocks. Never calls for help. He just waits.

Like he knows I’ll come.

“You look different,” he murmurs one night, eyes gleaming like split emeralds. “Something inside you’s started shifting.”

“I’m tired,” I say, like that’s all it is.

But I’m lying.

Because it started three nights ago.

The first time he moved something without touching it.

It was subtle—barely a whisper of movement. A med cart inching sideways when I looked away. A pen rolling uphill. My lanyard lifting off my chest like a breeze passed through me, though the air stood still.

I told myself it was stress. Hallucination.

A trick of light.

But I felt it in my bones.

The old kind of fear. The kind children know before they have words for it.

⸻

Then came the night I opened his door and he was standing in the middle of the room—arms spread, eyes shut—and everything around him was floating.

Bedframe, lamp, pillow, pills—suspended in air like a saint mid-miracle or a man caught in a dream.

“Stop,” I whispered. “Stop it.”

He opened his eyes.

And everything dropped at once.

⸻

No one believes me.

They call it burnout. They call it trauma.

They say I need time off.

But Remmick only smiles when I pass his room, and sometimes, I hear his voice in my head without him ever speaking.

“You’re not insane,” it says.

“You’re awakening.”

⸻

Now the clocks tick backward in his room.

The glass doesn’t reflect my face.

My hands tremble when I try to pray.

And still—I show up.

Because somewhere between the blood and the whispers, I feel myself being drawn to him like tide to moon.

And I don’t know if I’m falling into madness…

Or being called home.

The whispering starts in the breakroom.

Not mouths. Not words.

Just this pressure behind my ears, like I’m underwater in a place where sound remembers how to bleed.

Mary offers me coffee. I flinch like she’s holding a knife.

She raises her brows. “You good?”

I lie. Again.

But her face is different lately—warmer than usual. Too warm. Too practiced. Like it’s a mask sewn to her skin.

They’re watching you.

The thought slips into my head so smoothly I forget it isn’t mine.

⸻

Later, Remmick presses his palm to the glass in his door.

“You think you’re cracking,” he says. “But maybe this is you unfolding.”

“You’re manipulating me.”

“I’m reminding you,” he purrs. “Of who you are beneath the flesh. You think this pain, this night work, this rotting hospital… you think that’s all you are?”

I try to turn, but my legs betray me.

I stay. Listening.

Breathing him in like smoke off a fire I should’ve put out.

———-

The break room is dim, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

You and Mary lean against the worn counter, sharing a moment stolen between grueling shifts.

“He’s a strange one, that Remmick,” Mary says, voice low, eyes flickering with curiosity and caution.

You nod, stirring your lukewarm coffee. “Yeah. I heard he was dropped off by the police last week. Just… left there, like a package.”

Mary snorts. “Right? No family, no friends, nothing. Just this wild Irish redhead with a past darker than the ward’s basement.”

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting him to be lurking nearby.

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” you ask, biting your lip.

Mary shrugs, but there’s an edge to it.

“Dangerous? Maybe. But he’s more than that. Heard he was involved in some serious mess back home—something about a cult, disappearances, maybe even murder.”

Your skin prickles.

“Jesus. No wonder the cops didn’t want him.”

Mary leans closer, whispering, “They say he’s not just crazy. There’s something… else. Something nobody can explain.”

You swallow hard.

“Like what?”

Mary’s eyes glint with mischief—or warning.

“Like he’s not really human.”

The words hang between you, heavy as the night.

You both laugh, a little too forced, a little too loud.

But deep down, you know something’s off.

And Remmick’s arrival is only the beginning.

Smoke notices , the weird strange behaviours you start to display .

He leans in the apartment doorway one night as I undressed. My scrubs hit the floor like a discarded skin.

“You’ve been different,” he says, tone flat.

I look over. “Different how?”

He shrugs. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t inhale. “You don’t flinch when I touch you anymore.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

His eyes narrow. “Depends on what made it stop.”

He tosses a stack of twenties onto the counter. “That new patient messing with you?”

I don’t answer.

He steps in front of me, lifts my chin with two fingers.

“I don’t care if he’s crazy or cursed or part of your damn imagination.” His voice is low, heavy with something like fear. “If he’s changing you, I want him gone.”

⸻

But it’s already too late.

Remmick visits me in dreams now.

He speaks in riddles. In memories I never lived.

He shows me blood-soaked hands I swear are mine.

He whispers, “They don’t see what you are because they only see what you give them.”

⸻

The next morning, I forget Mary’s name.

The pills rattle louder.

The clocks in Remmick’s room stop.

And Smoke watches me like I’m slipping through his fingers.

Because I am.

—————

It starts with Bow Chow’s coffee.

Lukewarm, cheap, always half full and sticky with sugar on the rim. He’s talking too much again, not paying attention—his laugh big and grating as he sets the cup down right on top of the central controller unit.

The one marked:

DO NOT PLACE OBJECTS ON SURFACE.

“Dude, move that—” you start, too late.

The coffee tips. A slow-motion arc of caramel brown, seeping down into circuits with a faint, almost delicate sizzle.

The system whines.

Lights flicker.

Then the alarms begin to scream.

The coffee tips. A slow-motion arc of caramel brown, seeping down into circuits with a faint, almost delicate sizzle.

The system whines.

Lights flicker.

Then the alarms begin to scream.

⸻

Patient Room 5C: OPEN.

Patient Room 7D: OPEN.

PATIENT ROOM 3A: CODE RED.

Doors that should stay locked slam open. Screams echo up the hallway like a choir from Hell.

Bow Chow drops the cup. “Shit—oh, shit, oh—”

You’re already running.

Mary’s voice bursts through the intercom, frantic:

“Security to East Wing. NOW.”

You pass Remmick’s room—and he’s standing in the middle of the hall, calm, serene, untouched by the storm.

He meets your eyes.

“I told you it would come.”

⸻

Nurses are tackled. Blood hits tile.

A patient rips a defibrillator off the wall.

Another crawls across the ceiling like a spider, eyes wide with too many pupils.

You try to help—try to ground yourself in the chaos—but the lines blur. Screams layer over beeping monitors. Time doesn’t move forward. It circles.

Someone is crying your name.

You don’t know if it’s real.

⸻

Later—hours, maybe—you’re back in the locker room, covered in bruises and dried adrenaline. You’re shaking.

Smoke calls you on your break. You answer on the third ring.

“Turn on the TV,” he says.

You don’t.

He exhales on the line. “Come home.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re not safe there anymore.”

He’s right. But safety isn’t the issue anymore.

Smoke had already handed in his two weeks the moment they offered him something bigger—another hospital, another city. A cleaner title to cover the same dirty hands. When he said come home, he didn’t mean to the apartment. He meant to the life. His life. Full-time. No more pretending this was temporary. No more pretending you could leave it behind. The streets.

You meet Remmick again after the floor is cleared and the survivors are sedated. He stands beside a shattered mirror, no reflection.

“You think this was an accident?” he asks, gently.

“No.”

His hand touches your cheek. Cold. Familiar.

“You weren’t made for small lives, little nurse.”

⸻

That night, you pack a bag.

Your keys feel foreign in your hand.

You don’t even lock the door.

You just walk—out of the hospital, out of the life that’s rotting from the inside—and disappear into the city’s dark mouth.

Smoke meets you at the edge of the street.

He doesn’t ask questions.

He just lights a cigarette and starts walking beside you, to his car.

And you realize, This isn’t just a breaking point. It’s a second beginning.

Something old and buried, something not entirely yours, begins to stir beneath your skin. It stretches slow, like a limb shaking off sleep, coiled and ancient in its hunger.

One minute, it’s charts and vitals and the soft hiss of sedatives.

The next—screaming.

Not human. Not really.

It slices through the ward like a blade through wet paper. A sound so sharp it vibrates in your spine, lodges behind your eyes. Reflex kicks in before thought—your body flinching from something it hasn’t evolved to survive.

This isn’t madness.

This isn’t a mistake in dosage or a lapse in protocol.

This is wrong—

In the way rotting meat smells wrong,

In the way mirrors sometimes don’t feel empty,

In the way something looks at you from inside a man’s eyes,

and doesn’t blink.

All that fell was silence as he opened the car door for you—

Not a word, not a glance, just the hollow creak of the hinge cutting through the dark like a warning.

The kind of silence that isn’t empty.

The kind that waits.

⸻

[sleepless-dreams]

ON THIN ICE

summary: was it worth it? Letting the pull win? Letting yourself let go?

trigger warning: panic attack, dissociation

word count: 2.8k

A/N: just a heads up that I won't be posting the following chapter the next Sunday like usual, but the Sunday two weeks from now due to my busy schedule. Thanks for your patience <3

₊⊹CHAPTER 5⊹₊

I’m standing by the boards, watching through the plexiglass as Owen and a small group of his teammates run a drill. There's a zigzag path of spaced-out cones stretches across the ice. The boys weave through the slalom, executing tight turns around the cones to improve speed retention, agility and quick transitions.

On the opposite side of the rink, the other half of the team mirrors the same exercise. It’s a solid drill; honing the ability to make sharp turns is crucial for evading opponents, chasing the puck or repositioning without losing momentum.

This is one of the drills Owen struggles with. His wide arcs are fine, but tight turns throw him off significantly. He skids through them, often losing balance and stumbles out of the path. His overreliance on upper body movement not only worsens his instability but also slows him down.

As I watch him, the decision is clear, today’s session will focus on his edge work.

On Thursdays, Owen skips heading to the locker room with the other boys. Instead, we head straight to the buffet, where I order warm drinks while we wait for the rink to clear out for our private lesson. Today is no different.

Owen takes his usual seat at our table– a cozy corner spot by the glass wall overlooking the rink. It’s tucked far enough from the walkway to the exit that, despite being in an open layout, we don’t draw much attention. Which is exactly what I want.

As I stand at the counter ready to order, I offer the employee a friendly smile as I tell her what we're getting.

“Two mugs of hot chocolate, please.” She nods and turns to prepare our drinks.

I spot her just before she can startle me, something she seems to do with alarming regularity.

“Every Thursday, like clockwork.” Wanda observes casually, stepping up beside me. There’s a sparkle in her eyes, one that always seems to betray her curiosity.

I shrug, trying to deflect it. “Thursdays give me extra time with Owen, so this is how I make the most of it.” It’s technically true, even if it leaves out a few key details.

Wanda’s eyebrows lift slightly in understanding and I feel a sense of relief at that. God forbid she ever sees me on ice.

That awkward pause creeps in again, much to my dismay. It seems to happen every time I talk to her. Thankfully, it’s short-lived as the employee sets down two mugs of steaming hot chocolate topped with whipped cream.

"That’ll be 6.50, please,” the employee says. I tap my phone on the terminal, internally questioning why I bothered bringing my wallet at all as I clutch it in my other hand.

“Mind if I join you for a little while?” Wanda asks just as I turn to head back to the table. She gestures in the same direction.

I pause mid-turn, staring at her in mild shock. “Sure,” I manage to agree.

“I’ll come by once I order.” Wanda says, turning her attention to the employee.

I walk over to our table, setting the mugs down with a small sigh. The moment they settle on the wood, Owen is already wrapping his hand around one, pulling it toward himself to scoop the whipped cream and push it into his mouth eagerly.

I fall into a seat next to him.

"Your coach is going to come sit with us," I inform him. Owen doesn't even lift his eyes from his sweet treat as he replies with, "Cool," making me question if he even registered what I just told him.

I end up spending the time before Wanda comes to sit with us flicking my gaze between my mug and her, feeling my anxiety mount.

She offers me a smile when she walks up, a steaming mug in her hand and takes a seat opposite me and Owen. The strong distinguishable aroma of ginger tea wafts through the air.

"Thank you for letting me join in. I need a little break myself," she jokes lightly, bringing the cup to her lips. I can't help but follow the motion with my eyes, briefly entranced by how her lips wrap around the edge of the mug.

When she sets her drink back on the table, I must make a face because she gives me a puzzled look.

"I don't like ginger..." I blurt out quickly.

"Is that so?" She says with a little smile, moving the tea closer to herself in a kind gesture. There's a small pause and I use it to take a sip from my hot chocolate.

"It's nice of you to do this with Owen," Wanda remarks, stirring her tea with a spoon.

I play with my hands underneath the table and I find myself lowering my eyes to the table. I open my mouth to reply, but Owen beats me to it, suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Auntie is cool like that," he says with so much pride in his voice one would think he's boasting.

My nerves lay forgotten for a moment as I soften. My hand comes up to the top of his hair, ruffling it as I allow myself a smile. The boy turns with a half-hearted glare, ducking under the offending hand as he attempts to swat it away.

I snigger, but the sound nearly dies down in my throat as the laugh of another reaches my ears. I catch a glimpse of Wanda, eyes crinkling as she laughs, the sound full and rich ringing through the air.

Wanda is too busy laughing to notice, but Owen isn't. He shoots me a shit-eating grin and I know he's onto me. I give him a warning look and reach for my hot chocolate to take a sip.

Owen joins in on the laugh, making me look at him with suspicion. Before I can nudge him to stop, he's already talking.

"Your laugh is so pretty, coach," he says, forcibly laughing for another beat before stopping. My head immediately snaps to Wanda to gauge her reaction.

Wanda chuckles at Owens comment, her smile sharp with amusement. She doesn't notice that it was Owen mocking my distracted reaction to her laughter. Or if she does, she doesn't comment on it. I choose to believe in the former, for the sake of my dignity.

"Well, thank you, Owen. I'll take that as a compliment." She responds smoothly and I sigh quietly.

Wanda doesn't stay long after that, finishing her tea and bidding us our goodbyes with a casual smile and a little wave.

As soon as she's out of earshot, I turn to Owen with a half-hearted glare.

"What was that about?" I question. He just shrugs, the same naughty smile on his lips.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just think her laugh is pretty. Don't you?" he asks me, mirth tinging his voice.

I huff, shaking my head at his antics. I take a look in his mug and find it empty. "Go wait for me on the ice." I tell him, trying to sound like I'm offended, but really, I'm just flustered.

The boy laughs and gets up, obeying my order. I stand up myself a moment later, after I gulp down the last of my hot chocolate. I take the mugs back to the counter and follow Owen into the rink.

He's already in, skating around as he waits, just like I told him to. I step onto the ice, feeling the slippery surface underneath my feet as the unease sets in.

"We're going to focus on your turns, I saw you struggling with them today." I inform him of the plan for today.

"You're having trouble with sharp turns because you're making them with your torso and not your legs." I explain to him.

"When you swing your arms around, you create momentum, which helps you turn. While it works with bigger arcs, it's not enough for quick, sharp ones. That's why you skid them out. It's also counterproductive– you tip your balance off with every swing and it's an unnecessary energy outlet," I explain, swinging my arms around to mimic his motion.

"We're going to do a drill that will fixate your torso and hopefully force you to work with your legs instead of relying on this." I motion to his stick, which he hands over.

I take the stick and grab it with both of my hands, holding it horizontally in front of me. "You're going to hold your stick like this and make small sharp turns like in the slalom."

I hand him the stick back and watch him copy what I did. Instinctively, my hand comes up to press between his shoulder blades to make him straighten up.

"What are you doing?" Owen asks me, confused because hockey players naturally hunch in their stance.

"Sorry, force of habit," I mutter, dropping my hand.

"Go ahead," I say, motioning with my head for him to start the drill as I observe.

He skates from one side to the other before stopping and looking back at me for feedback.

"While you didn't use your arms to make the turns this time, you also didn't use your edges. You tried to push through the arcs with brute strength, which is why your turns weren’t smooth, they came out chopped up," I explain. I even point out his track, confirming that the line is jagged instead of smooth.

"You're not carving your arcs properly because you don't trust your blades to hold you. Your edges are what let your blade slice into the ice and carve a clean turn," I explain further.

We try this again a few more times, but he can't seem to get it right.

Even after I explain the theory again and again and he repeats the drills, he’s still struggling. He doesn’t angle his feet enough to push into his blades, nor does he trust them to hold him through the turns. Without swinging his arms, he tries to compensate with brute force, but that doesn’t work either. I need to change my approach.

I know Owen doesn’t fully understand the importance of this skill yet, and that’s fine. Many beginner skaters don’t. While he’s not exactly a beginner, he’s still relatively new– hence these lessons. He doesn’t grasp the significance of proper edge usage. From my own experience, I’ve learned that the best way to prove a point is to demonstrate it. That’s exactly what Owen needs: to see it to understand it.

This lesson has been hard on its own. I’ve had to leave my stationary spot by the boards multiple times to correct Owen, to the point where I’ve stopped bothering to skate back after each adjustment. It’s already pushing me far out of my comfort zone. But Owen needs to understand how important this is and what he’s capable of achieving with just a little trust in his blades.

"I want you to stand back and watch. Focus on my feet, observe how I change the angle according to how sharply I want to turn and the transition from one side of the blade to the other." I instruct him. Even when I see his confused expression, I don't offer an explanation. I need to mentally prepare myself for this and I get the feeling that if I put a name to what I'm about to do, I wouldn't go through with it. For saying it out loud would make it real, and I don't want it to be.

Once I’m sure Owen has skated a safe distance away and is paying attention as instructed, I push off, building speed with a few powerful strokes. My brain shuts down after the first few movements.

The choreography flows through me on its own.

At this moment, I don’t think– I simply move. I let my body move on its own accord, following the grove, the pull of an invisible force. I feel my blades carve patterns into the ice, drawing fleeting pictures with every turn. There’s a familiar dizziness as I exit a spin, my legs already propelling me into another spiral, seamlessly connecting one step to the next. The pattern is unrestricted, the sequence traveling through my body as I let it move me on its own accord. Transitions from one element to another are connected with exits I round up as they come without much thought to it.

For a moment I'm liberated, it's only me and the movement. The shift in weight, the sting of cold air biting into me as I speed up during a scratch spin when I bring my arms in.

I dismount, finishing with a snap of my ankles in a sharp halt and I come to a stop in a split second. I don't even realise I finished in ending position, one hand extended above, one crossed over my chest with legs bent in a similar fashion, one straight– on which I'm standing, the other bent inwards over the first.

The first thing I notice is my harsh, uneven breathing.

I still have it in me. A small, fragile smile tugs at my lips, but I bite it back, teeth sinking lightly into my bottom lip. A strange feeling blooms somewhere deep within my chest.

It dims down a second after, my smile dropping as a voice within my head makes itself know, loud and booming in it's sharpness. A voice that doesn't belong to me, but it's mine all the same.

'Your entries were sloppy. So we're your exit turns. Your spins weren't centered, you were travelling and your trail isn't nearly as smooth as it should be. The arm isn't straight enough, and your breathing shouldn't be heaving like it is. You need to stand still when you finish or they will deduct your points.' they echo, stinging with a prickling critique I should be far used to by now.

I drop the pose, my body locking up with sudden rigidity. Thoughts flood my mind, crashing against each other in a whirlwind of panic. It feels like my lungs are being squeezed, my throat closing tight. While I was panting when I finished, now I feel like I can't get any air in or out of my lungs.

There's ringing in my ears, or is it just the thud of my heartbeat?

Raw feeling ripples through anything nice I was feeling before, everything vanishes into blind intensity of this mess. I'm losing a war I can't win, battling myself on fronts I never wanted to reach.

And old wound, purposely forgotten has just been ripped open. Old sentiments, repressed feelings pour out in bituminous consistency as they tain anything they touch, coating me whole in my old disappointment.

"That was insane! How did you do that? How did you twirl so fast?" Owen's voice breaks through the fog, but it feels far away. His voice is higher, pitched in wonder and excitement, but it's muffled. Everything is overwhelming and then suddenly, there's nothing. Nothing at all, just a cold dull feeling I've grown to find comfort in.

I don't force a smile, there's no space for meaningless actions. But I do force my body to cooperate enough for me to redirect my attention to my nephew. It does what I order it to, even though the actions feel alien, as if done by someone else.

"See. Edge work is important" I hear myself answer with deflection, but even my voice sounds like it doesn't belong to me.

I watch Owens face as it falls, his excitement dimming and i feel a pang of guilt, but it bounces off an invisible armour that shields me from really feeling anything in the moment.

Still, I try to soothe it, even when it doesn't quite reach me. I set my hand down on his shoulder, letting it fall down to his back. I pat him just across his shoulder blade, and while the spark in his eye doesn't return, his face softens just a fraction.

"If you work on your edge work, you should be able to do at least something similar to what you've seen. It won't quite be it, but you could do some sick turns." I tell him, hearing the words vibrate through my throat before they leave my mouth.

"How about you take another few laps and we head home?" I suggest, silently wishing he agrees to my proposal.

I wish nothing more than to get off the ice, lose the skates and never to see any of this again.

Realistically I know that's not going to happen, but right now, the only thing keeping me tethered together is the disconnect.

Thankfully, Owen agrees and it's not too long after that I get my wish of abandoning the rink and all that today had stirred up behind with it, floating in the space of unfeeling.

[maincharactermuse]

THE ONE WHERE SHE FLIRTED. (1)

(Find my master list here.)

The café opened at seven.

Y/N liked to be there by six — when the streets of Hampstead were still quiet, still belonged to the foxes and delivery vans and the occasional jogger. Inside, the café was warm and quiet, her own little world slowly waking up.

She flicked on the lights, warm-hued bulbs strung across beams, soft glows from mismatched sconces. The space came to life gently. Wooden tables, each slightly different in shape and history, were paired with an eclectic mix of chairs, some thrifted, some inherited, none boring. Plants trailed from shelves and hung in hand-tied macramé, their leaves glossy from her near-religious watering schedule. The walls bore hand-drawn chalk art and framed polaroids from over the years - regulars, staff birthdays, someone’s dog that had become a café mascot.

This place was hers.

She’d built it from scratch, scraped together savings, worked long hours, painted every wall herself. After the accident - after the grief had nearly consumed her - this café had been her lifeline. Every batch of sourdough, every grind of coffee beans, every song that played from the vintage speaker tucked behind the counter: it all meant something. This was her heart stitched into bricks and mortar.

“Morning, boss,” came Ryan’s voice, already halfway through steaming milk as if he owned the place… which, to be fair, he sometimes acted like he did.

“Morning, Ry. You beat me?”

“I slept with a barista last night and had to sneak out early anyway. Figured I’d make myself useful.”

Y/N laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming,” Ryan corrected. “And I make a mean oat flat white.”

Jules had already started banging pans in the kitchen, her signature cinnamon buns baking up warm and sticky. Toby, hood up and earbuds in, was unstacking chairs and pretending not to hear Ryan singing along to Stevie Nicks.

It was shaping up to be a good day.

———————————————————————————

The morning rush came in waves with joggers and freelancers, mums with prams, a local poet who always asked for hot water with lemon and then stayed for hours writing in the corner.

The bell above the door jingled, low, familiar, and Y/N didn’t even glance up at first. She was focused on the group order in front of her: two cappuccinos, one chai, an oat cortado with extra cinnamon. It was muscle memory by now, her hands moving with practiced ease.

But then she felt it - that subtle shift. A stillness, just behind the usual hum of the café. Not dramatic. Just… different.

She looked up.

The man who had walked in stood just inside the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched like someone trying not to draw attention but somehow doing exactly that. He wore a simple black coat, dark sunglasses, and a beanie pulled low over his curls. Not that tall, but his presence filled the room like warmth flooding in through a window cracked just open.

He glanced around, then made his way to the counter.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft. “Could I just get a flat white, please?”

“Just a flat white?” she asked, brow raised playfully.

He smiled faintly. “Unless you’re telling me I’ve made a mistake.”

“Well, it’s not wrong, per se, but it’s a little… safe.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this how you treat all your customers? Shame their drink orders?”

“Only the ones who seem like they can take it.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “I’ll brave the judgement.”

She grabbed a cup. “Name for the order?”

He hesitated for half a beat. “Harry.”

She nodded. “Alright, Harry. Let’s get you something barely passable.”

Behind her, Ryan leaned against the pastry case, arms crossed, silently watching the whole interaction with an eyebrow halfway to heaven. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

As she started the machine, Y/N noticed the man, Harry, glancing around the café. His eyes lingered on the corner table where sunlight pooled in a perfect golden wash across the reclaimed wood.

“That one,” she said, nodding toward it, “gets the best light until about eleven.”

He looked back at her, eyes curious behind the sunglasses. “Good to know. Is it reserved?”

“For people with excellent taste in natural lighting? Yes.”

His smile widened. “And judgmental baristas?”

“Also yes.”

She passed him the coffee, a real one, actually good, and their fingers brushed just slightly. Not enough to mean anything, but enough to notice.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Try not to spill it,” she teased. “The seat might be perfect but the tables are uneven.”

“I’ll live dangerously.”

He turned and made his way to the corner table, and as he settled in, the light hit him just right - soft and gold and quiet.

Y/N blinked a little, feeling like the air had shifted again.

Behind her, Ryan cleared his throat.

She turned.

“What?”

“Was that you flirting?” he asked, completely deadpan.

“Flirting? No. I don’t flirt.”

Ryan scoffed. “Babe. You flirted. You did the eyebrow thing. You told him his drink was boring. That’s textbook Y/N banter-flirting.”

“I was serving a customer,” she insisted.

“Call it what you want, but that was banter and blushes, babe. Banter. And. Blushes.”

“I did not blush.”

“You’re blushing now.”

She grabbed a cloth and chucked it at his shoulder. “Go do the dishes with Jules.”

Ryan grinned and sauntered off. “Love is in the air!” he sang on the way to the back.

Toby, still arranging chairs near the front, looked up and offered dryly, “That was definitely flirting.”

She pointed a warning finger. “This is your second week. Be kind.”

He shrugged. “Just saying. You never tease anyone who orders a flat white unless they’re hot.”

Y/N’s face flared warmer than she wanted to admit. “Go restock the napkins or something.”

———————————————————————————

As the hour passed, the café settled into its morning rhythm. Harry stayed tucked into his corner, writing in a notebook, occasionally sipping his coffee with quiet satisfaction.

And just before he left, he came back to the counter.

“That was genuinely one of the best coffees I’ve had in a while,” he said.

“Well,” she replied, arms crossed over her apron, “next time maybe you’ll order something more adventurous. Give me a challenge.”

He smiled again, tucking the notebook under his arm. “I’ll try to impress you.”

“Tall order.”

He lifted the cup slightly in a mock toast. “Thanks again. For the recommendation… and the abuse.”

“My pleasure.”

And just like that, he slipped out the door and the bell jingled behind him.

The bell jingled behind him.

Y/N stared at the space where he’d stood, a little too long.

Then Ryan’s voice came from the back, sing-song and smug: “Told you.”

[feyhunter78]

Got Your Back

Description: Luffy has the crew running through tunnels and your weapons run on sunlight, good thing Sanji has your back.

Not necessary to read beforehand but -> Sanji masterlist

“Y/N want to maybe lay down some cover for us here?” Zoro calls, ducking behind a large stalagmite, bullets pinging off the rock where he’d just been.

You hold up your twin pistols helplessly the golden glow faded to a dull bronze. “Yeah, if you want to find me some sunlight I’ll get right on it.”

“They don’t shoot regular bullets too?” He asks, making his way back to where the rest of the crew was hiding.

“No, they’re magic, you can’t combine them.”

“Zoro’s sword is magic, isn’t it? But it still cuts like a nonmagic sword.” Luffy says.

“Okay well, this type of magic you can’t combine with non magic stuff.” You explain with huff fiddling with the now useless triggers.

“I thought you said they could store up sunlight?” Nami says, glancing over the top of the outcropping, counting the number of pirates left under her breath.

“It can but we’ve been in this stupid cave system for like a week, it’s not infinite!” You snap, shoving your pistols back into their holsters.

Nami gives you a kind but stern wanting look.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just a little stressed. I don’t like being pinned down by gunfire in tunnels, and I really don’t like not being able to use the weapons I’m most comfortable with.”

“The weapons thing bothers you more than the pinned down by gunfire thing?” Zoro drawls, his arms folded over his chest.

“It’s really too bad your glorious guns can’t draw power from your smile y/n, I often think it in itself is a beam of sunlight.” Sanji says.

Zoro groans in response and you bury your face in your hands, trying not to panic. “Thank you, Sanji, but now is not really the time.”

“Y/N if I got you a regular gun could you use it?” Luffy asks, eyeing something off in the distance.

“Probably, I mean I haven’t used a regular gun in ages but it’s better than nothing.”

He nods and jumps over the outcropping of rocks.

“Luffy!” Nami calls, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“Do you really not have any other way to defend yourself when your guns are down?” Sanji asks, and normally you’d almost find the question insulting but it’s Sanji, he’s only asking because he’s concerned.

“I’ve got a knife in my boot.” You tell him, patting the place where it’s stashed.

“Well, that’s good then, you had me worried for a second. Can’t lose my best girl to a few days of shadows.”

“You wouldn’t protect me?” You ask, teasing him a bit because fuck it why not, there’s not much else you can do until Luffy comes back.

“Of course, I would.” The answer is so immediate, so earnest that it makes you feel bad for trying to tease him.

You reach out and squeeze Sanji’s hand. “Thanks Sanji, it’s comforting to know you’ve got my back.”

“Hey, I mean I’ve got your back too, we’re the gunslinging duo.” Usopp pipes up. “We’ve gotta get our shared wanted poster, to match my singular one, and that can’t happen if you’re dead.”

You lean over to Usopp and rest your head on your shoulder with a fond smile, used to his antics by now. “Thank you, Usopp.”

“Anytime.” He says, jumping a bit when Luffy throws himself back over the barricade, landing right in front of you two.

“Two guns, non magic and full of bullets.” Luffy says proudly.

You take the pistols, they’re dirty, and cold in your hands unlike your guns, there’s no hum of magic energy, or arcane connection that makes your fingers fit perfectly around the grip of the guns. It’s weird and honestly a little upsetting like you’re doing something wrong somehow.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, darling? You alright?”

You shake off the bad feeling, you’re just being melodramatic, and way too attached to your weapons. And Sanji thought Zoro was obsessed with his swords, if only he knew what was running through your head.

Checking the chambers of each pistol you nod. “Yeah, just getting a feel for it.”

Sanji smiles. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Can we cut the pep talk short? They’re coming.” Zoro calls, drawing his sword.

You shift into place, aim and start firing, then Usopp flings one of his smoke pellets into the crowd of pirates as Zoro darts out, followed by Luffy then Sanji, Nami staying back to protect you and Usopp from anyone who got too close.

It’s working, you’re winning! The rival crew goes down one by one, and Nami jumps over the barricade, you and Usopp following behind.

Then as can unfortunately be expected, all hell breaks loose. The crew begins to split, some chase after pirates running further down the tunnel, some stay put, Usopp sets off another smoke pellet, too quick for you to notice, too quick for you to catch who went where, and you’re surrounded by colorful smoke, the sounds of battle weaving around you as you try to lock on to a target to take out.

There’s a sound, boots against stone on your left side and you fire. The man who’d been preparing to charge falling flat on his back from the force of the shot.

You blow the smoke from the barrel of the pistol glad to see you’ve still got it with normal guns, a smile on your face. You turn to locate your next target and come face to face with a sword.

“Nice shooting, but I paid good money to hire him. Guess I’ll take your life as way to recoup my losses.” The man sneers. “Drop your weapons.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll just gonna set them on the ground.” You say, trying to lower yourself slowly to the ground.

“No need, we’ll take them off your corpse.” He says, swordpoint biting into your throat.

“If I drop them, they could go off by accident.” You protest weakly, a droplet of warm blood creeping down your throat.

“You must think I’m stupid, girlie.”

You try to glance behind him to find your crew. “No, they’re finicky. I thought you didn’t want to lose any other men?”

He shrugs. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

If you can just get to the knife in your boot. “I mean I don’t want you to lose out on more money.”

“Shut up.” He snaps, dragging the swordpoint down to your chest.

Panic fills your veins, and you bite your lip trying to keep from making a sound.

Before you can blink, there’s a blur of black and white, then he’s slammed into the tunnel wall, and crumbles to the floor.

Sanji stands there; eyes narrowed at the man. “No one touches y/n.”

You catch a flicker of movement behind Sanji, and shoot, bullet flying past his shoulder, stopping what you hope is one of the few remaining pirates in his tracks.

The man thumps to the ground, prompting both you and Sanji to action.

Sanji rushes forward ghosting his hands over your arms and sides. “Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thanks for that.” You tilt your head towards the pirate.

His lips quirked up. “Said I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “That you did, my hero.”

Sanji beams. “I’m just a mere mortal graciously given the chance to assist his gun-wielding goddess.”

“Flatter, I bet you say that to every girl you save.” You smile, delighted by the way he blushes.

Sanji dusts the dirt from his jacket, then offers you his arm. “Just you, love, just you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You tease, taking his arm.

Sanji frowns. “Your lack of faith in me, your most fervent worshipper wounds me.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I will take that into consideration.”

Sanji smiles again. “That’s all I ask darling; now shall we go assist our crew?”

You can hear Luffy calling out his attacks from further down the tunnel, and double check the chambers of your guns, you’ve got enough bullets left, probably. “We shall.”

OPLA TL: @elrondswifey