#it's like a restless kind of boredom

[le-velo-pour-dru]

Duuuuuude I feel so weird :0 I wanna bring myself out of it but I don't know how

[lovelybucky1]

Oooohh i have a request!:

Playing “never have i ever” or something like that with logan and wade (maybe along the lines of a boring friday night with nothing else to do) and you admit to never having an orgasm by anyone but yourself

Flash forward you’re in logan’s arms and wade is eating the fuck out of your pussy, and then they switch 👀👀

i’ve written something similar two the second part here, but i love the never have i ever idea! // divider from @strangergraphics

boredom isn’t something heroes are used to. there’s always something happening somewhere, someone needing to be saved. but tonight, everything is quiet. the three of you were suspicious at first, but you checked every police scanner, news outlet, and all of your contacts and came up with nothing. the bad guys had decided to take an evening off, and now you were stuck with nothing to do.

you, wade, and logan all sit around in the living room with bottles of beer. you and wade stare at the mindless gameshow on tv while logan rests his eyes. you’re definitely bored, but wade is restless. it’s like he’s itching for something to do, like his body is physically unable to handle the inactivity.

“why don’t we play a game?” wade asks, startling logan awake.

the two of you look over at wade. “what kind of game?” you ask.

“i don’t know, ‘never have i ever?’”

logan rolls his eyes, then shuts them again. he’ll deny any “old man” comments, but he really is one. you elbow logan in the side and he opens them again.

“come on, it’ll be fun,” wade pleads.

“it’s not like we have anything better to do,” you say to logan. reluctantly, he agrees.

you reposition yourselves in the living room. you sit on the couch, leaned against the arm with your feet in logan’s lap, who sits on the other end. wade sits on the floor by the coffee table, his beer on the table without a coaster next to him.

“this is your game, wilson. you start,” logan says before taking a sip of his beer.

“no, don’t drink! you only drink if you’ve done the thing i say,” wade scoffs. how can logan be so old and still know nothing about fun? “okay, okay. never have i ever… gotten arrested.”

you furrow your eyebrows at him while logan takes a drink. you’re almost certainly wade has been arrested before. “i don’t think you’re playing this game right,” you say. “you have to say things you’ve never done.”

wade scoffs. “i haven’t been arrested, thank you very much. all the cops who’ve tried have mysteriously ended up with broken noses.”

you roll your eyes at him. “my turn now? never have i ever… cheated on a partner.”

both of them take drinks, wade with more shame than logan. ugh, men.

then it’s logan’s turn. “never have i ever worn a dress.”

you figure it’s targeted at you, just because logan’s a dick, but to your surprise, wade drinks too. logan raises his eyebrow at him, silently urging him to elaborate.

“you wish you saw that, huh, peanut?” he taunts instead. logan makes a face at that.

“i’m thankin’ god i didn’t have to.”

you play a couple more rounds, all three of you exchanging stories and sipping from your bottles. it takes a lot to get them drunk, but you’re starting to feel it. there’s a collection of empty bottles, mostly beer, but halfway through the game, wade decided to up the ante with some liquor.

it’s wade’s turn again and he says, “never have i ever been with two guys at once.”

he means it as a joke. he doesn’t expect anyone to drink. there’s no way logan would do something like that, and you’re too innocent. that’s why his eyes practically pop out of his head when you throw back the shot.

the game turned sexual a few rounds ago, but it was pretty mild stuff. talk about doing stuff in public, kinks, freaky shit like that. nothing as interesting as this.

both wade and logan turn their full attention to you, eager to hear this story.

“what?” you play dumb.

“two guys at once?” wade asks. you shrug.

“it wasn’t anything.”

“nah,” logan says, sounding interested for the first time all game. “you gotta tell us.”

you sigh. “it was a while ago. i met this couple at a bar and they said they were looking for a third. i had nothing better to do and they were both hot, so…” you trail off, shrugging again.

“give us the gory details. how’d you do it? daisy chain?eiffel tower? double cowgirl? triple spooning? come on, tell us,” wade rambles.

“you’re a fucking perv,” you tell him and he doesn’t deny it. “it was just normal dp.”

logan raises an eyebow. “that stands for double penetration,” wade tells him.

“i know that. i’m just wondering how you took it all,” logan says.

you’re used to this kind of talk from wade. the man thinks with his dick so much that you question if he even has a brain. you’re not, however, used to this from logan. he’s no prude, but he usually doesn’t participate in these kinds of conversations with wade.

“must’ve been a tight fit,” logan adds on.

you look between the men and their interested faces. you’re still pretty bored, the game having grown stale a while ago, and now you’re a tipsy. you want something exciting and right now, you’re feeling bold enough to persue it.

“do you wanna see?” you ask them.

wade and logan share a glance, but it only takes a second before they’re replying “yes” in unison.

[devosin]

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! prologue : a series of unfortunate events . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Vil pov . .

Vil sighs, scrunching his eyes shut, which proved to be more difficult than it appeared with the mud mask that he applied over half an hour ago still on his face, currently drier than the gluten free bread he bought last week. He melted into his couch, feeling an overwhelming sense of boredom settle into his otherwise restless body. 

Before he knew it, he found himself mindlessly scrolling through Magicam, looking through the self proclaimed critique’s 30 to 60 second reviews on his new movie or the finale of some show he was in, for a hit of dopamine. Which clearly wasn’t working, as each video was the same thing washed over and over again repeated with new synonyms bundled together to sound authentic (Which it rarely was) and of course, there was those few criticisms here and there, nothing uncommon. 

Vil lays his head back, scrolling some more, “Influencer Tartaglia joins the new soon to debut boyband, D!CKZ—”, he shuts his phone and tosses it to the side carelessly . . Did he ever mention his distaste for influencers moving into the entertainment industry? . . It makes his blood boil, just a tiny bit, since most of the influencers tend to ruin it for a lot of genuinely talented and lesser known actors out there, not to mention they’re so-called talent is usually mediocre at best. 

And he could go on and list all the reasons why influencers do not deserve a spot in the spotlight with the elite, and they may all seem reasonable at first, but it’s a cover-up for the real reason.

He feels some weird sort of envy, towards those individuals who put in zero effort and somehow make it, and get all these big protagonist roles right away, and how they aren’t criticized for their faults or terrible acting skills, just because they have a huge built fanbase of delusional fangirls ready to defend them from the get-go. 

Or how they aren’t criticized when they look less than perfect on screen, although he appreciates that current age viewers can acknowledge that it’s only human to get acne or maybe a pimple here and there, he didn’t meet the same fate when he was younger . .  It just makes him feel bitter . . and he’d never speak those feelings into existence, but deep down he does feel a bit hurt by the shift, it sometimes makes him feel like all those previous breakdowns were for naught. 

Vil snaps out of his pity party for one, getting up and stretching, going into the bathroom to wash off the mask before it dries out his skin (It probably already has), burn-out has hit him hard, and as much as his love for acting runs-deep, he’d rather take a break before his audience starts noticing his shift in acting. 

Which is why he agreed to hosting the show in the first place, he wanted to switch up his career, for awhile at least, he’s taking a break from acting but doesn’t want to directly leave the industry, because it’s difficult to fit right back in place once you leave, as there's always someone who could come and steal your position, and maybe even do better . . that’s why this industry is so hard to survive in, and as pitiful as it sounds, he’s practically married to his work, he can’t exactly risk it, in peace. 

Vil dries his face with a towel and then moves to grab his moisturizer, when his work phone rings. 

“Hello, this is Amanda from Descendants. Inc. We talked before reguardinging ‘Late nights & Flashing lights’ . ” . . . “So, due to a multitude of reasons, we’re kind of in a time crunch to get the premiere launched, by the end of this month actually . . . but, we’ve received confirmation on who’ll be co-hosting with you, Y/n L/n!” 

“ . . . excuse me?” 

“This must be such a shock, but Y/n has actually been our top pick for this role, and the internet seems to really want to see the two of you on-screen together, considering your screen presence, I honestly think you two will be a perfect match for the show.”  

“I—”, Vil’s voice was hoarse as he tried to mentally wrap around all the information that was just dropped, “Ah—That’s time, we’re so excited to see you on set next week.” . . . “If you’d like, I could send you y/n’s number beforehand, so the two of you could talk things through?”, that seems to snap him back to reality, as the professionalism seeps right back into him, “That would be lovely, thank you.” 

The doorbell rings, informing Vil that his takeout that he ordered about two hours ago had finally arrived, but he didn’t feel like eating anymore.

Drinking is completely legal at 18-19 in my country, so I'm just putting that over here before someone tries fighting with me about it (This has happened before), also Vil is currently in his late 20's.

Don't expect everything to play off of Vil in-game, since this is placed like a decade into the future, so things will be changes and messed around with to fit the current age and setting more. <3

Profiles | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

♡. Want spoilers ?! . . Join my server . . !! (or for updates)

— taglist ♡ ; @well-look-at-this , @honkai-freak , @kingnem10 , @merviolet-asks , @katzline , @pebble-bb , @meigalaxy , @lordbugs , @crowbird , @yuus3n , @azriel-sama , @reivelmin , @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 , @eliza-be-t-h , @feverish-dove , @yejiswifex , @l0v3r666 , @cece-cherries , @frootloopscos , @abell2029cluster , @ephemii , @alienlatteinspace

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© devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation.

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 + 𝗏𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 ── .✦

masterlist

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 ; "𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇."

It’s day three of bed rest, and Soap’s already climbed up the walls of his room and back down again. Injured or not, he’s never been one to sit still, and being restricted to the base with “no hard jobs, no missions”—as the medic had stressed—has left him itching for something to do. Restless, he decides to wander, eventually finding himself at the library-slash-records room, a quiet corner of base he’s never thought to visit before.

He thumbs through a book on the nearest shelf, flipping pages more out of boredom than actual interest, when a voice behind him makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

“Good choice,” you say casually, glancing over his shoulder at the book in his hands. “I read that one when I was a teenager.”

Soap whips around, wide-eyed and ready to defend himself before he registers you standing there, a bemused smile on your face. It’s not often anyone manages to sneak up on him, especially after working alongside Ghost—but here you are, quiet as a shadow.

“Christ, you gave me a fright!” He laughs, trying to shake off his surprise. “You a ghost yourself, or just a natural sneak?”

“Neither,” you reply with a shrug. “I just work here. Records department.”

He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head with a hint of scepticism. “Records, aye? Right, sure. So… what squad d’you belong to, then?”

You laugh, not seeming to mind his incredulity. “No squad. No task force, either. Just a regular base staff member. I make sure all your physical files stay organised, is all.”

“Well, I didn't expect to find a hidden gem like you in here,” he says, putting on his usual flirty grin, expecting some kind of blush or maybe even a shy look.

But you just give another amused smile. “I’m not a gem, just the records keeper. I also stock the books,” you add, gesturing around. “Figured a small library might be good for those interested. We don’t have much, but it’s a nice change of pace for some people.”

The flirting sails right over your head, and Soap’s grin falters ever so slightly before he recovers. “Ah, so you're the one to thank for this wee slice of quiet paradise on base, huh?”

You nod, a touch of pride slipping through as you straighten a few already-tidy books. “It’s simple, but I like to keep things in order here for whoever wants to pick up something to read.”

Soap tries another grin, leaning against a shelf, his tone softening just a bit. “Well, reckon I’ll be a regular if it means more chats like this. Seems like a fair deal, yeah?”

But you only hum thoughtfully, eyes scanning the shelf beside him, clearly cataloguing if anything’s out of place. Soap finds himself smirking, both amused and oddly challenged by how thoroughly you’ve ignored his attempts to charm you. He realises with a quiet laugh that this just might be the break he needed.

. . .

In the quiet of his quarters, Soap lounges on his bunk with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to his mum and sister talk about his childhood. It had started with the usual check-in—hearing how he was healing, how things were on base—and soon drifted into familiar family banter.

His sister, Cait, laughs as she recalls his ‘miraculous’ ability to get hurt every other day growing up. “Remember when you broke both your arms jumping off that shed roof, John?” she teases, barely stifling her laughter. “Mum had to practically wrap you in bubble wrap.”

“Aye, aye, laugh it up,” Soap mutters, though he’s grinning. “Was tryin’ to perfect my landing, is all.”

His mum’s voice chimes in with a fond chuckle, “Perfect it you did, son. Broke both arms and had us all in stitches—not just ‘cause of the casts, but because you couldn’t stop fidgeting.”

“Oh, I remember,” he groans, recalling the itch of the casts and the boredom of sitting still for weeks. “I was goin’ mad with nothing to do!”

“That’s why I read to you,” his mum adds, the warmth in her voice audible even over the line. “You were always restless, even with two arms in casts.”

Soap’s grin turns a bit softer. “I remember that… just not the book itself. Somethin’ about a fox and a forest?”

His mum hums thoughtfully. “It was a sweet story, but I can’t recall the title. Do you, Cait?”

Cait only chuckles, clearly drawing a blank. “Oh, I remember the fuss he made, but the book? Not a chance.”

Soap shakes his head, feeling a little pang of nostalgia. “Wouldn’t mind findin’ it again someday. Reminds me of home.”

A few days later, Soap strides through the hallway, his arm still snug in a sling but his energy undeterred. He greets everyone he passes, effortlessly drawing smiles and laughter from a few soldiers standing by the vending machines. A corporal waves, and Soap flashes him a quick grin, offering a joking salute with his free hand. 

But today, he’s not here to soak up the attention. His steps have purpose, carrying him straight back to the quiet sanctuary of the records room. When he steps inside, the calm hits him like a breath of fresh air. His eyes land on you instantly, tucked in the back of the room, your head bent over something on the desk.

You’re focused, scribbling notes or reading from a thick stack of papers, and for a moment, Soap just watches. There’s something about the way the light catches on your face, the peaceful concentration you exude. He doesn’t even realise he’s smiling until his cheeks ache slightly. He adjusts his posture and clears his throat, strolling over casually, pretending not to notice the way his pulse picks up just a bit.

“Hey, there,” he says, his voice breaking the quiet like a soft ripple on a still pond. You glance up, blinking at the interruption, and he swears there’s a flicker of recognition in your gaze that makes his chest tighten.

“Back again?” you tease lightly, setting your pen down. “Getting into trouble already?”

“Nah, just takin’ it easy,” he says, his tone breezy. “Needed a break from bein’ so popular, y’know? The fans are relentless.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, though there’s a smile tugging at your lips.

He shifts slightly, leaning his good arm against the edge of the desk. “Actually, I was hopin’ you might be able to help me with somethin’. Feels a bit daft, but here goes.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the weight of how silly this might sound. “There’s this book. From when I was a kid. My Ma read it to me when I broke both arms once—don’t ask,” he adds quickly, grinning sheepishly. “But I can’t remember the title. Just bits of it.”

That piques your interest. You sit up a little straighter, curiosity lighting up your features. “What do you remember about it?” you ask, your tone genuinely warm.

Soap exhales, relieved you haven’t laughed him off, and starts piecing it together. “Right, so it was about this fox. A scrappy wee thing, always gettin’ into trouble. Lived in a forest, sneakin’ around like it owned the place. There was… a badger, I think? Big, grumpy fella, always tellin’ the fox to stop bein’ reckless. But the fox didn’t listen—bit of a troublemaker, that one.”

You nod, your attention fixed on him, and it spurs him on. “One part I remember clear as day—there was a trap. The fox got its paw caught, and I thought it was done for. Had my heart in my throat. My Ma kept tellin’ me it’d be fine, but I was sweatin’ over it.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as if to brush off the emotion. “Then there was somethin’ about the forest gettin’ destroyed, so the fox had to leave. Find a new home, y’know?”

You lean forward slightly, completely drawn in, and it makes his pulse quicken. “That sounds… really sweet, actually. And a little sad.”

“Aye, it was,” he says, his voice softer now. “Hit me like a brick back then. Think I might’ve cried—don’t tell anyone that,” he adds quickly, wagging a finger with mock severity.

Your smile widens. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But… you’re describing it so vividly. I might know it. Hang on.” You tap your chin thoughtfully, sorting through your mental catalog of titles. Soap watches you closely, his expression softening as you mentally sift through the possibilities. After a moment, you shake your head, regret flashing in your eyes. “I think I know the book, but I don’t have it here. Sorry.”

Soap raises his brows, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a memory like a steel trap, lass. How d’you even keep track of all that?”

You wave him off modestly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s nothing, really. I just like books. Spend enough time with them, and you start remembering the little details.”

“Still,” you say, your tone tinged with determination. “I’ll keep an eye out. If it crosses my path, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

Soap’s grin widens, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes it hard to look away. “Aye, I’ll hold you to that.” His voice softens, and for a moment, there’s a quiet warmth between you that neither of you rush to fill.

“Thanks,” he says finally, the sincerity in his tone catching you slightly off guard. “You’re good company, y’know that?”

Before you can reply, he pushes off the desk with his good arm, the playful edge returning to his expression as he gives you a wink. “Don’t let me distract you too much, aye? I’ll see myself out.”

You manage a small laugh, watching as he makes his way toward the door, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in his wake. But just as he steps into the hallway, he pauses, glancing back through the open door.

For a brief second, his gaze softens, the memory of the fox, his Ma’s soothing voice, and the quiet comfort of your little nook weaving together to warm a part of him he hadn’t realised needed it. With a nod to himself, he turns away, the thought of returning already forming in the back of his mind.

. . .

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual hum of conversation and clatter of trays. Soap, now out of his sling and feeling like himself again, sat among Gaz, Ghost, and a few others from the base, his laughter loud and infectious as they swapped stories and teased one another. His attention was fully on Gaz’s exaggerated recounting of a drill mishap when Ghost’s gravelly voice cut through the din.

“Oi, Johnny. Little mouse headed this way.”

Soap blinked, confused, until Ghost gave a subtle nod toward the figure approaching from behind. Soap twisted around, and his breath hitched the moment he spotted you.

Springing to his feet far too quickly, Soap’s knee hit the table with a loud clang, trays rattling dangerously. The others shouted half-hearted complaints, but Soap didn’t care. All his attention was on you, standing there with a paper bag in hand, a shy smile gracing your lips.

“I—uh—hi,” Soap stammered, suddenly unsure of himself as you held the bag out toward him.

“I found it,” you said simply, your tone giddy. “Thought you might like to have it.”

He stared at the bag, then at you, before carefully taking it from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and he swore he felt a spark. Peeking inside, his jaw dropped. There it was—the book. The cover was pristine, like it had just been pulled from a bookstore shelf.

“You didn’t…” he began, but words failed him. His gaze flicked between the book and your face, awe written plainly across his features.

You chuckled softly, patting the hand that held the book. “It’s no big deal. Enjoy it, yeah?”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving Soap frozen in place. He watched you go, only snapping out of his trance when Gaz whistled low under his breath. Soap turned back to the table, clutching the bag as if it held a treasure.

Seated back at the table, the book resting carefully in his lap, he barely touched his food, his usual chatter replaced by a soft, distracted smile. He flipped the book over in his hands, running his thumb along the edges of the paper bag, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“Someone’s got a fan,” Gaz teased, grinning.

“Shut it,” Soap muttered, his cheeks flushing.

But the teasing didn’t stop there. One of the younger men at the table, a mechanic who had joined the base recently, leaned forward, asking him about you with a smirk edged with something he didn’t like, at all.

Soap’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw clenching. Ghost, always the observer, grumbled lowly. “Leave it, lad,” he warned, his voice a quiet rumble. The mechanic wisely dropped the subject.

As the conversation shifted back to base gossip, Soap’s focus stayed on the book in his hands. He traced the edges of the paper bag absentmindedly, his mind replaying the moment you’d handed it to him and the warmth of your hand on his. His smile widened, soft and genuine, as he looked the book over again, the edges of the paper bag crinkling beneath his fingers.

Ghost glanced at Soap briefly, noting the faraway look in his eyes. With a barely audible snort, he shook his head and returned to his meal, leaving the smitten Scotsman to his thoughts.

. . .

Soap spent the better part of the next day scouring every corner of the base, peeking into offices, workshops, and even the records room during normal hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Each empty space only added to his frustration.

“Sneaky little mouse," he muttered under his breath with an undeniable smile, hands on his hips.

His gripping earned a chuckle from Gaz, who leaned back in his chair and exchanged a knowing look with Ghost. “Maybe you’re just not lookin’ in the right places, mate,” Gaz teased, popping a peanut into his mouth.

Ghost, however, offered a rare bit of practical advice. “Try the rec room. Late hours.” His tone was low, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Sometimes I go there when I can’t sleep. Tea’s decent, and I watch matches on my phone. Could be she’s got the same idea.”

Soap perked up at the suggestion, nodding gratefully. “Aye, worth a shot. Thanks, mate!"

Later that evening, Soap made his way to the rec room. The base was quieter, the halls dimly lit, and the faint hum of a vending machine filled the otherwise empty space. As he approached the rec room, the soft clink of a kettle caught his attention. Peering in, he spotted you by the small kitchenette, the warm glow of the stove’s light illuminating your face as you poured hot water into a mug.

For a moment, he hesitated. His usual bravado faltered as he took in the calm scene, unsure how to approach without disturbing the peaceful air you carried with you. But then, squaring his shoulders, he stepped inside.

“Didn’t think I’d find you 'ere,” he said, his voice low but carrying a playful lilt.

You glanced over your shoulder, surprised but smiling softly when you saw him. “Evening, Sergeant. Tea, late-night stroll, or both?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Both, maybe. Been lookin’ for you, actually. You’ve got a knack for disappearin’, y’know.”

You turned back to the stove, shaking your head lightly as you reached for another mug. “You found me now, didn’t you? Want some tea?”

“Aye, thanks.” Soap approached, watching as you handed him the steaming mug. He cradled it, savoring the warmth in his hands. “Listen, about the book…”

You waved him off, cutting him off before he could continue. “It’s nothing, really. I should be the one thanking you. You’ve shown interest in the books and my little corner. It means a lot to have someone notice.”

Soap blinked, caught off guard by your words. Before you could turn back around to retrieve your own mug, he reached out, catching your hand. His fingers curled around yours gently, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles.

The contact was warm, steady, and startlingly tender.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “It wasn’t nothin’. You went out of your way for me, and… it means more than I can say.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat when he lifted your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. His lips were warm, his expression earnest as he looked up at you, gratitude and something deeper shining in his eyes.

For once, you were the one left speechless, your heart skipping a beat as the weight of his sincerity settled over you. Soap released your hand gently, his fingers lingering for just a moment before pulling back.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice a near whisper.

You swallowed, your cheeks feeling uncharacteristically warm. “You’re welcome, Sergeant,” you managed, offering him a soft smile.

“Stay a while?” he asked, nodding toward the small table tucked into the corner.

Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could overthink it, you nodded, moving to sit down. He followed, his mug cradled in his hands as he eased into the chair across from you. The quiet hum of the room settled over you both, broken only by the soft clink of his mug against the table as he set it down.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it felt warm, almost fragile, like something new and precious was taking root between you.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” he said, his tone low and easy.

“For what?” you asked, taking a sip of your tea.

“Doin’ things that catch a man off guard,” he replied, his blue eyes glinting with something playful yet sincere. “Like huntin’ down a book I barely remembered just to give me a piece of my past back.”

You waved him off modestly, though the compliment made your chest tighten in an unfamiliar way. "It's...just a book."

“To you, maybe,” he countered, his voice soft. “To me, it’s somethin’ more. And so’s this.”

He gestured vaguely, encompassing the quiet space you now shared, the table between you feeling more like a bridge than a barrier.

You lowered your gaze to your mug, the steam curling upward as you processed his words. There was a warmth in his voice, an openness you hadn’t expected but found yourself leaning into.

When you finally looked up, Soap was watching you, his gaze steady and filled with something unspoken. You held his eyes, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that matched his.

“This is nice,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

“Aye,” he agreed, his voice low. “It is.”

And as the two of you sat there, sipping tea and sharing quiet smiles, the space between you seemed to shrink, the glow of the moment wrapping around you both like a promise of something more to come.

banner credit

[lunarw0rks]

sweet thing | part one

˖⁺‧₊˚ read it on ao3 | masterlist | ask box | next part

price takes a liking to his neighbor. vulnerable, expecting, and in need of his helping hand. it's a good thing he always wanted a family.

john price x pregnant!reader (based on this idea of mine.)

warning(s): MDNI (18+); NOT EDITED, price is touch starved and kinda pathetic, pregnancy, angst/depression, alcoholism, fluff, fem!reader [wc: 1.3k]

Involuntary stress leave, they called it.

But for John, it was just short of decay. Sedentary, bitter—restless. Stuck at home while there's still a fight to be fought, men who need guidance. His men.

Before the stress does him in, he figures boredom will close in on him first, and it would be less merciful than any bullet or blade. Chores are a necessity, and hobbies are nothing more than a temporary soothe to his aches.

Every morning, irony wakes him up cold. Takes its pound of flesh. The world he devoted his adult life to fighting for, has nothing in it for him.

(Stiff fingers, heaving chest, bile in his throat, tremors marring his nervous system.)

It's hours before he can shake the feeling, so he compromises by rising at ungodly hours and fulfilling a rigid routine—still a trained soldier to his core. And by nightfall, he nurses a bottle until he's warm again, ready for the reset at dawn.

As they gaze out the window, his eyes search for purpose. Two fingers parting the blinds. Something, anything, please. But nothing. The sharp sting of cheap booze rushes past his teeth, and he's ready to retreat.

He winces through the taste before he's at attention again. The rumble of an engine cut short right next door. He angles himself to catch a clear view of the person. Instinct yells for him to be vigilant, but the sight in front of him snuffs the bellow.

The flow of a slip dress in the breeze, sticky strands of hair pulled back, glowing skin, a nurturing hand resting on the bump that shows through the fabric.

You look anything but thrilled while you wrangle your bags and fight the wind gusts, and you're well aware of it.

All John sees is bloom. Purpose. Duty.

Before he can gather all his wits, he's closed the front door behind him, his spilled bottle dribbling along the end table. It's not so much your beauty that drives him; he isn't a superficial man and can't afford to be.

A living, breathing person is what quickens his stride. Someone to talk to. Someone to touch and study. As of late, the only people near have been on the other side of the TV screen, fueled by dramatics and in character.

You find yourself stuck in your headspace again, mentally listing all the tasks that await you inside your house. Chores, mostly, some grocery shopping—and loads more of that endless baby planning. Relaxation wasn't an option and you're actively learning to accept that. Although, it's admittedly difficult to feel any other way when you've got another human to consider now.

John clears his throat. "Let me take tha' for you, darling."

He waits until you meet his stare to extend a hand, fingers grazing the flimsy straps of your shopping bags. You freeze, soaking in the sight of him.

"Hm?" Your brows knit together, and it's only then that you catch up with him.

"Your bags."

The man has already taken them before the words finish rolling off his tongue, but he stays in place.

A soft chuckle comes out of you to crack open the sheet of embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm a little out of it today."

Pregnancy brain, you want to blame it on. But deep down you know it's because kindness is a new taste nowadays.

Most are courteous and accommodating, making way for you. Others look at you like dirt on their shoes. Fatigue draining your features doesn't help, and neither does the absence of a wedding band. Early on, you were naive enough to believe society had moved beyond the stigma. Wrong, more wrong, and a fool is all you are nowadays, even if only in your head.

Exhausted, not out of it, he analyses, and his heart aches.

"It's alright." His voice is smooth as nectar, leaving goosebumps on your skin that you'll chalk up to the wind. "Shouldn't be carrying all this by yourself, anyhow."

You fight the urge to scoff and instead lead the way to the front porch.

He's right. You shouldn’t be doing any of this alone.

Turning the key, you step inside and let the words spill. “Yeah, I, uh— I didn’t have anyone to call.”

Price should be more shocked by your words, but he isn’t. He is really, and truly, desensitized to all the misfortune around him. And it’s not any different with you. His eyes—conditioned to spot every minute detail of a person—took milliseconds to notice your left hand.

Feel her out. Find out more.

“That so?” He questions softly but doesn’t give you a chance to respond. You’ve painted the whole picture and more.

His words are full of every sensibility possible. “That’s a shame.” Pity. Empathy. Grief. Outrage. All except condescension; none of this is your fault, he can sense it.

You expect admonition.

Leading a stranger inside is bad enough, and walking the fine line between small talk and oversharing is worse.

But you can’t bring yourself to taste it. Outside of some coworkers and your mother, this is your first taste of organic interaction, and it’s been overwhelmingly amicable so far. Not something you can take lightly; loneliness is prevalent.

You let out a tired sigh, letting the silent gesture speak for itself. What else can you say? He's already got you pegged after spending all but two minutes with you. Makes you wonder how you haven't noticed him sooner, though you remember his driveway is usually vacant and the blinds are always closed.

By now, it's obvious that if he had ill intentions, he would've acted on them by now. The silence isn't thick or stiff—it's refreshing, oddly enough.

When his mouth upturns, the crow's feet around his eyes are made visible. They've witnessed things, awful things, no doubt. But he's also got a world of wisdom in them.

This is the part where you find a farewell, something moderately polite so you don't feel awful for kicking him out. (Not your fault you need to rest your feet. At least you get the sense that he'll understand.)

In search for the words, you place a hand on your stomach, "well, it was kind of you to bring that in, uh—"

"—John." He interjects.

Out of habit, you form a clumsy smile and ache to get the proper words out. "It was very kind of you, John. Thank you."

Without any further direction, he's able to pick up on your hints for him to make his exit. The bar is so low these days, it's almost shocking. Shuffling to follow him to the front door, your hand seizes the knob.

There's a lot left unsaid, despite meeting your handsome neighbor only a short time ago. The voice inside urges you to keep it short. Send him off, get out of his hair. He was just being nice.

"I should thank you again," you blurt, almost abruptly. Price turns on his heels with little surprise, a leer written on his thin lips. "Next time, I'll take another trip to carry the bags."

"No next time, love." A purr and a new nickname.

Too smitten to even notice the ruffle of some paper when he reaches a hand in his pocket. Even stole the pen off your entry table (a.k.a the junk-pile-of-mail-table) and you were none the wiser. Dated, the way he scribbles on the crumbled receipt and hands it to you between his index and middle.

Heat rises up your neck and to your face when you inch closer to retrieve the number, somehow finding it within yourself to not break eye contact. John's gaze stays genuine, despite the puff of his chest and the way he breathes your scent in shamelessly.

Albeit frazzled—you weren't born yesterday; he's attractive and extremely luring and you're single and hormonal. Wouldn't take much for something to happen.

And if not, you know you'll have fond daydreams, at the very least.

"You ever need anything, give me a call. 'M good for more than bag carrying."

[calcifiedunderland]

Pride & Prejudice: A TWSTed AU

ft. Overblot Gang x GN Reader

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single leader in possession of power, fortune, and intellect, must be in want of a partner.”

“Pfft-“ you snorted to yourself, flipping through the pages. “What kind of story is this?”

Earlier that day, you and Grim had decided to clear out one of the rooms at Ramshackle. After a brief jump-scare from Crowley (who showed you how to make furniture out of a magic hammer?), the two of you were now on your way to making a ‘Guest Room.’ Finally, gone were the days of your friends groaning about your dusty couch and cobweb-filled living room!

But that also meant that the boxes in the room had to be moved out. Most of them held thread-bare cloth and other dusty knickknacks, but a few held books that looked as though they hadn’t been held in ages. Out of sheer curiosity and boredom (and the fact that Ramshackle had no internet whatsoever), you cracked open one of them and started reading, with Grim snoozing soundly on your lap.

“What are you reading, Prefect?” One of the Ramshackle ghosts wafted to you, resting on the armchair back behind you. You turned the book to read the cover, frowning, “Prejudice and Pride, by Jean August. It’s kind of ridiculous.” You ran a hand over the dusty cover, “I think we had something like this in my world, too.”

The ghost immediately grinned, “I remember this from when I was alive!” He dove in front of you, taking the book and flipping through it at phantom speed. “This was one of our required readings! Ah, you living folk miss out on the classics,” he sighed wistfully. “Here, this was the best part!”

You took the book and read through it. It seemed to be a love confession, where the main male lead was telling the female lead how much he ‘ardently admired and loved her’ and failed miserably.

“Wow, that’s cringe,” you winced, skimming the page. “And also unrealistic. I mean, who falls in love with someone they hate? And who starts a love confession with ‘you suck, but I love you anyway I guess’? Why the hell would they think that would even work?!” You and the ghost laughed, and continued reading together.

~•~

“The Prefect is… interesting, but not enough to tempt me!”

He remembered telling his dorm mates this exact phrase, after bristling at a group of underclassmen gossiping amongst themselves. It was no secret that you and he were close - after several overblots at school, it would’ve been impossible not to be. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. It wasn’t like he laid awake at night, thinking about you right? How ridiculous would that be!

Meanwhile in his room, several hours later, the young dorm leader frowned, feeling restless. It was already close to sunrise, but he wasn’t able to drift off to sleep despite the exhaustions that came with leading an entire dorm. Instead of sleep and his impending responsibilities, his mind drifted.

Over the school year, he’d been able to push down his feelings (Sevens knew it was easy, and his overblot proved it), but now, it was impossible to deny it. This will not do, he thought, huffing irritably and sitting up in bed, absently rubbing his temple.

In vain, he’d struggled. But it couldn’t be denied, and despite his best and fiercest efforts to negate it, his feelings couldn’t be repressed. You’d proven yourself to be an unrelenting figure at Night Raven College - someone who he thought would be insignificant compared to his talent and renown. And yet. And yet.

Somehow you’d wormed your way into his life, to where it hurt to think of you as insignificant. Because how could an extraordinary person like you ever be insignificant? In his pre-overblot days, he was stubborn and yet still too prideful to even consider another way of thinking. But then you came along, and made him question everything, from previous prejudices to his own bittersweet pride.

You, who fell unceremoniously out of a coffin during the sorting ceremony with a little blue fiery cat, and scurried around the school running errands and odd jobs. You, who was once a passing glance, who became one of the things in the school he looked forward to seeing the most. You, with your heart of gold unshaken by the trials and tribulations thrown at you, day after day.

The feeling dawned on him, settling heavily and uncomfortably in their entire being. As the sun began rising, his mind reeled and he closed his eyes, the light bathing his room in a soft, pleasant glow. A warmth enveloped the room, but then a sudden chill ran down his spine. It was then, that he realized it:

He truly and ardently admired and loved you.

Now, he simply had to tell you so.

~

Now, dear Prefect, take his hand:

The Rose Red Tyrant: R. Rosehearts

The Usurper from the Wilds: L. Kingscholar

The Merchant from the Depths: A. Ashengrotto

The Schemer of the Scalding Sands: J. Viper

The Beautiful Tyrant: V. Schoenheit

The Keeper of the Underworld: I. Shroud

The Ruler of the Abyss: M. Draconia

———

notes: i really hope this wasn’t too cringe towards the end with the P&P refs but here we go! Seven chapters to plan AH, I can’t believe I twst-ified jane austen 💀

Chapters are coming soon!! A few are in the works!

Thank you to everyone who was interested in this idea!! What started as some brainrot has become bigger brainrot lmao, I fully appreciate it~

Take care shrimpies!!

———

Taglist: @eclecticprincecollector

@ars-tral @cerisescherries, @thehollowwriter, @twst-eeps,

(If your user is in bold, I wasn’t able to tag you for some reason 😅)

[amkyor]

K. BAKUGO SHORT STORY ᡣ𐭩

Walking on His Hands:

It was a quiet evening in the U.A. dorms, the kind of night where everyone seemed preoccupied with their own activities.

Deku was buried in his notebooks, Todoroki was reading in the common area, and Mina and Denki were playing a video game loudly on the couch. Katsuki Bakugo, however, was bored out of his mind.

He had already finished his workout for the day, his assignments were complete, and there was nothing interesting on TV.

Restless energy buzzed beneath his skin, and sitting still felt like torture. With an irritated huff, he pushed himself off the couch and stood in the middle of the room.

Then, the idea struck.

Without a word, Bakugo dropped his hands to the floor and kicked his legs up into the air, balancing perfectly in a handstand.

Mina paused her game to glance at him. “Uh, Bakugo? What are you—”

“Shut it, Pinky,” he barked, already starting to walk forward on his hands.

He made his way across the common area, his movements fluid and deliberate.

His focus was intense, his arms flexing with each step.

The others barely spared him a glance—this wasn’t the first time Bakugo had decided to do something ridiculous out of boredom.

As he rounded the corner toward the kitchen, he muttered to himself, “Tch, too easy.” He sped up, his pace quickening as he maneuvered around the furniture.

By the time he made it back to the common area, his arms were burning, but he refused to stop.

He passed Todoroki, who merely raised an eyebrow before returning to his book. Kirishima walked in just as Bakugo was making his third lap.

“Dude, you’re still doing this?!” Kirishima exclaimed, impressed.

“Shut up. Don’t distract me,” Bakugo snapped, sweat dripping from his brow.

Eventually, his arms began to shake, but his stubbornness kept him going.

It wasn’t until he reached the hallway that his strength finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor with a grunt. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, before sitting up and brushing himself off like nothing had happened.

Mina peeked around the corner, smirking. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bakugo muttered, standing up and stretching his shoulders.

He wasn’t about to admit that the ridiculous handwalking marathon had actually helped burn off some of his excess energy.

As he walked back to his room, the others exchanged amused glances.

Only Bakugo could turn sheer boredom into a display of raw determination—and somehow make it look cool in the process.

FANFIC RECOMMENDATION ᡣ𐭩

Adult Bakugo x Female Reader Fanfic

[murderdogwater]

How I think the Bachelors and Bachelorettes act when their sick:

Haley: A menace. The type to spit medicine at you like a camel, she'd whine about feeling awful but refuse to take any kind of medication. Don't even try to hide pills in things. She will find them and pick them out. Probably also the type to fake being sick when she was younger just to get princess treatment.

Maru: The type to not tell you she doesn't feel well, and you only find out when Harvey has to carry her back to the farm because she passed out at the clinic. She's probably pretty chill about medicine, but she'll get restless and want something to do while she's on bedrest. But keep an eye on her, or she'll be up trying to make another robot ai nurse or something.

Leah: One of the few who's probably being serious when she says she doesn't get sick. If she does, she'll be pretty chill and will stay in bed, probably sketching, until she's better. If she's sick, she won't stay that way for long, unless it's a real injury, then she's also pretty chill.

Penny: She's probably pretty self-sufficient. She can't exactly taste with how stuffed up she is, so she doesn't know how bad her food tastes. She'll probably eat and sleep a lot and explain it away, saying that Pam left her alone a lot as a kid, so she took care of herself. She'll probably cry if you take care of her.

Emily: She says she doesn't get sick, don't listen to her. Maybe worse than Haley about medication, because she insists that she needs natural methods to heal. She probably gets really delirious and tries to fix it with crystals and burning sage. Just make sure she gets what she needs and give her something to do in bed, and she'll wear herself out.

Abigail: Another one who says they don't get sick and is actually right, more likely to get injured or get food poisoning from her weird diet. Either way she’s pretty chill, and the biggest problem she'll have is boredom. Give her some soup, medicine, and attention, and she'll be fine. Probably plays video games until she feels better.

Sebastian: A BABY. Maximum level baby boy. His two favorite things are soup and tea. He gets sick often and stays that way often. And I feel like Robin is the type to baby him to shit, so he's pouty and needy for attention. Honestly, it will probably get worse if you keep him in bed, so it might be better to make him go outside if possible so he can actually get some sun.

Elliott: He's dramatic but very grateful if you take care of him. If he's really bad, then he'll start talking in Limericks that don't make sense until he falls asleep. Not exactly a baby, but certainly a drama queen. Will complain about his hair being messed up while he's in bed. Might feel better if he goes back to his cabin like a dying woman in a Victorian novel.a

Shane: Oh god, if you think Maru is bad about not telling you when she feels bad, then Shane is 10000 times worse. This man will be throwing up, coughing his lungs out, sneezing loud enough to wake the dead, and still tell you he's fine. You gotta call Jas and have her beg him (from a distance) to lay down and take care of himself. After that, he's chill about everything except his diet, is pissed he can't eat pizza all day but will eat soup and some vegetables if you tell him to.

Alex: Doesn't get sick and is right, but if he gets injured, then he wants princess treatment. He needs his pillows fluffed, his meals hot and on time, and DEMANDS cookies and attention. Evelyn probably spoiled him a little bit as a kid because it was so rare for him to get sick. The only bright side is that he'll gladly take medication without complaint as long as it's followed by a cookie.

Sam: Rarely gets sick, when he does he's a self regulater. If he's really sick, he'll sing softly to himself. His colds come with nightmares, and he'll probably wake up a lot. Cuddle him and make sure he's okay after, and he'll be okay.

Harvey: You'd think that either Harvey would be the type to not get sick or be a big baby. And you're wrong either way. Harvey is sickly and is a horrible self regulator, but he's very grateful for you taking care of him and will be the most cooperative patient ever. Will make dad jokes the whole time. Is very sweet.

[anystalker707]

A little show

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x [gender-neutral] Reader Kinktober prompt: Obedience Tags: he's so lovely / masturbation / dirty talking (?)

KINKTOBER LIST MASTERLIST

          You’d been sitting on a wooden box on the top deck during night watch for a few minutes—before that, you were up in the crow’s nest until you started to feel restless, deciding to wander around for a little. Night watches weren’t necessarily the most interesting thing ever, and it’d been a particularly agitated day that now faded into boredom; the crew had just left the last island by the beginning of the night, and most of them went to bed earlier than usual. You were busy observing the stars in the dark sky when footsteps brought you back to reality, but you didn’t look away from the sky. That pattern of steps was familiar.

Sanji soon came into view, holding a plate in hand. He smiled a little bit, eyes averting away once you looked up at him. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, we couldn’t spend a lot of time together today. I prepared this for you.”

The plate that Sanji offered you had a small portion of dessert on it—one of your favorites. Your eyebrows raised lightly as you took the plate in hand, humming softly.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” You took the spoon in hand, taking a good look at the dessert before you could even try it. Sanji always put such dedication into the dishes’ presentation.

Meanwhile, Sanji looked around, scratching the side of his neck. There was no other box he could place next to yours to sit with you, and sitting on the barrel would leave you two too distant from each other. He also didn’t want to make you sit on the floor. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he knelt down on the ground and sat back down on his legs, kind of sideways so that he could be closer to you. His head rested on the thigh that was in front of him, his cheek pressing to the fabric of your pants. Your fingers ran through his hair, making Sanji let out a soft hum, closing his eyes for a moment.

“This tastes so good,” you said while eating the dessert and wrapping your legs around Sanji, hooking your ankles together. “I mean, of course, it does. No dish of yours is ever bad.”

Sanji felt his cheeks heat up at the compliment. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “I bought the ingredients for it while we were on that island. I’m glad you like it,” he mumbled.

“I love it,” you said, tasting until the last bit of it before carefully setting the plate on the barrel nearby. Your eyes fell on Sanji, and your heart fluttered a little at seeing him there, like this. “Missed me that much? We were just apart for a few hours,” you said softly, running your hands through his hair, gently massaging his scalp with your fingertips.

“Well, today,” Sanji mumbled. “I was very busy with dinner yesterday, so the most we did was spend time together when you sat at the table while I cooked.”

You thought back to it, slowly nodding. “Yeah, sounds like it.” Silence fell between you as you observed Sanji for a long moment, still running your fingers through his hair, taking in the image of him by your feet like that. It wasn’t the first time it happened, but it still made your chest warm all the same. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his head. “Cutie,” you whispered, and despite only being able to see the back of his head, you could clearly imagine him blushing.

Sanji nuzzled your thigh gently, pressing his face to it. “‘Missed you,” he mumbled with his voice muffled. He turned his head a little, looking up at you through his bangs with such eyes that made something in your chest twist.

“I missed you too,” you whispered with a smile.

He shifted, folding both of his arms over your thighs and resting his chin on them. “Y’know, I really missed you,” he mumbled quietly. Even with limited lighting, you could see the red tone that took over his cheeks.

A sigh escaped your lips as you leaned forward a little, cupping both of Sanji’s cheeks to caress them briefly before running your fingers through his strands once more. “Yeah? How much?”

Sanji pouted a little bit, his eyes averting away for a moment again. “…I need you,” he whispered quietly. He moved his arms a little so that he could rest his head against your thigh again, pressing a soft kiss to it.

No answer came from you at first; you only observed Sanji, thinking about what you could do for him without spending a lot of your energy. Nami had made you walk quite a lot through the island earlier today.

“Show me how much.” You caught his attention again, his blue eyes observing you for context. “No one else is here. You can show me how I make you feel, or just show me what you do when I’m not around. You think you can do that for me?” Your forehead touched his as you leaned forward, hands on his shoulders.

“Oh,” Sanji muttered as he looked back at you, breath hitching in his throat. Just the thought of it was making him flustered already. “Anything for you.” The idea of putting up a show just for you was exciting, honestly. Just the fact that your eyes were following each of his movements was something meaningful for him, making a shiver run down his spine in anticipation as he leaned back to give himself some space.

You leaned forward with your elbows on your thighs, eyes fixated on him, watching it as he unbuttoned his dress pants and pulled the zipper down. He pushed his pants and underwear down just enough for his cock to be out. It was only half hard, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be fixed with a few strokes as he hissed, feeling the cold night air.

“Slow down,” you said, noticing the excessive urgency in his movements. Of course, Sanji whined, but he still did as told to. “We have all night long, after all. Give me your hand.”

Sanji pulled his hand away from himself reluctantly. Nonetheless, the frown was replaced by a surprised and flustered expression once he saw you spit on his hand, making it a generous amount. He stared at his own hand for a moment and slowly wrapped it back around his cock when you motioned for him to rush.

It felt better, of course. Sanji’s hand slid against his own cock a little easier, and he knew the eventual pre-cum would add up and make it even better later. He observed himself for a moment before looking up at you, though he couldn’t really hold your gaze—it made his mind rush and his cheeks burn more as his eyes drove away from yours. Sanji’s breath started falling out of pace as he moved his hand faster; his movements faltered when he felt your fingers on his chin to gently turn his head towards you.

“I’d appreciate it if you looked at me,” you whispered, looking into his eyes. “I want to see your pretty face. You make such cute expressions, did y’know that? That’s why I prefer it when we face each other while fucking. So that I can see your pretty face.”

Sanji’s eyebrows knitted together, and he bit his lip, whining a little as he tightened his hand around himself. You let go of his chin and looked down, watching his hand firmly work around his cock—it was hard in Sanji’s hand, the flushed pink tip sometimes disappearing under his hand.

“That’s it,” you whispered with a smile. The view of Sanji on his knees, sitting back on his feet like that with his cock in hand and whining for you… That was so hot. His other hand clutched on his pants, resting over his thigh. “So good for me,” you said as your eyes met his again.

Sanji nodded, taking a deep breath through his nose and slowly releasing it through his mouth while twisting his hand around himself a little, right at the base. He was starting to leak; the thick fluid already dripping down his tip.

“Why don’t you give more attention to the head, hm?” You made a motion with your hand before you rested your elbow on your thigh and your cheek on your palm. “I know how much you like to be touched there,” you muttered while observing Sanji slowly run his finger over the swollen tip, spreading the pre-cum over it; his thighs quivered. “Your legs always go weak whenever I suck your tip, and you get very loud. It also makes you cum quickly when I lick that spot under your tip, isn’t it?”

Sanji let out a shaky moan, his thumb pressing to his slit to collect the pre-cum that escaped it before he was stroking his cock again. It throbbed in his hand. Quite a sight. He took a while, but he did nod in confirmation to your words.

“Yeah,” you muttered with a soft sigh, trying to take in every single detail of the scene. “Why don’t you give it some attention as well, hm? Come on, touch all the spots you like. Make yourself feel good, sweetheart.”

“Y—Yes,” Sanji said with a soft whine. He had to take a moment, stroking his cock in a slower motion, then he finally let his thumb wander to the sensitive spot under the head. A whimper, and he placed his free hand behind himself to lean back on it, his hips bucking a little into his hand. “Mmph, fuck,” he moaned. The new touch made his cock twitch more in his hand, also leaking more.

“You look so good like this,” you sighed, watching Sanji struggle each time more to keep his hips still.

“Can I—”

“Hold it,” you cut Sanji off immediately, in a way his words lost themselves in a whine while he squirmed, thighs quivering while he held the base of his cock tightly, taking deep breaths. “Are you that easy? Do you really get more sensitive just from having me watch you?” You clicked your tongue, shaking your head as you pretended to be disappointed. It had Sanji’s eyes traveling to the ground as his head fell a little, the way it did whenever he wanted his hair to cover his face. “I already told you, sweetheart,” you said in a partially soft tone, “keep your eyes on me.”

Sanji hummed softly, shaking his head to throw some bangs away from his face. It was basically useless; some strands had stuck to his skin because of the sweat.

“Please,” Sanji whispered as he started slowly moving his hand around his cock, but he kept a certain distance from the tip, focusing on its length.

“You can hold on for a little longer,” you encouraged with a nod.

He groaned in frustration, but he complied. Sanji moved his hand slowly, always careful, enjoying the little break he had without any order aside from not cumming yet. He looked down at himself, pressing his lips together as he traced the veins along the underside of his cock, making it twitch in his hand with how his fingers made their way up.

Sanji inhaled deeply, groaning as he slowly started jerking himself off again, pressing his eyes shut. His hand was all sloppy with his pre-cum already, making it slide just nicely along his cock. It felt even better now.

“Please,” he gasped, opening his eyes again to look at you.

There was no response. Your eyes were on Sanji’s cock, following his hand’s motions, without giving his words a drop of attention. He whined, thrusting into his hand.

“Please, (y/n), please… Love of my life, my sweetheart, my dear, my everything,” Sanji mumbled among moans. Sometimes, the words ran one into the other. How cute. “Please.”

“Yeah,” you hummed with a nod, “you can cum.”

Sanji gasped, letting out a breath he had been holding as he started jerking himself off freely. He bit his lip when he ran his thumb over his tip again, muffling a moan, but it didn’t do much. He wasn’t very good at keeping silent, as much as he tried. As if proving it, Sanji’s mouth fell open with a moan as he furrowed his eyebrows and he was cumming all over his hand and part of the deck, messily moving his hips to meet his hands’ motion.

“Mmph, my love,” Sanji gasped, continuing to stroke himself through his high until his thighs were twitching, edging the overstimulation, but not quite there. He needed a second to recover, resting his head against your thigh again as he tried to catch his breath. He knew how to seek affection.

A smile tugged on your hips, your fingers running through his hair, soothingly. “That’s it,” you whispered, “you did so well, sweetheart.”

Sanji hummed softly in acknowledgment, leaning into your touches. As you cupped his cheek, he turned his head to press a kiss to your palm.

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

[someverygaymoth]

In reference to an earlier ask by @deltacreeper

The castle would be incredibly confused if one of the boys disappeared. It would try and make Nightmare as comfortable and happy as possible, but it would do things like guiding one of the boys to the missing teammate's room, as if to ask "where are they?" Or remind the other to look for them. It'd also definitely bully Killer or Dust to alleviate some of the boredom and restlessness. (Playing mean pranks like tripping them or getting them lost)

I love the idea of NM sending Cross out to double agent with the stars maybe a year or two after he joins the team. Cross keeps the jig up for about a year, feeding NM and his teammates information that they can use against the stars later... the castle would definitely get grumpy about Cross being gone for so long. It can handle the boys being gone for a week or two, but more than that, and it gets restless. It starts keeping the boys from leaving, getting overprotective and frustrated. Any time the boys are out on the rare kind of mission that lasts a month or so, Nigntmare has to calm the castle and constantly remind it that their mortals will come back safe and sound.

The castle may or may not be slightly attached to its inhabitants.

《Mentions of character death below the cut》

Ohhh the heartbreaking idea of one of the boys dying and the castle just not understanding... Nightmare has been with it thousands of years, of course it wouldn't understand the lifespan of mortals... maybe when it finally grasped that the mortal wouldn't come home again, the hallways are filled with wails and the soft sound of crying almost every night for years after...

[otomes-and-tears]

If its ok, I wanna request a qiu x reader (step 2) where reader keeps doodling qiu subconciously and they end up dropping one of their doodles somewhere, and qiu finds it :0 sorry if this is formatted wrong, ive never requested something before aaa!!!!

♦ Qiu finds MC's drawing of them ♦

►tags and warnings: GN reader, Step 2

► words: 1696 words

► A/N: I AM ALIVE I SWEAR I promise I can still write more than just Shiloh brainrot!

► Masterlist

It wasn’t really on purpose.

MC was trapped in the clutches of a terrible art block. It had been weeks since they managed to draw something they were satisfied with, and the creative stagnation gnawed at them, leaving them restless. Then there was Qiu, sitting a few seats ahead, their messy hair carelessly tied into a crooked ponytail, soft features relaxed in quiet boredom. MC didn’t even realize they had started sketching Qiu until the drawing was done— their fingertips smudged with graphite as they blended the last of the rough shading into the pencil sketch.

It looked good. Far better than any of their recent, fruitless attempts at drawing. The creases on their baggy sweater and the small intricacies of their expression almost perfectly captured in their style.

Part of MC wanted to brag, to walk up to Qiu and show them the drawing as a triumphant declaration that their terrible, horrible art block was finally over. But as soon as Qiu’s gaze found theirs, those soft eyes blinking slowly, like a cat, and that small, smug smile appearing on their lips, far too pleased with having caught MC staring, MC knew they couldn’t give Qiu any more reason to tease them.

It’s bound to be just a one-time thing, anyway.

…

It wasn’t a one-time thing.

Drawing Qiu became muscle memory, in the same way that drawing hearts or five-point stars, the kind with lines in the middle, became after an eternity of doodling them on the edges of notebooks.

There was just something easy about it. 

MC knew their neighbour so well that they didn’t even need a reference to capture the nuances of Qiu’s smile—the way the right side of their lips lifted just a touch higher than the left, the arch of their brows, or the slight widening of their eyes when surprised. It was effortless.

It becomes a warm-up exercise before the artist’s other drawings and a quick way to break the slump off art blocks, or even something mindless MC does in the middle of a particularly dull classes both share— they do suspect Qiu knew about those but never bothered them with requests to see the drawings, leaving MC to their quiet obsession.

What was embarrassing was how often they’d find themselves obsessing over the perfect way to angle their wrists to capture the sharp swoop of Qiu’s dark bangs to imply just the right amount of movement, or the fact that they filled so many pages of their sketchbook with studies of Qiu during ballet class that they had to replace it with a fresh one.

Their anatomy skills had improved dramatically in the meantime. But was it worth it, trading artistic growth for Qiu’s obvious disappointment when MC stopped letting them flip through their sketchbook? Or having to learn to draw things quickly and discreetly?

“You dropped a page.” MC says, flatly. Qiu is rummaging though their gym bag in search of their  earphones, notepad hanging precariously in their coat pocket. “Again.”

By this point, Qiu had long given up on retrieving whatever papers they lost, but MC still informed them out of habit anyway. Despite their disinterest, Qiu’s eyes scanned the floor—until they paused, bending down to pick the page up. 

The action immediately catches MC’s attention. It would usually take a lot of insistence for Qiu to bother, if they did at all.

"Started caring about the environment again?" 

MC teased. Qiu just snickered, unfolding the page with a widening smile. A smile that grew into something MC could only describe as pure, unbridled glee. That’s when MC noticed the paper wasn’t the usual color, weight, or size. It was larger, thinner, and undeniably from MC’s sketchbook.

“I was wondering when you’d let me see these drawings,” Qiu said, turning the page to reveal one of MC’s most recent sketches—a detailed study of Qiu, brows furrowed in concentration as they scribbled in their notepad, done only a few hours ago, just before lunchtime. There were also smaller drawings on the margins done in a more simplified style, all of Qiu. "When did I become your muse?”

MC’s breath caught in their throat as Qiu held up the sketch, a wave of embarrassment hitting them so hard they felt they could drown in it. Their little habit was a badly-kept secret, but it doesn’t mean that MC was looking forward to being found out.

Regardless, the question hung in the air, and MC knew that there was no universe in which Qiu would let it go without satisfying answers

Each second MC passed without answering only made Qiu’s grin grow further, their warm brown eyes flickering between the sketch and the artist responsible for creating it, a glint of mischief dancing in them.

“You know,” they continued, voice light and playful, “if you wanted me to model for you, all you had to do was ask.”

“No! I wasn’t— It’s not like that!” 

MC could feel the heat crawling up the back of their neck as they stammard, mind racing as they frantically searched for an excuse that would be any less mortifying than the truth.

Qiu’s smile softened, feeling bad for their friend’s embarrassment, even if they were having fun with their flustered reaction. Despite how much their personality had changed throughout the years, that was a small aspect Qiu would never be able to grow out of— despite their incessant teasing, they deeply cared for their neighbour, and didn’t like taking things too far for the sake of their comfort.

“Is that so?” they asked, the teasing edge in their voice giving way to something a little softer. "Because it seems like you’ve been drawing me a lot."

MC felt the weight of their own silence, the silent, embarrassing admission that came with it. 

Drawing Qiu had become a part of their routine. A habit, an easy way to keep up with their goal of drawing every day.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” MC finally said, pushing through their mortification to grant Qiu their answer. They glanced down at their hands, fingers still smudged with graphite, as if the evidence of their fixation was written all over them, taunting them. “I just… you were easy to draw. You’re always around, and I—” They paused. I can’t stop thinking about you. The words linger, right on the tip of their tongue. “I guess it just… happened.”

The playful gleam in Qiu’s eyes is replaced by something tender, a warmth they knew all too well.

“You know,” Qiu said slowly, carefully, as if trying not to spook them “I don’t mind being your muse.”

MC blinked, caught off guard by Qiu’s sincerity. They looked up, meeting Qiu’s gaze fully, and for the first time in a long time, there was no playfulness or carefully feigned disinterest in their eyes. Just warmth.

“You don’t—” MC began, stammering, struggling to find the right words, “you don’t think it’s… weird?”

“Why would it be weird? You’re an artist. Artists need inspiration, right?” Qiu glanced down at the sketch again, running a finger gently over the paper, careful not to smudge it. “And I’m honored. I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s inspiration before. Much less to my favorite artist”

Somehow, MC doubts that. Judging by Qiu’s popularity in town, having been the crush of at least half of Golden Grove’s kids within their age group, they have absolutely zero doubts that Qiu has been the source of many ‘a angsty poem scribbled in someone’s diary.

Regardless, they felt their chest tighten at Qiu’s words, eyes widening as their mind replays the dancer’s words, over and over. They were Qiu’s favorite artist? Qiu didn’t mind being drawn?

That fills them with much needed relief, the tension from their body slowly dissipating.

“I’m not sure how much of an inspiration you really are,” 

MC muttered, trying to deflect some of the intensity of the moment with humor, but the warmth in their voice betrayed them.

“Oh, come on. I’ve clearly been *very* inspirational.” Qiu gestured at the sketch in their hand, then raised a brow. “How many of these are there, anyway? Ten?”

“…More.”

“More? Seriously?”

MC couldn’t help but smile now, the absurdity of it all catching up with them as they shake their head, disappointed at themselves.

“Uh, like, a lot of my last sketchbook? It’s just… you’re always around, and you’ve got this…” They gestured vaguely at Qiu, trying to find the right words. “This vibe. You’re fun to draw.”

Qiu raised an eyebrow, leaning in, invading their personal space enough that they could smell the subtle scent of cinnamon from their shampoo, voice dropping to a playful murmur. 

“Easy, huh? So you *have* been staring at me a lot.”

MC rolled their eyes, shoving Qiu lightly, but there was no malice in it. It’s true, as much as they hated to admit it, they had observed the dancer so much as to be able to draw them from memory.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” 

But Qiu just smiled, softer again. 

“I’m flattered,” they said, their voice gentle. “Really.”

MC didn’t know what to say to that. There was a lump in their throat, an unspoken understanding passing between them that felt both overwhelming and comforting. They had known each other for years by that point, after all, but In that moment, something shifted. The awkwardness, the teasing, even the embarrassment—it all melted away like snow in spring time, leaving behind only the quiet connection between them. Their unbreakable bond. It was comfortable in the way few things are.

Qiu handed the sketch back to MC, their fingers brushing for just a second felt almost electrifying. Has it always felt like this?

“Keep drawing me,” they said, voice quiet but resolute. “If it helps you, keep doing it. No need to hide it.”

When their eyes meet again, and they can sense Qiu’s sincerity, their heart races once more. They accept the drawing, storing it safely inside their sketchbook before they continue on their way home.

Maybe they didn’t have the words for everything they felt just yet, but right now, this moment was enough.

[talia-black]

A Gift Repaid (Is But A Favor Owed)

(I started this a week after 2.3 went live. Clearly this sat in my WIPs before boredom resurrected it. Based on the 2.3 post-quest. Currently in the middle of a hurricane and the internet is out so I finally have no choice but to finish some of my WIPs.) 

Angsty, because Lord knows I can’t separate poor Aventurine from his trauma, but let me know if you want a fluffy sequel. 

Trailblazer!Gender neutral!Reader

(But I do use the name Stelle because I am a part of the AvenStelle agenda)

Stelle wants to repay Aventurine's gift, but doesn't have a single clue about how to do that. Maybe something just a little bit more will come of their clueless but sincere gesture.

Aventurine let out a well-earned sigh as he collapsed into bed. The weeks following his return to Pier Point had been nothing but a series of meetings, debriefs, more meetings, follow-up reports, and even more meetings. Leaving the normally free-wheeling gambler feeling restless and pent-up. Watching the drama unfold on the Radiant Feldspar had been his only form of entertainment. So naturally once the negotiations had settled and the Fool's prank had been dealt with, the Stoneheart had nothing to distract himself from the stack of paperwork taunting him from its perch on his desk.

Admittedly he had resorted to browsing one of his favorite online stores when he got the notification that the limited-edition model of the Astral Express was finally open for bidding. He won naturally, and it only took him a few seconds before he decided what to do with it.

Aventurine bundled up a few trinkets he had collected while on Penacony and had them packaged alongside the train model before shipping it off to the formerly-named Radiant Feldspar.

Stelle had been by far one of the most interesting and delightful characters he ever had the pleasure of meeting. Despite the power they wielded simply by hosting a Stellaron and being a member of the Astral Express Crew, they were almost chronically lawless and free-spirited. Although, squirrel-brained might be the most accurate descriptor. They could be in the middle of a punch line to some terrible dad joke one moment, and the next they are sprinting off because something shiny was poking out of a trashcan and they just had to take it with them. Every expensive gift he sent their way was met with sincere gratitude. But Stelle's wide-eyed, embarrassed blush didn't hold a candle to the expression of pure joy that lit up their entire face whenever they dug out something they deemed worthwhile out of a pile of abandoned boxes or an alley that looked like it could launch a thousand microbiology studies. Stelle was just so genuine and thoroughly lacking in any kind of malicious intent or agenda that it was impossible to not be endeared to them.

As far as the Stoneheart was concerned, the Astral Express' resident raccoon in human skin could have whatever their heart desired.

()()()()()()())()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Honestly, Aventurine forgot about the gift after a week. Work wasn't any less busy, and it was becoming clearer by the day that part of his punishment for damaging his cornerstone and putting two others in jeopardy was to be grounded on Pier Point until Diamond was forced to send him somewhere else.

Five weeks later, the gambler was willing to take a second shot at that Emanator if it meant he would be able to escape the never-ending mountain of paperwork. One way or the other.

Which is why he decided to spend an afternoon sifting through his backlog of physical mail instead of addressing the two-foot stack of papers that one of Obsidian's lackeys had dropped on his desk five minutes before his lunch break or the 1000+ emails sitting in his inbox.

The majority was junk. He was appalled that most of it got past his subordinates desk, and he happily watched the papers be chewed to pieces in the shredder. A few particularly inventive scam attempts even managed to get a chuckle out of him before they met their fate.

The slightly more personal letters were mildly amusing. Threats from past "friends", professions of love from strangers who had caught a glimpse of him at this place or the other. 

He would definitely need to have HR reevaluate the person who handled his mail.

Aventurine saved the packages for last, mainly because he knew those had been thoroughly inspected before they were even allowed in the building. One attempted bombing incident and now all of his shopping orders took a minimum of 72 hours before he was allowed to pick them up. But it wasn't until he had actually started to examine the boxes that he noticed something odd.

One of the packages wasn't so much a "package" as it was something vaguely spherical wrapped in newspaper. A shipping label that barely met postal requirements was the only thing holding it together, and the smell of burnt metal radiated from it. The sender's name had been smudged, which only fueled the gambler's curiosity.

Mostly confident whatever was in the package wouldn't kill him, Aventurine tore away the wrapping paper.

"What in the name of the Preservation-"

Aventurine hissed. His fingers had struck metal, nearly slicing his finger open on a particularly jagged corner. The rusted bronze burned in the low lighting Aventurine had illuminating his office, offset by the shiny aluminum that had been soldered to it. Aventurine continued to unwrap the package and it was only when the last of the newspaper had fallen to the floor that he was able to make out what it was.

Several pieces of scrap had been melded together in a caricature of a star. Different types of metal and alloys gleaned in the light of his office, and despite the patches of rust and wear on it, a lot of effort had clearly been put into it.

Aventurine had no clue what to make of it. It wasn't some high-end art piece if the shipping was anything to go by, and wasn't anything close to gifts people had attempted to bribe him with before. He reached down to pick through the wrapping and take a second look at the shipping label and a folded piece of paper fell out. It looked like standard cardstock, but Aventurine could see his name scratched on the top.

The gambler's intrigue was practically suffocating him at this point as he snatched the paper up and folded back the crease.

Hey Aventurine, hope you're doing alright. I've been stabbed before. It's not a fun experience once the adrenaline wears off and you can't get your legs to work properly. Make sure you wait at least a few days before trying to go out and pick a fight, or you'll wake up with very disappointed people hovering over you.

Sorry I didn't respond to your gift sooner. I would say social anxiety is bitch, but March has been nagging me to stop masking my vulnerability with humor.

Truthfully, I didn't know how to thank you. Excusing that little scuffle at the theme park (No hard feelings there. A lot of my friends have tried to maim me before) you've been great company and I wanted to give you something in return for all of the presents you’ve given me. It took me a while to decide on what exactly that was. I've watched a few of your poker games. You can make more credits in a single evening than I've ever had in my entire life. It wasn't until Dan Heng commented on all of the "junk" in my room that I had the idea of making something.

March 7th says I'm a hoarder. I prefer the term "low-budget collector". The metal you're holding was scavenged from a massive junkyard that most of Belobog's decommissioned robots end up in, though some of it came from abandoned cycranes I found near the Alchemy Commission. You wouldn't believe the types of odds and ends that get thrown in their dumpsters.

I had to ask for Himeko's help to actually weld the metal though. I think I did a pretty decent job for my first time, and aside from a few burns I made it through the experience unscathed. Word of advice: never touch the tip of a welding torch. Even after it's been off for ten minutes.

I really did like hanging out with you, Aventurine. Not a lot of people are willing to put up with my hyperactive raccoon brain for long, and it was nice to meet someone else who enjoys causing general mayhem. There should be another present in here if I get Pom-Pom to approve it.

Anyway, I hope you at least like this gift. If you don't, feel free to toss it.

May your journey lead you starward

-The Trailblazing Raccoon

Stelle

P.S. If you were serious about that round of cards, the Express will be staying at the Luofu for the next few months before we go out of range of the HoloNet for a while. I know a place with great food and mostly empty tables if you feel like stopping by.

Stelle.

The letter’s words blurred from how hard his hand was shaking.

Aventurine blinked furiously. A single tear escaped and smeared the postscript. He set the ornament gently on his desk before looking through the newspaper for a second envelope.

Instead of another folded note, there was a smaller envelope crookedly taped to what had been the inside of the newspaper. 

The Astral Express welcomes all who wish to move beyond their past and journey along the silver rails, no matter their intent or agenda. Ms. Topaz has already been granted an Express Pass, so it would be inconsiderate to not offer you one as well when a Trailblazer has vouched for you. The Pass enclosed will allow you to board the Astral Express whenever you wish, barring emergency circumstances or a crisis state. 

- The Conductor of the Astral Express, Pom-Pom

A golden ticket was nestled in the folded page. The rainbow sheen on its glossy gold surface was a perfect replica of the reflection of the stars outside Aventurine’s office window. 

Those same stars were the sole light in Aventurine’s penthouse apartment later that night as he drowned his memories and anxieties in a bottle of Penacony’s finest. His alcohol-addled brain scheming away as he clutched that golden ticket in a death grip. 

()()()()()()())()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

A few days later…

“Hey Stelle!” 

The Trailblazer in question looked up from their game to see March leaning into their room.

“You’ve got a package. Well, a few packages. And a letter.”

Stelle raised an eyebrow as March dropped six nicely-wrapped boxes and a letter on their bed.  

“Are you sure you haven’t gone over your budget this month?” March asked as Stelle reached for the letter. 

“I haven’t ordered anything,” Stelle mumbled, distracted by the ostentatious gold calligraphy decorating the front. The list of people she knew who would send them such a thing was short, and with the packages…

Stelle ripped open the envelope and leaned back, away from March’s prying gaze. 

Dear Stelle, 

It would be my honor to accept your invitation. The gifts I’ve sent are a small measure of my gratitude for such a thoughtful present, and I hope you won’t object to similar gestures in the future. I’ve never had the chance to visit the Luofu, but I managed to free a few days next week for me to spend at my leisure. You have my number, so if you’re looking for a little risky fun, give me a call. 

Your close friend, Aventurine <3

[drgnflyteabox]

postcards from the coast [2]

previous || part two -> linens || part three -> tbd

series masterlist

pairing: kyle 'gaz' garrick / single mom!reader summary: kyle looks for you, then finds you tags/warnings: grief, less angst but still there, depression, non-creepy stalking, judgmental people, anxiety, previous injuries, insomnia, don't accept rides from strange men ladies and theydies, unless it's gaz then feel free<3 w.c: 1.2k

"Can I get a red-eye?"

Sleep has been difficult lately. Evasive. He sometimes goes through insomniac phases, where no amount of jogging or calisthenics practice or mental exercise helps. It's pure, restless energy.

Before, he might've taken himself to a bar, found a pretty girl to fuck and ease the buzzing under his skin. Now it's too painful - too much of a reminder of post-mission decompressing with the team. Sat in a circle booth, slapping each other on the back as they left, the smell of cigar-smoke and perfume.

Not that he'd be able to here, anyway. The town is too small, too isolated. There's hardly a main street, just a strip with bare necessities vaguely at the center of rolling hill country pock-marked with bleached white cottages and surrounded by cold ocean on all sides.

Peaceful, sometimes. Unbearable, mostly.

"Sure, any milk or sugar?"

"No, that's alright, thank you." He's been here every day, mixing a caffeine fix with his ongoing search for you. Curiosity and boredom, he tells himself. The product of so many sudden life changes - the end of their last mission, Johnny's passing. He just needs something else to focus on, something soft and wide-eyed.

At least the coffee is good.

The next time he sees you, it's in passing. Driving out of town to the post office to pick up a gift from his sister.

You're holding a toddler by both arms, their feet on yours, walking them up the steps toward the local library. Another long skirt, wimpling softly in the breeze. There's a smile on your face as you watch the child walk with you.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity - like he should turn back. But the post office closes in a couple hours and it takes nearly that long to get there, so Kyle elects to be patient.

You're there every evening. From five o'clock until closing at eight, you sit at the same window and alternate reading a massive tome and babbling back at your baby, who's sitting on a wooden high-chair.

The librarian makes rounds just to say hello to the two of you, pinching cheeks and ooing and aweing.

"And how old is she again?" She whispers mindfully. Her nametag says Nettie and she's a kindly-looking old woman, bent a little from years of work but sturdy as a mast in a storm.

"Turning two soon," you whisper back. Neither of you have any idea he's there yet, browsing the books as a cover to peek through the shelf at you. "She's a taurus."

"Just about to hit the terrible twos!" Nettie laughs.

"Yep," you laugh with her, but there's something there. A sheepishness. Embarrassment? Your expression is almost a grimace, from what he doesn't know. He wants to, though. Looks through the peephole and lets his chest fill with something other than grief for just a moment.

"And the father? Not a fan of reading?" She probably means well, but your face goes from vaguely uncomfortable to something like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, um," you're floundering, but Nettie is too busy stroking a wrinkled hand over your girls head. "He's not in the picture."

Not in the picture? If Kyle had felt any kind of guilt for eavesdropping, it's overshadowed by that information. Best stake-out of his career to-date.

You shrink a little when Nettie yanks her hand back, frowning. He can tell judgement and prejudice when he sees it - experience and a keen eye. Must be hard being a single mom.

Resigned - that's the look. Pained and embarrassed and resigned.

"Right. Well," Nettie's sensible leather shoes clack against the floor. You don't watch her go, your hand is reaching into your bag for a tiny knit hat.

Fuck, you're leaving.

As you gather your things - book, coat, bags, baby - he tucks himself into the shelf, positioned still as a sniper, to-

"Ouch!" Your voice cuts through the quiet of the library. Kyle flounders, caught off guard for once. He'd only gently bumped into you to make it look like an accident, like something out of a rom-com. Girls liked that, usually.

But instead of looking up at him with surprise, you close your eyes and shy away from him, shoulders coming up defensively - you can't reach your arm, not with a baby on your hip, but it's obvious you're in pain.

"Are you okay?" You look to him, wincing still. You're asking him if he's okay? Heat creeps into his cheeks, warming him with regret.

"I'm good, I'm good," he says quickly. "Sorry about that, love, didn't see you there."

"That's okay," you readjust, arm limp at your side. Your heavy bags hang off of it, but there's nothing you can do with the baby on your hip.

"Let me get those," there's no time for you to reject his offer; he's too quick. The bags are heavy - no doubt there are more books and a baby go-bag. This close, you smell powdery soft like linen sheets and laundry dried outside.

"It's the least I can do," he's trying to be casual about it, lest he scare you off. Holds the door open, notices while you step out that your daughter looks just like you.

"Thank you, you didn't have to," you look down. How'd you hurt your arm? He knows he didn't hurt you - not like that, at least. Not enough to warrant such a reaction.

"Of course I did, didn't mean to get'cha so hard," his head swivels. There are only two cars in the parking lot. "Can I get these in your car?"

"Oh, I walked, that's okay," you reach to take the bags back, but he pulls away.

"I can't let you walk home, please- let me be a gentleman and give you a ride," he knows it's a long shot. Neither of you have exchanged names, neither of you are locals. He's tried to make himself look as approachable as possible; head tilted down, brown eyes imploring, palms out even with your bags in one hand, but it's a gamble.

There's natural suspicion and hesitation, your eyes looking side-to-side, but you nod with a hesitant smile after a moment. It's hard to keep the grin down, but he manages it up until you're tucked in his passenger seat and he's putting your bags in the back of his car.

"My name is Kyle, by the way," he puts his keys in the ignition, turns them. Pretends not to notice how you sink into the seat, eyes drooping, holding your daughter on your lap. It's not safe, but it's a country road and he promised to drive slow on the way.

You tell him your name. It's pretty, fitting. He wonders again about you - who left you like this? Alone, hurt, tired, trusting a stranger to drive you home. If he were your man, he'd never let you be put in a position like that.

The cottage you're renting is tiny, a glorified shack, rented as a cottage for tourists.

"There you are," he murmurs, trying not to startle you. "Need help getting in?"

"Hm?" You've been staring out the window. "Sorry! No, I'm alright, thank you again for the ride. Josie and I appreciate it."

Josie. It fits her, fits you. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

There's not a chance he lets you get the bags out yourself, and once you're appropriately sent off to your door, he sits and waits for a moment. Makes sure you get inside. Feels something loosen in his chest.

[decagondice]

༓ Why the mask? ༓

Soft!Toji x Reader, Incredibly stupid humour, Reader is called an idiot (jokingly), Normal au.

The steady murmur of rain against the window filled the room, its rhythmic patter creating a veil of sound that made the outside world feel miles away. The air was tinged with the faint, lingering aroma of your half-finished tea on the coffee table, mingling with the subtle musk of worn leather from the couch and the comforting traces of his cologne—a scent that clung to him like a second skin, warm and familiar. Toji sat at one end of the couch, his posture relaxed but with a touch of fatigue weighing down his usually sharp gaze. His eyes, though piercing, seemed softer, lids heavy as though sleep was teasing at the edges of his awareness.

Your legs were draped comfortably over his lap, the curve of your ankle resting against his thigh, a natural gesture that spoke of the easy familiarity between you. Toji’s hand, almost absent-mindedly, moved to rest on your shin, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along your skin, a touch so casual it could almost be mistaken for thoughtless. But you knew better; even in his fatigue, even in this quiet moment, that touch carried with it a kind of instinctive intimacy.

You had been restless for hours, the rain trapping you indoors, boredom swirling through your thoughts until something foolish popped into your head—a joke so silly, so childish, that you knew you just had to see it through. The moment you thought of it, you could already imagine the look on Toji’s face, that mix of confusion and reluctant amusement that he wore whenever you did something ridiculous just to get a reaction out of him.

“You know,” you started, tilting your head slightly as you let your eyes sweep over his face and a faux-seriousness settling into your features, “you look different today. Kind of... intimidating. Scary. Have you done something to your face?”

Toji's expression didn’t change much—he simply blinked at you, his brows slowly and tiredly lifting just a fraction with the barest hint of curiosity flickering across his neutral expression. A ghost of a smile threatened to pull at his lips, but he held it back not quite committing to it yet, instead fostering a gaze steady and unimpressed. “Intimidating?” he drawled, voice roughened by the day's wear. “I didn’t realise I was trying to scare you off. Or, better still, don't tell me you’ve only just realised that my looks are just too good for you to handle.” There was a playful dryness to his tone, almost a dare for you to continue.

“Hardly,” You shot back, rolling your eyes with exaggerated exasperation. “But, really. What did you do? Trying to chase off trick-or-treaters in advance?” You leaned back against the cushions, a smirk forming on your lips as you continued with your feigned seriousness.

Finally, he allowed the corner of his lips to twitch upward, letting out a low disbelieving chuckle, the sound rough but unexpectedly gentle like gravel rolling gently underfoot. He reached up, almost on instinct, fingers brushing along his cheek to his jawline as though checking for some invisible fault you’d pointed out. His touch was slow and deliberate, a momentary pause that seemed to ground him, his brow furrowing in a way that made him look almost vulnerable, searching his own expression like a man checking his armour for cracks.

“Come on, don't mess with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, shaking his head slightly with a hint of amusement colouring his exhaustion. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, sitting here with a straight face, making me doubt my good looks.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at that, your lips curving despite your best efforts to maintain the ruse. Unable to hold back any longer with your facade wavering, you shifted closer, leaning in just slightly, as if to share a conspiracy. “Listen,” you said, your tone teasing but now tinged with a hint of laughter. “I get that Halloween is right around the corner, but seriously—give your face a break by taking off the mask already. It’s horrifying.”

Mask? But, he wasn’t wearing one.

He blinked, then turned his gaze to the dark screen of his phone, squinting slightly at his reflection to check his face in its glossy surface as if genuinely wondering if you were onto something. The sight was so absurd that it almost broke your composure. Almost. You watched as realisation dawned on his face that you were indeed talking about nothing at all this whole time, and despite his best efforts to suppress it, a slow smile spread across his lips—a smile that lit up his features even as he tried to hide it by turning his head. In the corner of his eyes he caught the subtle twitch of your lips and let out a low, gravelly laugh that seemed to rumble from deep in his chest.

“You’re such an idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him completely. His thumb continued to trace gentle circles on your ankle moving up towards your knee, the firmer touch a grounding point between you both like he needed his caress to anchor the moment. A subtle reminder of his presence, his attention, almost possessive in its casualness despite the tiredness that still lingered in his eyes.

And that was when you finally let your own laughter spill out—soft, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep in your chest. You couldn’t help it, not when you saw the way he was looking at you now, his eyes narrow with mock irritation but glinting with something unmistakably fond. 

The tired lines of his face softened slightly, the hint of a smile touching his lips—barely there but impossible to miss when you knew where to look. He didn’t even bother to mask the way his tired smile grew wider as he watched you lose it, shaking his head again with a look that said he was both baffled and endlessly amused by your antics. "You really are something else," he said quietly, his voice softer now, like a confession meant only for you.

 “Naturally,” you breathed out your simple, almost playful agreement, still catching your breath from your own silliness, and you caught the quick flicker of his eyes meeting yours, something unspoken passing between you. He turned his head away slowly, ostensibly staring at the rain-streaked window, but you could see the way his lips curved just so, betraying the fondness he tried to mask.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. In the quiet, with the rain as your backdrop and his hand still resting on your leg, his touch was enough. In the way his fingers traced your skin, like a habit he couldn’t break, you understood that the silence between you was rich with meaning, filled with the slow burn of affection that didn’t need grand declarations to be felt. The joke had done more than just break the quiet; it had deepened the connection between you, filling the space with shared laughter, a kind of intimacy that spoke louder than words. As Toji’s rare, softened smile appeared, the one meant only for you, you knew that even in his tiredness, even in his gruff teasing, this moment was one he wouldn’t trade for anything.

A.N. I am not very proud of this piece....This was based off a joke I tell my friend every few months when I see her, least to say she's never impressed -_-

[deusvervewrites]

The First Line

A lot of people out there will tell you that the first line of a novel is the most important. I've seen the wisdom that the first line must grab the readers attention, be some kind of a "hook" to draw them in deeper, or to tonally reflect the main themes. That the first line needs to throw the reader into the thick of it!

But how true is that really? It's been nagging me for a while now as someone who has started more fics than I've completed.

Out of curiosity, I grabbed a handful of my favorite novels and compiled their first lines.

"There are many legends about my mother." Daughter of the Moon Goddess, Sue Lynn Tan

This line doesn't really establish much about the plot of this book. Not the narrator's name, goal, conflict, or even the setting. We can make some inferences from the existence of legends around someone, but 'legendary' only narrows anything down because of the book's title. It is, however, indicative of the narration style and the novel's prose.

"Mary Jekyll stared down at her mother's coffin." The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter, Theodora Cross

This line puts us right into a scene. Some real In Medias Res. Except... it's not really an action scene. It's a somber affair. And from Mary's staring, it's safe to say she has some heavy thoughts on the matter.

We can also make some assumptions from the wording choice. Looking down at the coffin suggests that she is standing over it, so we know at once this takes place during the funeral.

Interestingly--and I'm going to break my soft rule of not addressing the rest of the text here--this line does not allude to the novel's framing device.

"The temperature of the room dropped fast." Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand, Jonathan Stroud

This is another opening that's setting a scene instead of trying to introduce us to the cast or conflict, or even to the setting. Why is it getting colder? We can infer from the fact that the temperature is dropping fast that this probably isn't a good thing or at least not a normal thing.

"I've seen Steelheart bleed." Steelheart, Brandon Sanderson

This line fascinates me. It says a lot and, at the same time, very little. We know that someone named Steelheart exists, obviously. However, the narrator is giving gravitas to the sight of them bleeding. So we've already learned that Steelheart doesn't bleed very often, and seeing it was worth remembering. But who Steelheart is and why the narrator cares? Nothing in this line indicates that.

"Kendra stared out the side window of the SUV, watching foliage blur past." Fablehaven, Brandon Mull

I think this is the most relatable opening line I have listed here, since I can instantly in my mind picture the expression on Kendra's face knowing nothing else about her, or where she's going. We can guess she's probably not happy to be going there since she's staring out the window with what I would assume to be boredom. That's some conflict there. But, like, extremely minor conflict.

"The tired old carriage, pulled by two tired old horses, rumbled onto the wharf, its creaky wheels bumpety-bumping on the uneven planks, waking Peter from his restless slumber." Peter and the Starcatchers, Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

Well this sentence rambled on a bit didn't it? But it's very evocative. It tells us very little about the story (beyond Peter's name) but it sets the scene beautifully. Not only is it evocative of the scenery, but the time period (from the horse-drawn carriage) and the tone as well. We also know that Peter wasn't sleeping very well, which indicates that he's either anxious about something or that sleeping in this carriage wasn't very easy. Or both.

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

This is the kind of line that would get me murdered by a lot of writing advice that I've seen over the years. This line tells you next to nothing, not even whether or not its weird for hobbits to live in holes. What this line does do is ease us into the narration style that Tolkien employs, which is generally slow and descriptive.

Okay...?

So what was the point of all of that?

Well, this experiment has solidified my opinion on something. As I said, I've been having thoughts about opening lines, but I think that the actual first line of the book is not as important as the first scene of the book. None of these lines out of context are that good. Sure, The Hobbit is iconic, but that's not because that line itself is phenomenal. It's practically "Once Upon A Time."

But it works for the scene.

The first scene is far more interesting to me than the first line. I'm not so impatient that if the first line fails to captivate me I'll toss the book aside. And I know that's true for other people because H. Bomberguy posted a four-hour video on plagiarism and we all watched it.

What this means, I think, is that we don't need to treat our audience as if we're in an arms race against their dwindling attention spans as if we'll lose them forever to TikTok if the first sentence isn't the pinnacle of literature.

People will give a work a chance. That's what the summary is for; to tell people if they'll like it so they can know to give it a try.

If you were afraid to write, or to share your writing, because you didn't think the first line was good enough... I don't think that matters. I think that people won't hate it. Won't turn up their noses in disgust.

[firstfullmoon]

This week we didn’t meet. I hate that. The  bed is rumpled. I go out onto the lawn. The  stars are hid in heavy haze.  The only moon my lit room. I put my hand into the beam that falls upon a garden chair. You’ve touched that hand, and it’s touched you. I’ve little to complain of. In fact, I’m not complaining. I find it on these hot nights, hard to fall asleep. If you were here! You almost were. Then something  came up. Back  to bed. I’m reading about Byron and his last love, la Guiccioli. I identify with her, afraid of losing him. When you’re down, I get scared. What if boredom should set in? On your side, not on mine. I put my hand on your side of the bed. I see you there as I  saw you sleep  there last week. We’re not like Byron and his Teresa, we don’t play games. (Byron, by the way, was great! So, in her way, was she.) At least, the games we  play are sex games, not the kind that come from ennui. God damn this hot  and restless night. I was asleep and then a dream that  you were angry with me woke me. I can’t quite shake it off. I know it isn’t true. You’re not. It’s hot: I thought we’d  meet: we can’t: I felt let down. I get the downs sometimes too. And how. I trust you. You’re as straight as anyone I’ve ever known. I hate it when you’re  blue. You plunge so deep into it. I feel then I’m  in the dark and can’t quite touch you. Perhaps I needn’t, shouldn’t try. I respect your inner life. You have Irish moods (and eyes). I do too. I— what is it that I want to say? To say this isn’t  a complaint. It’s how I feel on a hot night in August, 1972, missing you.

— James Schuyler, “August Night,” in Collected Poems