#manners are boring says sugar

[wrixie]

Sugar's going through a phase... all this because Anika tried to teach her please and thank you

[loop-deloo]

me, every 5 minutes to anyone within a 50 foot radius: i have a kind of random question, but you don’t have to answer it!!

[euthymiya]

part one ; office mate! gojo ; company heir! gojo ; female intern! reader ; fluff ; pre getting together

Satoru is good at getting things he wants. It’s not because he’s spoiled (although he’s that, too) but rather, it’s because he’s persistent. Annoyingly so. Persistent in that way where he doesn’t necessarily earn what he wants, but scores it just because the other party is tired enough to cave for the sake of some peace.

Case example: you.

You sit across from him as he happily sips on his excessively expensive coffee from all the extra syrups.

“How can you have that much sugar?” You cringe.

He raises an amused brow as he hums, “Because I don’t choose to be miserable. You should try it sometime.”

Glaring, you roll your eyes before taking a sip of your own coffee. Satoru is at least nice and chivalrous enough to pay for your coffee—although, knowing what you do now, it’s not exactly as though he can’t afford it. You’re pretty sure being the heir to the company you intern for means he’s loaded in enough money that a simple iced coffee isn’t too much of a dent in his pockets.

You give him an unimpressed frown before getting to the heart of the matter. “Why didn’t you tell me your dad owns the company?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” you hiss, “I’ve been passive aggressively calling you a lazy asshole for two months!”

“Do you change your mind about that?” He asks infuriatingly calmly.

“No,” you admit. You take a long look at him before nodding in confirmation as you repeat, “No, I don’t.”

He pouts a little at that, still cute and aggravating at the same time. “Hey,” he says, only a little wounded and a whole lot excessively dramatic. You can tell he didn’t get a lot of attention growing up with the way he pulls theatrics. Something about the psychology of unmet emotional needs as a child from your one semester of psych in college comes back. “You don’t have to say it so condescendingly.”

“Well, you are lazy,” you point out. He shrugs because…well, it’s a fair point. “But now I know why.”

“So what, if you knew my old man was our big boss, you’d be nicer to me? Is that it?”

You crinkle your nose and give him a look of disbelief. “No,” you say—it’s almost amused. The first ounce of humor you’ve shown around him at all. “But I wouldn’t have wasted my energy caring that you’re a deadweight in the office.”

“Ouch,” he pouts, “I bought the coffee machine on our floor!”

“It’s getting rather faulty,” you hum, “You should consider investing in another one for us.”

Satoru likes that about you. You’re interesting. Interesting not because you’re exceptionally smart or all that impressive—not that you’re bad by any means. Being accepted as an intern here must mean your resume has a degree of prestige to it, but you’re just like any other person in the building. Except, instead of shrugging off his bratty, obnoxious self, you seem to care a great deal about what he does.

It greatly amuses him enough that you’ve sparked his interest.

“You’re fun,” he chuckles, “I like you. You’re not boring.”

“Just what every woman wants to hear,” you bat your lashes, sarcastically giving him a dreamy sigh, “Not boring. How charming of you.”

He grins wider, and something in your heart does a little bit of a clench. It’s so…pretty. Everything about him is pretty. The clean, pristine button down with perfectly ironed pants. The soft, messy hair that somehow adds to his expensive look rather than take away. Those bright, piercing blue eyes that feel like you’re lost in infinity when you look into them.

He’s pretty. Pretty annoying, too—but pretty all the same.

“I’m working on it,” he murmurs.

“What? Your manners?” You snort.

“My charm,” he corrects.

“We might be here for quite some time then,” you tease. You don’t know what it is. Falling into a bantering back and forth with him is so easy—so amusing and, if you’re honest, a tiny bit exciting.

Maybe a background of wealth and fortune makes a man appealing like that. Or maybe he’s just likable. You’re not sure yet.

“You’re saying you’ll be here waiting for me to get there?” He raises a brow, winking as he adds, “So maybe you’re charmed after all.”

“That’s a stretch,” you pretend to scoff. Nevermind the hardly hidden smile on your face—that means nothing. “I just want to watch you fail, that’s all.”

“And if I succeed?” He challenges, looking at you expectantly.

You roll your eyes, deciding to indulge him in whatever petty games he has going on. “In what, being charming?”

“Yes,” he nods, “What if I succeed in being an irresistible dreamboat of an office neighbor?”

“I doubt that’ll happen,” you bite your lip in an attempt to fight back a large, dimpled grin. It’s funny, you think—just up until a few hours ago, all he ever managed to do was pull your lips into a scowl. Now, it feels like it’s impossible not to stretch them into a smile. “But, if it does, I suppose I’ll eat my own words.”

“No,” Satoru shakes his head, lips curled into a serious, unsatisfied frown, “No that simply won’t do. I need better than that.”

“Okay,” you finally laugh. It’s radiant. It comes from your belly and vibrates through your chest. He’s somehow good at it—just one coffee grab during your lunch break, and he’s already managed to earn the sound of your joy so easily. Something about that tickles a weird, unfamiliar spot under your ribcage. “Lay out your terms.”

“You have to be my girlfriend if I manage to make your eyes turn into hearts over my handsomely unbeatable appeal.”

It’s cheeky, his grin. Wide, confident, and still boyishly hopeful. You start to wonder why you ever disliked such an easy to fall for smile.

“That’s pretty bold,” you note.

“I’m bold about the things I want.” You pretend that those words don’t make your heart do a helpless flutter.

“Okay,” you nod, agreeing as you take a final sip of your coffee and hand him the empty cup, “I’ll agree to these unlikely terms. You can start by bringing me another coffee.”

“You got it, boss,” he salutes before doing a giddy little jog to the counter and ordering you another coffee. It’s cute. It has your heart in a scarily fast chokehold.

Somewhere in the heat of the moment, as you watch him fumble over his wallet and almost drop his card while he goes to pay, you think he may have already won the terms to this ridiculous agreement.

But you won’t tell him that, you think. Just to drag out the eager, hopeful look in his eyes that dart over at you and shoot you a sly wink.

———————————

here is part two as promised for @enyathedrakaina bc they sent me cat pics

[chiipay]

What if shidou was having a very bad day and the only thing he wanted was to stay in our presence or touch us in anyway

Just by seeing us, his nerves are calm? I don’t really know how to explain it

Uwohhh.. shidou request that's a first. I'm happy to know people do like him. I'll do my best to match his uhh vibe?.. idk

--

Ughhh it's happening again isn't it?

It's a shidou disaster. Is what you called it.

It's very very VERY normal to see another bickering shidou with another person. But DAMN it's too early for another fight he picked.

”...sorry about that, dude. I swear he normally wouldn't budge anyone at this hour-” you slightly bow in front of the French's stratum master, Julian Loki.

He's very polite and well-mannered for a guy...too good for a guy.

” it's fine. I'm surprised he suddenly acts like this at 3am..” he chuckled gorgeously- AHEM AHEM.

” shidou is in the training field. The Victor looking guy told us to locked him up there for a bit while waiting for you.” Charles Chevalier chipped in the conversation from behind making you shudder.

” oh- i see. Well if you excuse me, I'll be going now...to deal with the so-called demon.” you smile nervously before vanishing into the thin air.

As the small presence of you lingering around the hall, both the French duo look at your way.

”....i hope she won't get possessed by shidou-”

As you open the door, you meet with a pouty face of shidou who's sitting down on the grass field while the room is filled with balls lingering around like a mess.

” alright shidou, what the f-”

” i miss you. ”

”.....nuh uh- don't you use that excuse on me- NUH UH”

Shidou positions himself while sitting in front of you. Making some puppy face to ask for mercy makes you scrunch your face in disgust.

{a/n: I can't y'all I'm SoRrY-}

You look at his puppy face for a bit before sighing heavily making him grin a bit as if winning the lottery.

”....what do you want from me broo... I'm losing my shit just being here for 102935392735635 times because of you..." You covered your face with your hands making it look like you're in denial and you are.

” but that wouldn't be so fun if i tell you won't it?~~~” he smirked before patting his lap for you to sit on.

You sigh again for a tired of energy getting up at 3 am just to deal with him-

You sat down on the grass field but not for so long before shidou dragging you to sit on his lap. You ended up in a very uncomfortable position on his lap.

”.... I'm tired shidou... It's 3 in the morning... Why are you doing this? Did Rin annoy you or something? Neo league won't be too long before it ends y'know? wHy CaN't Y-” a big yawn escape from your mouth as you lean on shidou's shoulder.

He smells like shit.

But it's fine- you're too tired it makes sense while there's so many balls on the grass field. He probably got too bored getting locked up in here.

Shidou just hummed at everything questions you asked him while qooing you like a baby in his arms.

"just sleep my ever lasting star-”

" cringe.”

” the love of my life?”

” 2 × cringe.”

” my beloved, dear, sugar boo, pookie bear, bab-”

" stop it, I'm to die out of the cringiness you're making me. How did you come out with those nicknames.?"

”what can I say- you bring the best out of me, manager~”

”....cringe. no wonder why sae Itoshi ran away from you”

” ouch. but still love you tho.” he smug at you

”... thanks.”

[caffedrine]

Chevalier Michel - Beyond the Connection Between the Past and the Present – Event Summary

This is mostly a summary for me - I make no promises on the accuracy of what’s happening. I’m not nearly fluent enough to get half the jokes/innuendo much less accurate plot points.

As usual, Emma brings tea and sweets to the garden pavilion for Chevalier. Unusually, she brings enough for a third person. Once she arrives, she apologizes for making the two wait.

Chevalier and kid!Chevalier do not look up from their respective books. The atmosphere between them remains the same.

It had been surprising to run into kid!Chevalier in but, looking at them side by side, it is clear that this really is the child version of Chevalier.

She explains that she brought Chevalier’s tea without milk or sugar as usual, but maybe kid!Chevalier would like something different? Maybe something sweeter?

Kid!Chevalier tells her that he already said she wasn’t required to behave considerately towards him. Emma agrees that he did say that, but even if it wasn’t required, she still wants to take care of him. She offers some scones that she baked earlier, adding that they would go well with the tea.

Kid!Chevalier does not look impressed.

(Just imagine this but three feet shorter)

Emma gestures at the pile of books that seems to increase every time they are out of her direct line of sight and asks if kid!Chevalier found anything useful. She imagines kid!Chevalier is looking for a way to return to his original time, and she wonders how close he is to finding it.

Chevalier tells Emma that it’s impossible to find. At Emma’s confused expression, Chevalier explains that he has already read every book in the imperial court, and there is nothing about time travel. This is something Emma should have figured out for herself.

Emma asks what the pile of books is for, and Chevalier muses that kid!Chevalier must be bored.

Kid!Chevalier adds that he doesn’t have anything else he needs to do.

Emma is surprised at how calm the child is. On the other hand, there are lots of books that kid!Chevalier has never read, so she hopes that this will be interesting to him.

Chevalier tells her to go ahead and leave the child be. He knows how to take care of himself – he might look like a child but he’s not all that different from adult!Chevalier. Emma is confused, and Chevalier asks if this looks like a normal child to her.

Well, yes. Maybe because she’s spent a lot of time around adult!Chevalier, but kid!Chevalier, despite how well-mannered he is, is still pretty childish.

Both Chevaliers are appalled.

Emma muses that their reaction is the exact same.

Moving on, Emma asks if there’s anything she can help kid!Chevalier with.

Nope.

Emma asks if she can take care of him.

She’s bothering him.

Emma explains that if there is anything that is bothering him, she wants to help him.

Kid!Chevalier ignores her.

Chevalier explains that he’s just not used to being doted on. As a child, there was no one like her who would take care of him, and so he has no idea how to handle her affection.

Kid!Chevalier remarks that his adult self seems to enjoy pointless chatter. Chevalier muses that he might be right. Sulkily, kid!Chevalier doubts he will ever become like Chevalier. Chevalier agrees that the way his life turned out surprised even him.

Awh, adult!Chevalier is eating the scones. Unfortunately, kid!Chevalier shows no interest in them at all.

Suddenly kid!Chevalier asks why Chevalier is eating the scones so carelessly. Chevalier asks if Emma seems like someone who would poison him?

Oh, what about an accidental poisoning?

Chevalier thinks that if Emma was able to poison the scones, accidentally or not, then it’s his fault for not being able to detect poison. However, he is not so unskilled that he would make that kind of mistake.

Chevalier notes that kid!Chevalier doesn’t have that much confidence in his own skills. He recalls that he couldn’t detect poison that well as a child either. But don’t worry, Chevalier had experienced enough poisonings that he can tell these scones are safe.

Kid!Chevalier muses over this information, it sounds like even a monster like himself can grow to some extent.

Emma snaps that Chevalier is not a monster.

Oops, she didn't mean to be so loud. But still, this is a point that is important to her. In a more normal tone, she explains that it's normal for humans to be cautious and grow from their experiences. Kid!Chevalier asks if she thinks he looks like a human child.

Of course!

Chevalier snorts and notes that Emma is a bit simple. Kid!Chevalier snorts and agrees. Emma decides to take this as a compliment from the two of them, her heartwarming at the sound of amusement from kid!Chevalier.

Suddenly, kid!Chevalier stands up from the table, and Emma asks where he’s going. He explains that he’s finished reading all the books here, so he’ll head out to the library. Emma offers to accompany him, but he tells her she is unnecessary.

But what if a book he wants is in a high place? She could reach it for him!

Kid!Chevalier predicts that Emma will fall off the ladder reaching that high book for him. Emma assures him it has been over 16 hours since she last fell. Chevalier laughs at this, startling kid!Chevalier.

He explains that he never thought that he’d be able to laugh like that. Emma explains that she fell in love with Chevalier’s laugh and smile.

Kid!Chevalier shakes his head, this is nonsense. He’s merely a beast wearing a human’s skin.

Emma disagrees, it's more like he’s a human who is wearing the skin of a beast. Of course, the same goes for kid!Chevalier.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is a very strange person. Emma tells him that she’ll consider that a compliment as well.

Kid!Chevalier returns to his seat, and Chevalier asks if he wasn’t planning on getting more books. Kid!Chevalier explains that he has changed his mind, he’s decided he can read books whenever he wants. Then he reaches out, plucks up a scone, and eats it. Emma gushes over him, asking if he minds it, if it suits his taste. He will admit that it is edible.

Emma proffers the jams available, telling him to choose whatever he likes. Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is something to make such a fuss over jams. Emma explains that she’s really happy, kid!Chevalier looks like he thinks the scone was delicious.

Chevalier agrees, he never objectively looked at himself as a child, but right now, kid!Chevalier’s emotions are on his face.

Kid!Chevalier looks grumpy as Chevalier notes that he just has no experience.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that they’re acting like he’s just some kid. Emma agrees and asks him to let her pamper him more.

Emma has long believed that the reason Chevalier is the way he is was due to his environment rather than his talent. If so, she wants both the adult and the child to know that someone here loves them.

[jadeshifting]

— INTRO 2 THE SLYTHERINS

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

MATTHEO THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE . magic that incinerates its target. fireworks. messy hair. dice and card games. push-ups. charcoal drawings. stack of unreturned library books. steak so rare it’s bloody. insane right hook. late night swims. tall stacks of pancakes. sleeping facedown on homework parchments. perfectly split orange slices.

PANSY PANEGYRIA PARKINSON . freezing cold hands. hair clippings in the sink. espresso martinis. cartwheels. reading by the window while it storms. pears. scribbles of the moon phases. running cannonballs off the dock. sun-bleached bones. jeweled silver earrings. spinning and jumping rather than dancing. plant clippings tucked in pockets.

MILLICENT AUDREY BULSTRODE . pressed flowers in textbook pages. gentle hands. lemon loaf with poppy seeds. light pinky lip gloss. snails. doodling on notes in class. lacy bed canopy. emotional support water bottle. preserved butterfly wings. lotuses floating on the lake. jam-filled cookies. wearing wired earbuds. stockings constantly torn.

LORENZO MASSIMO BERKSHIRE . best tree climber. polished loafers. insanely loud laughing. massive record collection. slow mornings in the greenhouse. poetry books. board games. high fiving everyone. clinking potion bottles. marshmallows. loud snoring. cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven. making paper airplanes. half-melted cookie dough ice cream.

BLAISE ORION ZABINI . a hankerchief for other people to use. caramel coffee. murder mystery books. comforting hugs. freshly pressed shirts. bumblebees. unconditionally punctual. long games of chess. pumpkin pasties. sheet music. seems to know something others don’t. impeccable manners. fresh, clean cologne. unfurling the newspaper every morning.

ASTORIA ACANTHYLLIS GREENGRASS . notes in French. seashell collection. the perfect nude lipstick. effortless elegance. going for therapeutic swims. bird baths. silent if she doesn’t have anything to say. yellow roses. mother-of-pearl. sipping matcha. wandering by the lake like a ghost. perfect posture. blackberry jam on croissants. silk pillowcases.

THEODORE TIBERIUS DONATO NOTT . coffee that’s way too strong. the worst chainsmoker. napping everywhere. silver flask. dark chocolate. bowls of blueberries. throwing huge logs in the fire. insane plays during quidditch games. refusing to put shoes on. tall glasses of butterbeer. tattered book spines. wrinkled sweaters. flittering sparrow wings. chocolate muffins.

DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY . silver rings and bracelets. pine candles. forehead creases. deft piano playing hands. perfectly slanted handwriting. the overpowering smell of wand polish. crunchy apples. terribly boring magical theory books. crisply tied parcels. freshly brewed peppermint tea. searching for constellations. crystal decanters of water. tucked bedsheet corners.

DAPHNE CLEOMEDE GREENGRASS . the most poisonous judgemental glare. shiny gold jewelry. too many throw pillows. olive juice. 20-step hair routine. sparkling champagne. cheesecake. unbelievably long bubble baths. crème filled doughnuts for breakfast. jewelry box with a lock and key. powdered sugar. loose silk tops. gold-dusted nails.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[ ib @wishicouldkeepconcentration !! ]

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Animato

Chapter Thirty Four

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader

Other characters: Gibson Child OMC, Bobby, Annie, Victor, Charlie, both bands and roadies, nameless DJs

Word Count: 3160

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, still unbeta'd, the last of Uncle Dean for a while, drinking and mild drug use, smoking cigarettes (do not come at me for this), Kevin calling Dean out publicly but subtly.

Series Masterlist

The rapid beat of a double-stroke roll woke Dean from the haze of sleep. He cracked one eye open and found the source of the wake up call. Gibson, sitting on the floor in Dean’s suite, was wailing on the coffee table while watching a random infomercial on the hotel’s tv’s world class Sunday morning programming. At least the little dude hadn’t gotten into Dean’s guitars without asking. 

“Gibby! What gives, man?”

“Oh, sorry,” the little boy didn’t even look back, instead he lightened his efforts into a tapping from the original knocking.

Dean huffed and fell back onto his pillow, muttering to himself and the ceiling, “I guess we’re up for the day.”

They had spent the night watching old monster movies and eating pizza. Dean had even taken Gibson to the hotel’s pool for a dip before the adult only hours kicked in. He had no idea how Pam and Lee kept up with the kid on a normal day, Dean was fucking beat. And that was after he slept more than double his usual night’s rest. 

How was it after nine already?! No wonder the kid was bored.

“You hungry? Probably should see if the buffet’s still going,” Dean asked suddenly.

“Okay!” Gibson dropped his sticks on the coffee table and hopped up with the unbridled energy of youth.

“Yeah, uh, I gotta throw some real pants on, dude.” Dean dragged himself to the edge of the bed and rolled his back. “Give Uncle Dean a minute and we can head down.”

Gibson nodded, but then ran to the counter in the kitchenette. “I made you coffee! They’ve got the little cups. But that was a while ago.”

Dean raised his eyebrow and surveyed the damage from his perch on the bed. “You make one for yourself?”

“Yep! It was gross. And the pink sugar didn’t help.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it is gross. White or brown are best— no matter what Uncle Sam says.”

Gibson giggled, walking carefully over to Dean with the paper cup sloshing slightly. Dean wanted to help him, but he looked so proud of himself that Dean just sat back and clenched his hands as he awaited the delivery.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean diligently took a sip. It was god awful. Cold, sure, but also really bitter and thin. Thankfully the kid didn’t think to add anything for him. He sighed and took another gulp while trying not to breathe and taste it more. “Uh—-yeah. Can’t start the day without some fuel.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah, man, of course. Now, I am gonna get dressed, find your shoes so we can get some grub.”

Turned out, the continental breakfast was already being cleaned up when they got back downstairs. Gibson’s spirits dropped instantly, but Dean assured him it was alright, and took the little man over to the attached restaurant that was hopping with the brunch crowd. 

“Look who the cat dragged in!” Bobby’s voice caught Dean’s attention as they rounded the corner with the hostess. “Make room. Miss— these idjits are with us, sorry they don’t have any manners about showing up on time.”

“Alright, I’ll— uh, I’ll let your server know.”

Dean had the wherewithal to murmur and hand over his thanks and apologies right in time to get a surprised smile. Kevin and Annie were on Bobby’s right while Sam and a very hungover looking Victor filled out the left side of the six person table.

“Rough night?” Dean teased.

“It aint over yet,” Victor lamented.

“Ooof! Been there, man. More bacon’ll help.”

Just then their server returned with two extra chairs and a busser slid in two extra place settings for them. “Thank you— thank you both. Seriously.”

“Of course, let me get you some menus.” Then the server disappeared in a flurry, weaving through the crowd of people in various states of dress and sobriety.

Kevin nudged Gibson with his elbow. “How was the sleepover at Dean’s? I bet he snores.”

Everyone around the table laughed.

“Bite me, Kev. Gibby, steal me one of his fries would ya?”

Gibson looked back and forth between the two men. “What?! No.”

Dean just shrugged. “He deserved it.”

“Two wrongs don’t make it alright,” Gibson told him knowingly.

“Yeah, UNCLE DEAN,” Sam butted in.

“From the mouths of babes,” Annie said, shaking her head in amusement. 

Kevin just laughed and took an obnoxious Dean-sized bite of fries.

“So— last day on tour until school’s out, what do you want to do today?” Bobby asked the star of the table.

“Is Mom and Dad awake? I want to see them ‘fore Grammy comes and gets me.”

“And you will, dude. I’m guessing they’re just up in their rooms getting dressed or something. It’s still early yet.”

“What timezone are you in?!” Bobby gave Dean the stink eye.

Dean ignored his manager and just ruffled Gibson’s hair. The menus appeared and they all settled in for another hour of each other’s company. 

        Dean knew it had to be hard for Gibson when they were on tour, he’d lived his own childhood with his dad barely there. But to have both parents out of reach for months at a time seemed worse. That’s why they made sure to give Pam and Lee breaks on the road, fly them home for three days at a time when they could. And they let Gibson come along when he didn’t have school.

It still felt like a worse case scenario though. He didn’t even have a little brother to make the days go by faster. Lee’s mom and their nanny were all he had outside of school friends. And the dogs. At least the kid got pets too.

Dean never did.

“Full House, bitches!” Charlie declared and threw her cards into the center of the table. “Jacks over twos.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Madison exclaimed, leaning in to inspect Charlie’s hand herself. She’d tagged along with Lee’s mom down to San Diego so she could join in on the Vegas leg of the trip. 

“She always pulls it out, I swear to god. I don’t know how, but she does,” Sam muttered and tossed his hand to Dean to shuffle for the next round.

They were an hour into the trip to Vegas and the mood on the bus was contagious. No more little ears and eyes to worry about, meant that the bottles and the bongs came out and the chips were stacked high across the tiny table. 

“Alright, alright, fair hand. Get your cards in, and maybe you can win some of them stacks back. If you’re lucky,” Dean taunted, collecting the rest of cards and sliding them back into a deck to be shuffled. “Trouble? Ante up.”

You tossed your share into the pot and took another sip of your drink. Dean felt your eyes on him as he dealt, bottom lip between his teeth in concentration. Technically, he knew everyone was watching him as he doled the next hand, but your attention felt heavier the last few days. Maybe you knew something he wasn’t ready for you to know.

Maybe you were waiting for him to fuck up again.

Or maybe it was all just wishful thinking and you weren’t really watching him at all. Either way, he was preoccupied with it all when he picked up his cards to find absolute trash.

“Oh Christ. I’m going to need more to drink. KEVIN! Another round of shots, if you don’t mind?”

You chuckled. “Dealer can’t deal to himself, huh?”

“Apparently not,” Dean muttered, not even bothering to pick up his cards again.

“More chances for the rest of us at least,” Madison pointed out and placed her call bet.

The afternoon turned into night while Bobby drove on. Games and ridiculousness ensued. Just when they stopped for dinner, Dean found himself in the playful overlap of drunk and stoned. 

He hummed a few bars of some pop number that was playing over the truckstop speakers and Kevin joined in in harmony as they trudged across the parking lot to the twenty four hour diner. Lee came in for the chorus and they started getting louder and sillier with it, doing the monkey walk with Dean in the middle of the two shorter guys.

Dean couldn’t hear the radio station any longer, but they carried it along, finishing the number strong while guessing at some of the lyrics. When everyone had reached the double doors of the restaurant, he caught you and Charlie with your phones up recording the shenanigans. Meanwhile, Sam and Madison were giggly, leaning a little heavier on one another than most people would be at just after seven at night.

“Alright, cool it you damn buffoons. Let’s see if they’ve got room for everyone,” Bobby grunted before disappearing inside.

“Looks like you guys are the fun bus!” Donna greeted, as SPS and company caught up with them.

“Just gettin’ started darlin’,” Dean drawled, nodding and smirking. “Though I doubt it’s all charades and crochet on Big Bertha over there either.”

Jody took a swig off of her flask. “Oh, fuck no. Nancy knits, but that’s about it. But that’s only when the Adderall kicks in.”

She dangled the metal bottle out towards the circle of waiting musicians in offering. Kevin and Pam both took a pull and passed it back. Then the equipment rig pulled in and the headcount shot up even more. Benny sauntered over with a knowing glint in his eye as he stepped right in between Dean and Donna. 

“We think we gettin’ in or gotta spread out to the fast food joints?”

“Hard to say, looks pretty dead in there, but that might mean there’s a small staff too,” you answered as everyone’s head craned to look inside.

“Alright, well I’m heading over to the cancer section until we hear one way or the other,” Jody nodded towards Annie and Patience smoking down the sidewalk. 

Dean perked up and followed her like an earnest puppy. He wasn’t a habitual smoker anymore, but he definitely still imbibed, especially on the road. Sam’s influence could only go so far. But oddly, you were trailing along behind him, followed by Jesse and a newer, yet awkward roadie that he’d only heard called Chief.

You actually pulled a pack out of your purse and held one out to Dean expectingly. “What?” you asked like an accusation.

“Are you just smoking because you’d knew I would be or—?”

You exhaled your first pull and offered him your lighter. “It’s been a fucking week, okay? Let me have this until we hit the states with actual vegetation and I have to deal with allergies too.”

Dean lit his cigarette nodding and blew out a smoke ring. “You don’t have to justify it to me, I was just checking I’m not the bad influence.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re always a bad influence, doesn’t mean I still didn’t choose it.”

That got him a little hot, if he was being honest. And he felt his smile all the way to the tips of his ears. “Damn, Trouble. Always knocking me back on my heels, you know that?”

You took another drag and shrugged, looking around to see everyone else somehow in their own conversations. “Part of the job.”

“Nah, that parts all you.” Dean said without even meaning to.

You looked up at him and gave him a little squint. “You need to eat something or you’re gonna be miserable in a couple hours.”

“I’m trying!” He huffed, gesturing with his cigarette towards the front doors, right as Bobby made his glorious return.

“Listen up!” Bobby glanced around at the bands and accumulated crew. “They’ve only got room for thirty folks, so line up and whoever is stuck at the back’s gotta find something else. We’re pulling out of here no later than ten o’clock, so be on time or be left behind.”

You chuckled over the hard-learned line.

Dean sucked a deep pull off his cigarette, trying to speed through it and getting lightheaded in the process. 

“Uh,” he exhaled and looked over at you then over you towards the rest of businesses in the travel center. “We trying to get in or we taking a walk?”

“I’m finishing my square.” You pointed to yourself and held up your cigarette.

Dean couldn’t get over your sass tonight. “Alright, then. A walk it is.”

It ended up with Jody and Patience sticking around while you and Dean finished smoking and then all four of you headed to the Arby’s across the parking lot. 

“Alright, folks, we got a quick segment at the end to wrap things up. Phantom Traveler, are you ready to ‘Hit It or Quit It’?” the gruffer DJ asked them from his chair across the room.

They barely all fit in the little sound booth, but managed to squeeze together to make it work. Lee, Pam and Kevin were on the three stools they provided, while Dean and Sam hovered over them to get at the shared mic. It was six o’clock in the morning and Dean didn’t know if any of them had even slept. But there they were anyway.

“It is five questions we ask in rapid succession and you just say the first thing that comes to mind. And since all five of you are here, we’ll just go down the line— or clockwise I guess,” the younger DJ explained.

“I’m game!” Dean exclaimed, futsing with the ball cap on his head.

Pamela, who was holding the mic, winked. “Let’s hear ‘em, boys.”

The DJs laughed. “Alright, Pamela’s ready. First question: Who’s got the craziest ex’s of the band?”

Everyone ‘Oh’d!’.

Lee leaned in and said deeply into the mic. “I’m sitting right here!” 

“Couldn’t have planned that one any better!” Dean teased.

“Wait! I want to hear the answer though!” Kevin butted in, steering them back on track.

“NEW KID doesn’t know these things yet!” The first DJ said excitedly.

“Oh, this is too easy, though,” Pam rumbled.

“Yeah, sorry, bro, everyone knows this one,” Dean tacked on.

“Eat me,” Sam snapped back.

“But yeah, it’s Sammy for sure,” Lee agreed.

Sam rolled his eyes but the DJs just ate it up.

“Okay! Second question is—- for—- Lee! Favorite venue you’ve ever played?”

“Seriously? He gets a real question and I got a Cosmo question?” Pamela said, annoyed, but not quite into the mic.

“Seriously— I’m just reading off the list,” the younger DJ promised, holding up a clip board.

“That one’s easy— Harvelle’s back home.”

“Hands down,” Sam agreed.

“Best burgers in Nebraska, too,” Dean tacked on.

“Ellen’s gonna kill you,” Pam warned.

“Totally worth it,” Dean shot her down.

“Yeah. Nothing like playing for your hometown,” Lee finished.

“What a bunch of saps!” The older guy teased. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you have it. Sam— third question: Who would you still like to collaborate with? You’ve got Annie Hawkins on the latest album, you’ve played with some of the greats at some special events— I know you all were close with the late, great Rufus Turner and now you’re touring with his granddaughter’s band Sheriffs, Psychics and Secretaries. Who else?”

“Uh, honestly? I’d kill to play with Sarah and Provenance, even though our sounds are totally different. Maybe Mick Davies? Especially now that he’s left Men of Letters, I am looking forward to what he works on next.”

“Wow— those are not names I expected to come up today. But, yeah, okay— always the wildcard Sam Winchester!” The younger DJ seemed genuinely surprised and maybe even impressed.

Dean could tell it annoyed Sam, but he was always way smarter than anybody gave his bodybuilder-shaped self credit for.

“DEAN! Question numero four: If you weren’t a rockstar— okay, musician– what would you be doing?”

“Right now I’d be sleeping, that’s for damn sure.”

Everyone laughed and nodded. “I don’t blame you there, but for a job?”

Dean scratched his three day stubble. “I always say I’d have made a killer mechanic or car restorer, but, uh, honestly at this point in my life I’m going to go with firefighter.”

“Nice, very heroic.” The first DJ approved.

“Dude!” Sam gave him a look that asked if he was alright.

Dean shrugged. “Well, hopefully we won’t have to find out. Just a reminder we’ve got two shows at Cesar’s Palace tomorrow night and Wednesday!” he plugged like they needed help selling tickets.

“Which are completely sold out! We’ve got tickets for our listeners tomorrow morning at seven, eight and nine if you listen for the code to play.” The younger DJ picked up where Dean left off. “One more question and you guys can get on with your days. And it’s for Kevin Tran— the newest member of the band, stepping up for the now reclusive Cas Novak. Fifth and final question!---”

Dean flinched at Cas’ name coming up, but all things considered, it could have been a much more brutal comment. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Bobby whisper something to you through the glass in the adjoining room.

“In one word describe your bandmates.”

“One word total or—?”

“One word a piece,” Sam clarified.

“Yeah one word total. Band. That’d be the worst question answered ever,” the first DJ joked.

“Okay, okay, I got it. For Pam I’ll say ‘badass’. Lee’s word will be ‘groovy’. Sam gets ‘salad’ and Dean can have ‘Trouble’.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lee actually had to cover his mouth. While everyone else just about choked on their own spit. 

Dean glared at the kid, but didn’t say anything, counting down from twenty in his head.

“It is going to be a very long tour, folks,” Sam tried to ease some of the tension, clearly the DJs did not get the significance of what was just said.

“Alright that is a wrap with Phantom Traveler, in town for just a few days on the start of their latest tour. Thank you guys, it was a blast. Their fifth album drops next month. You guys have been digging the new single, so we’re gonna close with that as we get these guys on their way.”

The intro to ‘Baby’ played in the background as everyone handed over their headphones and shook the DJs' hands. Their marketing people came in for some quick publicity shots. Dean spotted you getting matching angles, where you stood behind their photographer, for the band’s socials.

God, he wasn’t ready. He had no idea if you caught what Kevin had said or if you knew he was really talking about you. The little punk had to go and say that shit on air of all places. 

One thing was for sure, Dean’s time was running out. Sooner or later somebody was going to let it slip and it wasn’t fair to you to hear it from anyone but him. Now, he just had to figure out how.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

@spxideyver

Chapter 35: Cambiare

[notjustjavierpena]

Will sugar daddy joel make an appearance again???

Shopping

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: He will, but he is very busy not spoiling his baby. Have a drabble of their recent activities!

Summary: Joel takes you shopping for lingerie.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Sugardaddy!joel, abusive behavior, joel is cruel and powerful, daddy kink, unhealthy power dynamic, sex toys in public, orgasm denial

Word count: 1k

Shopping

“Don’t come,” Joel says as you squirm.

You shake your head, chest flushed pink at your rapid heart rate, “I won’t, I promise.”

He taps his thigh impatiently with his fingers as you look into the mirror to admire the bordeaux silk. You are in a dressing room, and you have been in here for what seems like forever with how turned on you are. Beside you, a steadily growing pile of lingerie gets bigger with every unsatisfied grunt Joel lets out. He cannot seem to make up his mind, but you think you like the blood-red set the best.

A quiet hum accompanies the both of you as background noise. It’s the buzzing sound of a little vibrator that sits against your clit, shaped like a butterfly and secured around your waist, hips and thighs with thin, pink straps. You can barely feel them digging into your skin anymore because of the heat radiating from your core with every pulse of the little device.

“This one?” You question him about the expensive underwear that you are wearing and try your best to hide the impatience in your voice. If only he would say yes because then you could come, that was the rule of this game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

You lean in to stare at the expensive lace pattern that’s barely covering your breasts, ignoring the throbbing between your legs to keep your word. It is becoming harder though, so you scrunch up your nose and wiggle your hips slightly to show off the skimpy outfit. Maybe that’ll change his mind.

Joel takes a sip of the to-go cup that he has brought into the store without permission, looking like he is making a life-altering decision. Then he shakes his head and your shoulders slump.

“Daddy,” you groan, refraining from stomping your feet in a tantrum-like manner.

“Turn,” he says without a hint of care for your childish display, drawing a circle in the air with his finger, “Lemme see ya.”

You do as you are told. The vibrator shifts just slightly as your legs move, causing the pressure to change for the briefest seconds and you flinch in embarrassment as a moan escapes your mouth. You were doing so well. Joel says nothing but as you face him, there’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes and a condescending smile on his face.

You shift a little on the spot again. The pressure in your belly grows, and you reach for the thick velvet curtain that separates you from the rest of the store to have something to helplessly hold onto. God—

“Don’t come,” he commands again, eyes roaming over your shaking body. He leans in to inspect the silk stitching on the curve of your hip, talking as if speaking about the weather, “You’ll ruin the silk I haven’t paid for with how much you usually cream yourself.”

You’re just about to say something but he interrupts the snark that he knows would have come from your mouth. The mischief is gone, having been replaced by sternness, “Trust me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Sorry,” you pout, “But don’t you like this one?”

Joel hums as a way of saying no, “Are you getting bored?”

“You said we were going shopping.”

He reaches a hand up to pull at the elastic band of the panties. It snaps against your skin and with how much your senses are on overdrive, you gasp and he chuckles darkly, “We are shopping, little rabbit.”

Joel’s hand then goes down to cup your whole cunt, pressing slightly inwards where your slit is. The fabric dips into you just slightly and you mewl pathetically.

But then the hand is gone as quickly as it arrived.

“This isn’t fun,” you continue complaining to distract yourself. If only you weren’t so close to coming you would be able to say it without your voice shaking. If only he’d tell you how pretty you are; you’ve grown accustomed to hearing his praise, having his eyes on you so you can come alive underneath their burn as they drink you in.

“I think it’s fun,” he answers, pats your hips to signal you to move around and with it makes you shudder, “Look at me again.”

He beckons you down towards him and when you lean down, bending over in the tiny cubicle, you almost think that he is about to kiss you. Instead, he grabs your jaw and presses your cheeks inwards with his strong fingers. You whimper, cunt clenching in interest as his eyes bore into you with a mix between disgust and arousal.

“You’re using my money, kiddo,” he spits harshly, “So don’t you think that it’s fair that I get to decide on what we do and what we buy?”

You nod slowly and with embarrassment. A moan escapes your lips again, and Joel gives you a look of disapproval. He reaches into his pocket and the buzz between your thighs comes to a halt, leaving you aching and wet to the point where it’ll start to get painful soon.

“Get dressed,” he says, pushing himself to stand.

You start taking off the lingerie that still hasn’t impressed him in the slightest. If only you could afford the red set alone but the money isn't there, and he isn’t easily convinced (he would have been by now).

“Which one are we getting?” You ask. Hopeful.

“None. They all looked fucking ugly on you anyway,” he moves past you quickly, exasperatedly.

“But,” you try, looking down between your legs so you don’t have to say it out loud. Please, Daddy, make me feel good.

He tears open the velvet curtain, making you scramble to cover up your very naked form, “Make yourself come. I’m gonna make a few calls.”

So you do as he leaves because it’ll hurt too much if you don’t. You come with a cry that’s held back by your teeth nearly splitting your lip open but then again; according to you, red is your color.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

Result of the DB/Z/Super Poll:

Tie for first place:

DBS Beerus x f!reader

“You don’t say?” Bulma’s eyebrows furrowed with interest as Jaco brandished a holographic flyer. “And this pop star is taking the galaxy by storm through music? Sorry, that doesn’t seem really like our kind of thing.”

The Galaxy Patrolman scoffed, acting wounded while taking back the device. “That right there shows that you have no idea! She’s dubbed Goddess of Music for a reason and you are just too thick to realize why.”

“Come again?” She growled menacingly with steadily growing embers within her gaze.

“I’m just saying that if you of all people on Earth haven’t the slightest understanding that having her grace this planet with a performance is heavenly then you clearly do not wish to know that I’ve heard rumors she’s looking for a place to lay low for a while.”

Rumbling earned their curious gazes to rise in time to spot a dust storm worthy of classic writing lore a moment before nearly being billowed by the wind following a figure who appeared from its core with golden eyes wide and ears standing at attention, a slim tail lashing behind them. Purple-gray hued skin, not a single strand of hair to be seen, large ears and manicured paws for hands, the God of Destruction himself was barely recognizable courtesy of the glimmering stars threatening to give away the hidden emotions swirling within. “Run that by me once again, little man.”

Amused, Bulma couldn’t help but poke light fun when spotting Whis appearing a moment later with several bowls of whipped parfaits wearing a shocked expression. “Oh, there you are. I forgot you were hanging around somewhere nearby.” One of the suspended bowls slipped underneath Beerus’ nose and earned their raised brows when he paid it no mind. “Okay, spill it. For you to ignore food means that something is special about this girl.”

“You just don’t know the music of Calliope and even if you heard it I doubt you’d appreciate it.” Jaco’s hands rose when noticing a certain glare from the feared entity, beginning to sweat profusely. “A-all I’ve heard is that she may be taking a break from tour and is currently in search of somewhere to recuperate! One of the guys at work knows someone who knows someone—”

“Get to the point.”

“—from the sounds of it she’s expressed an interest in Earth but she isn’t sure if this corner of the cosmos is ready for her music!”

Almost in the same manner of a rocket, the mighty God of Destruction appeared inches from Jaco’s face. “Tell me you’re not joking or I swear I’ll destroy you now.”

“It’s the truth! I swear it on my life and I would never lie to Bul—I mean to you!”

Tension hung heavily in the air as the slanted golden eyes bore into the small patrolman until he straightened stiffer than a ruler. “If what you are saying is true, and I’m not saying I believe you, then there is much work to be done.”

Bulma shared a questioning look with Whis who looked just as lost as the Earthling woman.

….

Golden eyes narrowed with disgust while regarding the stage. “Wrong, it’s all wrong. Start again.”

A unified exclamation rose from the people who had been working diligently since appointed beneath his guidance. “That makes seven redesigns in the last four days!”

“Well, then, make it eight and stop wasting my time by doing it right the first time I asked!” Beerus snapped, visibly deflating while settling into a nearby chair resting beneath its umbrella. “I can hear your condescending snickers from here, Whis, so you better shut up before I destroy you along with those ingrates.”

Beside him appeared a tall fair blue skinned individual who cooed softly to the rich chocolate desert within his hold. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean offense.” Between his lips disappeared the spoon laced with thick fudge, powdered sugar, tart cherry, and fluffy cake that earned his bright smile and wiggle of the spine. “Oh, Almighty, this is truly divine!” He momentarily grew serious when no interest was shown by the God of Destruction. They’ve come to know each other very well in the past several centuries, he boasted to practically know the cat-like deity better than a dragon its own scales, however these last few days have been truly interesting to behold. As if something had come over the once stoic, cold, indifferent being. The desert was placed off to the side, with regret, before he fixed his gaze upon Beerus. “Come now, is it truly worth getting all excited over something so silly?” If he noticed the sudden heavy pressure within the air Whis chose to ignore it. “That musician was looking for a place to relax, not put on a show. Wouldn’t it be rude to shove something like this into her face and practically demand a performance when she’s utterly exhausted from traveling or worse?” So sooner had his words faded to silence did the chair become vacant. “My lord?”

Wordlessly, he stalked towards the incomplete stage as the workers quickly retreated upon seeing his approaching form. They were left speechless and highly frustrated when with a tap of a claw the entire structure was rendered to piles of ash. “What are you fools going on about now? I just saved you several more days of complaining so show a little gratitude.” Beerus fixed each in turn with narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps you wished to be entombed within your failed production.”

Both of his ears perked when telltale pings sounded from the scepter his Angel used.

Whis, taken by surprise, stood and peered into the sphere. “Would you look at that, an unmarked ship is approaching Earth as we speak.”

Disappointment permeated the air as Beerus returned to his seat. “Don’t get my hopes up like that.” Swiping the desert, he began eating with vigor and gusto worthy of a God of Feast rather than a God of Destruction.

“Would you like another?” A soft voice came from the side, earning Whis’ pout before it turned into a grin as several similar dishes were placed carefully across the table. You cast a smile, and a wink, from over your shoulder when Beerus took a moment to take in your appearance. “I made those specifically for you by my own hands so I can’t wait to hear how you like them.”

Almost too faintly for you to hear came a unified gasp from the pair before near identical croons of happiness.

Bulma brightened when you stepped into the kitchen, hands clasping your own. “You’re truly a lifesaver, seriously. When our chef that they’ve attached to became ill I wasn’t sure what I was going to do! Then dad said you were looking for work and had recommended you for the position! I hope they weren’t too rude.”

“Trust me when I say I’ve encountered much worse.” You grinned brightly. “It’s nice to be doing something like this with my hands. I better get back to work though to make sure our guests stay satisfied.”

“Too true,” the blue haired genius waved while walking towards the entrance, “but be sure to take as many breaks as you need!”

“Will do!”

It wasn’t until the door closed with a hiss that you released a sigh of relief. A pair of headphones were procured as if from thin air that you secured upon your head and faint notes of music could be heard as you went about the kitchen. What should you make this time?

….

Alarms blared wildly as Bulma sat upright in bed, blinking wildly when spotting her Saiyan husband by the window staring down as flashing lights. “What’s going on?! Is it the media again?” Her arms crossed. “What did you do?”

“Quiet, woman, I’m trying to listen.” His narrowed eyes slanted farther. “Appears that the authorities who wear blue are preventing someone from entering.”

A glance at the clock earned her groan before swinging her legs over the bed’s side. “It’s four in the morning, it’s probably (Y/n) trying to come to work. Guess dad forgot to add her to the directory.”

“Don’t move.”

“And why the hell not?”

Vegeta’s lip curled. “Your interference is not needed since they have turned from detaining to entertained.”

Blinking, she crossed the room to peer out of the window alongside her Prince and felt her jaw hit the floor before a face breaking grin lifted her lips.

….

“How were those deserts?” You asked with a smile, clearing away the dirty platters and dishes to place them upon the cart you’d brought. “I hope they were to your liking.”

“Truly amazing, my compliments to the baker!” Whis hummed.

Beerus made to ignore your question if not for the nudge of a food. Clearing his throat, his golden gaze met yours, earning a warm ember to nestle within your gut. “They were perfectly adequate and acceptable.”

No sting of disappointment came at his words, only appreciation, earning his blink of shock when you genuinely smiled instead of withered beneath his gaze. “I’ll make the next ones even better, you just wait! I want to hear from your own lips that my food is delicious. Then I’ll share with you my super-delicious-ultra-special desert.”

“Perhaps you should make it instead of hyping it up.” A smirk appeared upon his face. “Why boast when you can flaunt?”

Whis’ lips parted to reprimand the God of Destruction’s jab but they pursed, eyes widening, when you cocked a hip and lowered your face to be inches away from the deity.

“And when was the last time you made anything with those hands, hm?” There was no mistaking the challenge within your tone as a slow blooming smirk raised your lips the longer silence filled the air.

With a huff, he turned his head. “I’ve done things with these hands you couldn’t scarcely imagine, human, so I suggest you mosey on back to the kitchen for our next course. Besides, I am a God of Destruction not of confections.”

A bell was struck, ringing clearly through the air as the surrounding outer backyard that belonged to the Brief family.

“Thanks for joining me! We can start off easy with a simple meringue.” You clapped your hands, internally relishing when Whis smirked at the scepter he quickly hid when anger filled golden eyes locked upon him. The outside had vanished to be replaced by the all too familiar kitchen you’ve come to call home.

“What the hell are you playing at?!”

“Lord, would you mind cracking a few eggs?”

The glare was fixated upon you as a carton passed from your hands to sit before him. For a moment you surmised that he would still fight but for some reason, after his gaze meeting yours, he picked up one of the fragile shelled items. It almost immediately shattered between his claws. This earned his great displeasure once noticing a certain Angel suppressing a chuckle.

“No worries,” you soothed, placing another within his hand, “let’s try again.”

“Treating me like a child will earn you my wrath if you’re not careful, human,” he growled lowly. Despite his own words, Beerus indeed handled the egg with a bit more care as you showcased how he should rightfully crack.

Yolk and whites were separated with each egg he successfully freed from its shell. Sugar was added to the whites, which were made into fluffy clouds courtesy of a handheld whisk procured from a drawer. It was then that you revealed a pretzel pie crust that had been cooling in the refrigerator along with a bowl of previously prepared cream cheese. Both Destroyer and his Angel watched with fascination as you helped them to fold the meringue into the mixture, farther earning their wide eyed expressions when you lightly smacked reaching purple-gray hued fingers.

“Ah-ah, no snitching until its done.” A dollop of whipped cream appeared upon Beerus’ nose. “You can munch on that until I say its done. If you’d like, you can pick what toppings should go with it.”

Upon his forehead appeared a growingly frustrated tick mark while Whis happily disappeared into the nearby pantry. Surely this female knew just what he was capable of and to not irk him farther. His assumption was completely thrown out the window when you took a moment to fix him with a serious expression. The need to snap and question you was stifled when noticing something that made him pause. “That earring. It looks familiar.” Beerus eased himself closer, eyes narrowing to get a better look at the lone piece of jewelry you wore.

Panic made your heart begin to pound harder as his breath wafted your face. “O-oh, this? It used to be a necklace but the chain broke and thought that—”

“It suits you.”

Shock and awe filled you at his tone of sincerity. Did he, the God of Destruction, just compliment you? “Thank you very much,” you managed once he retreated far enough for you to breathe fresh air, “that’s kind of you to say.”

“I simply can’t decide! Lord Beerus, shall we go with sweet or savory?”

Like a glow stick, the fragile atmosphere cracked audibly when the deity huffed. Though that did make an idea come to him when you hurried to help the Angel carry in possible options. “I think we should be a bit adventurous and try something combining both. What do you say with including chunky salt and a sauce?”

“I like where this is going.” You smiled, searching the cabinets until brandishing a sea salt shaker then selecting both caramel and white chocolate chips. The entirety of your attention fixated upon the pair when they voiced doubtful objections, your gaze meeting gold. “Do you trust me?”

What an odd question. In the many years of being in his position, Beerus had never hears such an inquiry made of him. Such things meant little to beings such as himself because it was unnecessary. Yet the way you were looking at him, with those eyes and the unique air about you, set his mind, possibly very soul, at ease. “I suppose I can indulge you. Yes, for now, I shall.” Deep within his being something warmed as your cheeks lightly dusted pink.

“I promise to not betray it.”

And he believed you.

….

A frustrated growl filled the air when Destructor and Angel returned to their original seats beneath a large umbrella. “Seriously? Why do I have to wait two hours?” Beerus scowled, nostrils flaring slightly while stretching then settling. “What a bore. Just what are we supposed to do to pass the time?”

“And just where have the two of you been?”

He didn’t have to open his eyes which had closed. “None of your business, Bulma, move along.” Indignation filled him when a finger swiped across his skin, fangs shining brightly as he revealed them with a venomous hiss. “How dare you!”

Bulma blinked while inspecting the residue upon her skin. “Is that powdered sugar?”

“And what business is it of yours?”

“We were helping a certain young female create a desert within the kitchen not too long ago. Now we simply have to find some way of entertaining ourselves until its ready.” Whis’ bottom lip protruded in a pout. “I’m simply dying to taste it but I’ll hold out because of her assurances it would be to die for!”

Blinking, the blue haired woman blanked then brightened. “Oh, you’re talking about (Y/n), right?” Bulma bit her lip as Beerus confessed to not asking for your name. This was almost too good! “Well I have some good and bad news for you.”

Both sat upright with stiff spines, eyes widened once she finished speaking. “What do you mean she left?! What about our desert?!”

“Something came up for her and she had no choice—”

“Find her now.” Beerus’ growl earned their partial amusement when he failed to notice a figure who appeared from behind.

The tap of your finger upon his shoulder earned a sideways glare before it melted into something akin to admiration. Gone were your rudimentary clothes to be replaced by spectacular clothes that swayed with each movement of your body. There was no denying that he instantly knew who you really were. “I’ve been looking for you both. I should’ve known to start here first.” A decorated container was procured with a wave of your hand that slipped itself into his hold. “I hope you’re satisfied with tasting something you’ve made with the people you care for most. Cooking is one of my fave pastimes and I had a lot of fun! Let’s be sure to do this again sometime!”

Incomplete words leapt from between his quivering lips as you pressed a quick peck to his cheek.

“Be sure to take good care of Earth, okay? I definitely want to come back the next time I need to recharge!” With a wave and bow, you disappeared in a flurry of sparkles.

Bulma and Whis failed to contain their grins when the God of Destruction practically melted into a puddle with an equally goofy smile. How odd to see such a being as himself in such a state. Their amusement, however, was short lived as he carefully placed the desert upon the chair he’d vacated then faced the two of them with steadily growing malice.

“How long have you two known that she was Calliope this entire time?”

[apocalypse-shuffle]

ERIK | THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (multi interaction)

—

“The Roll and Revolve” (Erik | The Phantom of the Opera x Fem!Reader)

| While attending the masquerade ball the Red Death asks for your hand to dance.

| SFW, at most canon typical violence is mentioned, dancing -dancer!reader & african!reader

| Reader’s 18+ and one of the older girls in the dance line along with Sorelli. (Pic source: left•Juan Navarro/Saulo Vasconcelos’s Phantom from the POTO Mexican production [1999-2000], middle•Emilie Kouatchou’s run as Christine from the POTO Broadway production, right•John Owen-Jones’s Phantom from the POTO West End production [2011].)

| 3k+ words

Fluttering from group to group at a masquerade ball was apparently not all everyone cracked it up to be.

You stop, standing off to the side of the entirely too unappealing table of food assortments. Some of the food even appeared to have gone bad to you, speckled in powdered sugar only for show; to mask the rotten truths underneath.

You’ve steered clear of dining at all throughout the night for that very reason. The truths they hid were clearly of the stomach pain and extended time on the loo type, and looks always had the chance of stowing deceit.

The opera house was full tonight, the date a prelude to the new year, with its high ceilings and garnished walls host to all manner of primed woman and man dressed in a bid to garner the most envy in their best furs and feathers, masks and fedoras. The only thing consistent amongst you all being your efforts to hide your identities from one another; crowd after crowd of people decked out in masks of all kinds that hid their faces from the world.

Where you stand a voice rises to greet you, managing to be heard even over the echoing sounds of the opera’s orchestra.

“Y/n, y/n! Did you hear the news?”

The bottom of your crisp white gown, a gift from your mother, kisses the floor as you shift your feet to intercept the few girls from the dance line coming to speak with you. To your surprise Christine is amongst them.

“Clearly not,” you respond to Jammes.

The brunette bounces, near manic smile on her face and Sorelli beside her rolls her eyes.

“It’s not nearly as entertaining as she’s making it.”

“More like terrifying,” Meg pipes up.

Your eyebrows raise, “Was there another death?”

It’s Christine who answers your weary inquiry, bright hair bouncing as she shakes her head.

“It’s not nearly as serious,” she shrugs. “More like a ghost story than anything-”

Jammes cuts her off with an excited squeal.

“The Opera Ghost is rumored to show up tonight!”

Oh.

There was a good second there where your eyes were starting to widen but they drop back to half mast behind the white swan-like pantalone mask you’re wearing, the feathers of which tickle your face as you sigh. You wave the girl's excitement away.

“You’re so overdramatic, Jammes, everyone knows the OG is just a rumor the stagehands made up to scare us.”

“And that the police is sustaining so they can get out of properly catching a murderer,” Sorelli scoffs.

You nod at her and your other friend just pouts.

“You all have such little whimsy.”

From where she’s got her arms wrapped around herself Meg laughs, a nearly startled noise of contempt.

“Maybe we just don’t want to make a myth out of an actual killer,” she says.

Now it’s Jammes’s turn to roll her eyes.

“I say it’s just you guys being boring,” she flips her hair over her shoulder. “But whatever, I've got a violinist to dance with so I’ll see you all later.”

She’s gone just like that. Meg frowns after her and you and Sorelli make kissy noises that cause Jammes to giggle as she walks off.

“Which one of them do you think it is?”

“Come on Sorelli, you know it’s Eugène. She misses all her steps during his solos,” you say.

“Actually I think it’s Ahsan, we are getting more Persians lately. He might like to have a change of pace since no one ever really talks to him.”

Your lips purse. You're pretty sure Jammes hasn’t even noticed the Populaire’s newest members.

“Just because you’re interested in Ahsan doesn’t mean she is, Sorelli. What do you think Christine?”

From where she’s just about completely checked out from the conversation making heart eyes at the Vicomte from across the room, Christine startles. You’d joke but the navel man is staring back at her just as intently. Her eyes flutter up to meet yours eventually though.

��Um- I don’t know? I think maybe you’re right about Eugène, Y/n, but would you all mind if I excused myself?”

You all give some manner of affirmation but Christine is already moving anyway so it wouldn’t have mattered much if you hadn’t.

“I wonder what it’s like to hold a man’s attention like that,” Meg sighs.

You shrug, “Well, it’s not always as nice as it seems.”

Her head bobbles as she nods before she’s curtsying and leaving as well, head bowed. Not long after that Sorelli bids you goodbye and goes in search of someone to dance with in front of Madame Giry. She wants lead in the next production since Christine seems set on being Primadonna. You don’t have the heart to tell her that showboating won’t get her any points with the Madame.

All danced and socialized out, but knowing you can’t leave your appearance obligations for the opera house lacking, you content yourself with staying in your tucked away haven by the most unappealing refreshment table at the party.

Your feet tap and you hum along to the orchestra playing as people pass you by. Young couples rushing to someplace private and friends, old and young alike, moving about as they make gossip. Body swaying in place to the music you bask in the fact that you’ve made it, even partially, and soon enough you’d be dancing front on this opera’s stage and stages even beyond it. You’ve seen plenty of other black artists make it, there’s no reason to think that outside of the Americas you couldn’t fight your way to the top too.

You’ve gotten as far as a dance line already.

A poised shadow appears to your left but you do not bother giving anything short of the person’s silhouette a glance. You were in borrowed time at the Palais Garnier. It was best if you didn’t attract any attention and ruin your chances.

Instinctively your hands clasp in front of your body and you rock back onto your heels, humming and tapping ceasing. Stay unheard and you’ll be fine; your dreams of artistry and fame were yet to be dashed.

“Why so solemn?”

You feel your eyes widen, your attention quickly shifting to the shadow. You glance around, but seeing no one else close enough for him to have been talking to instead your gaze fully settles on more than just the man’s silhouette.

The masked man in front of you is completely shadowed in shades of red and fine jewels. The mask masquerading his face, the grimmest sign of the end: an ivory skull. And atop his head bloomed a crown of feathers on a wide brimmed fedora; all the colors of death and decay.

Your heart quickens at his procured visage.

“Me?”

A deep timber falls past lips you can’t see when he chuckles.

“Who else, Mademoiselle?”

“There is no shortage of beautiful women on the dance floor.”

“By why would Erik bother with them when the most beautiful is over here? Tucked in darkness’s warm embrace?”

Your head ducks and your face warms.

“You’re too kind.”

The wide shouldered shadow seems to shake his head, hard to tell with such an elaborate headpiece.

“Oh no! I fantom I have failed to be kind enough.” He sweeps forward, a cape previously bathed in his shadows trailing out behind him, everything lined with jewels shimmering like blood in moonlight. You find yourself ensnared as you look into the great eyes of death.

“When one such as yourself makes a swan’s grace look lacking with her prowess she should expect nothing less than to be bathed in gifts.” Death holds out his gloved hand, and still looking into those dark depths, still looking for the sign of the man underneath, you take it. “Precious flowers: lilacs and lilies…”

A mimicry of a kiss is pressed into your knuckles and you shiver. The hardness of something you’re becoming convinced may have once been an alive man’s touching ever so softly to your ebony skin.

“…roses.” he murmurs finally. “Painstakingly, devotedly, clipped of their thorns so as to not tarnish perfection.”

Your breath comes short as you finally find it. Only a flash, blink and you miss it, but you couldn’t blink. Citrine eyes; ill colored. It makes something in you want to flee, cause a scene in an effort to not be dragged out of the light by this man’s wrongness. Then his words finally reach you.

Words said in that burning liqueur tone that carry your mind away with their unique melody. You find yourself smiling, mouth stretching wide, alabaster teeth gleaming against the contrast of your dark skin.

“I’m not perfect,” you find the urge to argue.

If only to hear his praise some more.

“My Dear, you are my everything. How could you not be perfect?”

“I’m only a chorus dancer.”

“Which is a shame,” he admits.

His tone is solemn like he feels your own disappointment at never being given the chances of the other girls despite dancing with twice their merit.

“It is a shame,” you nod, spine straightening as you grip his hand tighter. The man before you seems to gasp at your assured touch. “To whom do I owe my thanks for such lovely compliments?”

The shadow appears to shrink in on himself for a moment before his grip in turn strengthens and guides you closer together. As he comes more into the light his onsemble sparkles mesmerizingly.

“The Red Death,” he bows, “at your service.”

You laugh. “I admire your dedication to the ball’s theme.”

He makes a humored sound of his own at your acknowledgment of his dramatics.

“It’s for the best I assure you, my dear. Now,” he runs the soft fabric over his thumbs along your bare knuckles, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

You incline your head, smiling in appraisal as you nod.

“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Death.”

He leads you from your not-so-hidden corner with a swish of his cape.

You seem to nearly teleport down the stairs with the way he whisks you away so soundly to the ballroom floor. Marble meets the bottoms of your heels as he finds you a good starting position towards the center of the room and, as is in your nature by now, you stand tall in a dancer's carry. He does not let the conversation end as you begin moving.

“Do other things outside of dancing capture your attention?”

“Should there be anything else?”

He laughs as he spins you around, “I suppose not. Dancing is your craft after all.”

“Yes,” you settle into his lead. “Yes it is, but um, I don’t just do ballroom and ballet dancing.”

“No?”

“No. I also dance things far older than my knowledge of ballet, from my people.”

“Amazing,” he says. “You’ll have to show me some day.”

“I’d be happy to,” you give him a small smile.

So near to him as you elegantly weave in between other couples on the floor you can see his eyes very clearly. They are sick looking but they do not lack awareness. The man takes in your every move so intently it makes you breathless. You notice though that he does not meet anyone else’s eyes and uses the wide brim of his hat to block others from seeing him. But not you.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mademoiselle L/n?”

You glance away from his eyes, instead looking at the way whatever mechanism he created allows the mouth of the skull to move with his speech. He must be very rich and worldly if he can acquire or make something like it.

You tilt your head in interest.

“How do you know so much about me and yet I can’t recall ever having seen you before?”

“Technically you are not seeing me now,” he responds easily.

A quiet scoff escapes you as you nod.

“Well then how come I’ve never heard you? A voice as poignant as yours I’m sure I’d remember.”

He does not answer your question.

“Is that what I sound like to you?”

And you do not notice.

“Yes,” you look back into his eyes as your right foot steps back, his left pushing forward. “You have a strong tone but behind it you sound…weary.”

His eyes narrow. Then your dress and his cape are flowing to a still as he stops moving. You look down at your hand on his shoulder, swallowing.

“I do not mean to offend you Monsieur, I apologize.”

You step away, hands sliding from him as embarrassment buzzes up your spine. He probably thinks you called him weak or something, men hated-

“No, please!”

He moves faster than you’re expecting, barely making a noise despite his extravagant costume, and grasps your right hand with his left. You gasp as he settles his other hand on your waist and tugs you closer with strength that didn’t fit him.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Your left hand he still has in his he shifts to settle back onto his right arm, and you try to relax.

There is no bone in your body fit to argue with him, nor a ligament that desires to do so.

“Alright, I won’t.” A soft smile pulls at your lips. “I enjoy dancing with you.”

“Thank you. Just know you did not upset me.” For the first time during the whole time you’ve danced he looks past you, gaze far away. “No, you could never upset Erik.”

You marvel at his soft tone and the glossy shine to his eyes as he urges you in motion. He begins swaying to the new song playing and you do the same.

“So your name is Erik then? I wasn’t sure before.”

You take on an affable tone when you speak this time around, glancing away for reprieve from the emotion in his eyes. How you’ve had that effect on him with one dance is beyond you, but you’re remiss to say it doesn’t feel kind of…nice.

Erik nods and those deceptive hands hold your waist just a little tighter. He looks at you again.

“May I ask you a question?”

You nod and he pulls you even closer, his swaying finally turning into steps, and you intuitively follow his lead. The song playing is one you’ve never heard before but it’s haunting. Erik takes to it even better than the last piece; the way he leads you feels like you’re dancing on clouds.

“Have you ever felt lost?”

“I imagine not in the ways you might’ve. “

His eyes crinkle briefly at your words.

“You said earlier that I sound weary, and never doubt I have reason to be so, but it has long begun to get tiring—”

Horns blare, cutting him off. A gasp falls past your lips and, as if on instinct, Erik pulls you closer. Heart pounding and near threatening to clog your throat, you don’t think before you’re splaying your hands over his chest either.

The way you both glance around mirrors each other, but his voice grumbles illegibly once the most likely reason for the cacophony captures the entire crowd’s attention.

The boisterous new leaders of the opera house stand tall behind the railing nearest the staircase that curls down to the ballroom floor, their paper masks in their hands and dressed in their finest costumes.

“Oh,” you laugh, “It’s just Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard. They can be so dramatic sometimes, no?”

Your dance partner glances at you narrowly, his irritation for the opera’s new owners heavy in his tone, “‘Dramatic’ is certainly one way to summarize Armand and Firmin alike. Personally, I’d say they both more resemble wallowing buffoons with clothes on.”

Silently, you blink up at him, mouth dropping open in surprise.

Very quickly Erik’s tune changes and his strong hold on you loosens.

“I apologize. The Opera’s new owners have become a point of…vexation for me recently. I did not mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s alright,” you say softly, “I can see how I’ve touched a nerve.”

“I must say you are wrong there, my Dear, you have done no such thing, ” he croons, reaching up to hover a gloved hand over the subtle plump of your cheek. “You have managed to truly make my night, do not discount that.”

He keeps his hand near your face, outlines the side of it with hardly a whisper of a touch while his gaze roves over you as if he’s starved for your very image.

Looking him over you feel much the same, the absence of his touch molding to your dark skin hitting like an unfitting taunt.

“Won’t you touch me?” you whisper, watching the way Erik’s eyes drop to your two-toned lips and take on a sheen of agony all their own.

Fingers ghost feather-light over the plush of them, more of that unfitting mockery. It is a pale substitute for a kiss.

“No,” he answers, voice just as unsteady as his gaze would have you assume. “I fear what might happen if I indulge myself anymore of this…illusion.”

“If you are so tortured as you claim, why not allow yourself a seconds reprieve when it is being offered?” you rush out. Your voice is far firmer than it ought to be around anyone above your stature, but no hint of a reminder to not forget yourself leaves Erik’s mouth. Nor any scoff or harsh glance.

You bring your hand up, desperate to urge him into action. Press your fingers lightly into the back of his hand in a barren plea, and wish for his palm cradling your cheek and for his arm around you to tighten once more.

Wish for his skin against yours. This stranger who has been kinder to you than any Frenchmen before him.

Though you do not push, Erik’s hand freezes beneath your touch and a harsh noise climbs up the back of his throat.

“Erik—”

He jerks his hand from you. Knocks yours aside with a low, pained sound.

In quick succession he steps back too, releasing you from his grip near entirely, the hand you kept on his arm dropping to your side as he continues only to hold the hand he’d grasped. After a moment’s consideration you make a point to squeeze at his hold before stepping back yourself and finally breaking your contact as a whole, struggling to keep the set of your shoulders high.

Erik startles more surely than a horse and you are not sure you’re equipped to handle it.

“I- I must be leaving now,” he rushes out, his pupils are smaller now. His back straighter in compensation.

“Of course,” you reassure him, no small amount of disappointment lingering in your voice despite your best efforts. “Thank you for such a wonderful dance, Erik.”

He nods his agreement, lowering his head as his hand comes up to tamper to some unseen degree at the jaw of his skull. “And I you, Y/n,” he says softly. Your name curling so delicately on his tongue your mind immediately starts running his delivery on repeat.

“In the meantime you will stay on my mind, my dear, and I hope that you will keep me on yours,” he begins once more, swooping into a bow after swinging his cape behind him.

This time when he raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles it’s lips that meet your skin. You shiver, gaze snapping upward. He pulls away and when you glance up he’s just slipping the skull mask back over his mouth. Your wide inquiring eyes only catch the barest glimmer of pale skin with just the hint of gaunt features and thin lips.

“Until we meet again, my dear Y/n. Just know that I will be enjoying your dazzling performances from afar as I lay in wait,” Death says, sickly eyes glowing with satisfaction.

In turn you take the time to send him off with a curtsey; legs crossed, crisp white of your dress bloomed, but when you bow your head you take care not to lose eye contact with him. His swallow after that is audible, and your answering smile might as well be with how clearly it sings of your appraisal. Then there goes your morose Death disappearing into the shadows; a specter bathed in mystique.

He makes a grande spectacle later that night. Reappears in a plume of smoke making an impassioned demand for an opera. His Opera. And you live everyday more convinced than the other that Death personified had truly visited the Populare that night.

Gaunt pale skin and sickly eyes drawn to the murders in your corner of France in a flash of winsome words and red and feathers.

Death had showered you with praise, looked you in the eyes and taken you hand in glorious hand across the ballroom floor, had decried the gall of the upper caste’s frivolous celebrating over the graves of those lost, and Death’s name was Erik.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! I don’t…apologize for the melodrama, but I do understand if it wasn’t for you.

The reader-insert is ambiguously African here since it seemed fitting, but I didn’t want to overemphasize anything and shoot myself in the foot. Just imagine the reader-insert is from one of the countries France still takes exuberant colonial taxes from in order for those countries to stay independent from them.

Now, as far as canon influences go for this story: there’s some og book canon, some ALW musical canon, and a not insignificant amount of MazM canon for good measure. Also, by all means the last name ‘Destler’ is only canon to Poto 1989, but I’m really in love with that specific Erik so I tend to add the last name to my more generalized depictions of The Phantom; at least beside the fic title.

I had a wonderful time writing this and cannot wait for what the new year has to offer for my writing endeavors in the future. Happy New Year (except kind of not really, but we’ll deal)! 🥳🎉

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[gloriousmonsters]

God I LOVE the way you write the vees especially Velvette

Do you have any more poly vees headcanons

ty!!! and i absolutely do they just all tend to leave my head when I'm asked about them lol. I mostly remembered mothdoll focused ones but there's some others too :P

Valentino and Velvette are both bored by basic porn and reality TV content after seeing it created all the time and will mainly watch Hell bootlegs/remakes of things that fall on the spectrum of 'excessive violence, depressing' and 'weird and fucked up in a sexual manner'. they will both check their phones and talk through the entire film but get incredibly annoyed if Vox asks them if they want to maybe switch off Oldboy because they've been debating whether Zestial and Carmilla Carmine are fucking for twenty minutes. they're paying attention on levels you can't even comprehend. neither of them remember what the movies were about afterward except in the vaguest terms

Velvette had Valentino on a livestream to promote the launch of Love Potion (it's a perfume and you shouldn't ingest it wink wink its slight sexy influential qualities grow 100x more strong when mixed with liquid wink wink) and their chemistry worked so well onscreen that she's invited him to a few since then, mostly just to build parasociality with their audience hang out

Velvette will let Valentino do her makeup + hair sometimes because it's one of the things he can't really play with himself (his features/skin don't lend themselves to makeup and. no hair 😔) so it lets him live vicariously. Plus it functions as one of the only bits of (mostly) nonsexual intimacy they have.

aside from 'darling' and 'V', Velvette will occasionally call Vox 'prince charming', which has to be used sparingly because it puts his ego at dangerous levels for the rest of the day. Val gets 'handsome', 'pretty boy', and 'perv' or 'lech' (affectionate).

Vox and Valentino - Val especially - mostly don't get genuinely angry at Velvette, but one of the most aggravating things she does is follow them around at a slight distance with her phone out and ready to film like she's trying to catch a cat doing something funny on-camera

Velvette and Vox's monetary relationship swings back and forth between sugar daddy from Vox's end and findom from Velvette's end (Val is envious and confused about the fact that Velvette can somehow always make Vox hand over the money she wants until he figures out it's a kinky thing and it all makes sense).

this will be the focus of a fic but Vox essentially had another sexuality crisis around Velvette showing up because he'd lowkey considered himself gay despite being in denial about it because the only people he'd been genuinely interested in and the most enjoyable sex he'd had was with men so encountering a woman he was attracted to as a person took some mental adjustment

Velvette was an invaluable addition to the team but sometimes when Vox catches her and Valentino making some kind of significant eye contact when he says something 'very white', apparently, for the fiftieth time, he maybe regrets allowing this dynamic to form just a little

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Stranger 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Summary: A stranger buys the farmstead nearby and disturbs your sleepy village life.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You don’t know how to get out of this. You finished your pie without tasting it and the latte added to your flurrying nerves. You’re almost shaking in your chair as you stare at his hands, the ring on his pinkie tight around his rough skin. You peer over at your wagon of groceries and chew your lip.

“Um, thanks for the uh, coffee and pie,” you sniff, “but I should get going.”

“Going?” He spreads his large hand on the table top, hooking his thumb under the edge.

“My grandma is waiting–”

“I’ll give you a ride,” he offers. Again. You already told him no in the grocery store.

“Erm, that’s nice, but…” you stand cautiously and move the empty mug onto the plate, “I can handle it–”

“Christ, sugar,” he leans forward, clutching his hands together, “I’m being nice here. Why are you trying to run away?”

“I… I’m not,” you gulp. “I just… I like the walk.”

He sucks his teeth noisily and huffs. He looks around the cafe with a scowl. You take the empty dishes and carry them to the counter. As you turn back, you find Chris on his feet, the wagon’s handle in his grasp.

You approach him sheepishly.

“I’ll walk you,” he insists.

You don’t know how to keep saying no. Really, you haven’t really said it. You’ve been really nice in just diverting. Usually, that works.

“It’s okay, that’s a long way–”

“But you said you like the walk,” he challenges, “it is a long way to walk alone.”

“Well, uh, I guess, but… it’s Hammer Ford, it’s not…”

“Dangerous?” He snorts, “everywhere is dangerous, sugar. Even a place like this.” He takes a breath, his broad chest puffing out and checks his watch, “let’s not waste any more time.”

You give up. If you just let him walk with you, he might just get the idea that you’re boring. He might leave you alone. Or turn back halfway and not want to make the whole trek to your grandmother’s. You hope something changes his mind because you’re out of ideas.

“Alright,” you pout and turn to cross the cafe.

He pulls the wagon behind you. You hold the door for him as he steps out into the sunlight. You let go of the door and start off down the sidewalk. He catches up easily.

“Don’t act like I’m twisting your arm. Didn’t that grandmother ever teach you manners?”

“Sir, I…” you flinch as his words injure you. “I wasn’t– wait, what about your truck?”

“I’ll get it later. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you. Don’t you get it?” He snarls.

You don’t get it. You really don’t. No one ever bothers you. They really never notice you. You’re just Sadie’s granddaughter, nothing more.

“You wanna get in?” He asks suddenly. You look up at him confused, “think there’s more than enough room for you.”

He glances over his shoulder and you peek back at the wagon. You shake your head.

“No thanks, I’m okay.”

“Won’t bother me,” he says.

“I wanna walk,” you trod along with him towards the edge of the central strip.

His arm brushes yours and you keep your eyes on the horizon. You’re quiet as your shoes kick through the dirt. His elbow knocks against your again and you nearly jump out of your skin as he bats his hand around yours, finally getting a grasp on it. He holds it as he walks on without a word.

A new layer of sweat rises on your forehead. It’s more than the sunlight bearing down on you, it’s this man. What is he doing? Holding your hand! Like you’re together?

You walk on in silence, arms swing with each step. You don’t know what else to do but keep going. You just want to get home and hide away from him. He squeezes tighter as you climb the first incline. You’re breathless as you get to the top though he’s no worse for ware.

“Wanna take a break, sugar?” He asks as he slows along the peak.

“I’m okay,” you gasp out.

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Sir, I’ll catch my breath,” you assure him.

You try to pull your hand from his and he nearly crushes your fingers. You don’t try again. He slows his gait as the wheels crunch along the gravel. On and on your go.

Finally, you’re in sight of the swathe of trees that hide your grandmother’s old yellow siding. You drag your feet and sigh, “I can take it from here. It’s just ahead.”

“I’ll see you to the front door,” he says, “can never be too safe.”

“Sir, it’s not bear season–”

“I’m not worried about bears,” he snips, “besides, I came all this way. Think I should at least get to meet your grandmother. Tell her thank you for the pie.” He shakes his head, “you’re too jumpy. Stop thinking so much.”

You try to untangle your hand from his. He lets go of the wagon and lurches you with a mean yank. You crash into him as he turns to face you. You stare up at him, shaking as his other hand comes to grip your arm.

“You are working my last damn nerve. All I’ve done is be nice,” he growls, “so you’re going to put on a smile and introduce me to the old lady. Maybe you might even invite me in for dinner…” he looks over at the wagon, “that’s only polite.”

“Please,” you whimper, “I didn’t mean–”

“I don’t care what you meant. Actions speak louder,” his nostrils flare, “and I think mine have said more than enough. It’s your turn, sugar.”

Your lower lip pokes out and you nod with a thick gulp, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“If you’re so damn sorry, do better,” he releases you and bends to grab the wagon handle again, “come on, let’s go.”

You peer from him to the trees and frown. You flit ahead of him, buzzing like a hummingbird as you lead him onward. Your grandmother will be happy and no help at all. She’ll be more than happy to welcome in the big bad wolf.

[mynameis-noe-body]

Catch me if you can, Chief!

Chief Jim Hopper × you (F)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: It's the 4th of July in Hawkins, and while everybody's having fun at the amusement park, the only one who's catching your attention is Jim Hopper, Chief of Police — and he's looking at you, equally interested.

OR — you and Hopper have fun in the parking lot, in his car.

The mayor of Hawkins wasn't a particularly politically gifted man, easily bribed and evidently fishy in his manners, devoid of any charm. However, he had always thrown the best Fourth of July parties. This year, as always, Hawkins park has been transformed into a huge, glittering Luna Park. It's just sunset, and everything is illuminated with colored neon, written in large letters attracting people like moths to a flame. Children run amused among the rides, greedy for cotton candy and soft candies, lollipops and sugar-coated pancakes. Families jump from one attraction to another holding hands with the little ones, whose eyes sparkle like so many little stars, inebriated by the festivities. Music plays everywhere, incessant and covered only by the sound of laughter. It's a warm summer evening. The clear sky, of a warm blue that gets darker as the minutes go by, is the backdrop for a blanket of stars that finally seem to show themselves. And everyone is waiting for the fireworks.

Yet, none of this catches your eye. The usual amusements, the usual rides, the usual sweets. You even wore the same shorts as last year, the jeans just a little tighter around your hips, a little shorter along the soft curve of your buttocks. You are slightly sweaty, a wet line permeates your white shirt leaving a transparent veil between your breasts. A breath of fresh wind ruffles your hair, giving you relief. And your eyes, dreamy and greedy, rest on only one person. Jim Hopper, Chief of Police. He's not on duty tonight. Jane Hopper, his young adopted daughter, has already ridden off on the ferris wheel with her boyfriend, and he seems almost annoyed; he's been chatting with your father for a few minutes now, with an ice-cold beer in his hands. He looks bored, hot. That Hawaiian shirt would look ridiculous on anyone else, but he fills it completely. His thick arms, full and shot through with soft muscles, are absolutely delightful. You can't take your eyes off the way his chest looks so large and huge and tight under that garment. Almost as hot and delicious as his ass - god, a forty-year-old man has no right to be that damn sexy. Irresistible.

If you weren't (almost) sure that Jim could never be attracted to someone as seemingly young and green as you, you'd say that his eyes have turned to look at you more than once ... and yet, it seems so. His gaze is so heavy on you, you feel it glide over every curve of your body, you almost feel him touching your sweaty clothes on top of you – you wish they were his hands. You smile, wave your hand to say hello. Your father smiles, but you don't look at him. Jim doesn't take his eyes off you, even when you take your blue lollipop - just bought from the stall - and suck it hard into your mouth, between your cheeks. You lick it until it leaves a blue streak on the soft flesh of your tongue, around the edge of your rosy lips. You just wait for your dad to walk away - your mom must still be somewhere near the photobooth - and then, finally, you walk towards him.

He wants to spank you. It's a sick, dirty, damned irrepressible impulse. You, with your languid eyes, and that mouth that must be the softest and sweetest he could ever taste, drive him crazy ever since he realized that inside your tight jeans, inside your tight and low-cut T-shirts, inside your full clothes, you've grown into a young, gorgeous woman. He would like to wrap his fingers around your neck, squeeze it until he takes your breath away and hear you beg. Beg for what - this is not important. But when you get close, he's wearing his best smile. Safe, protective - all that he, in that moment, is not. No, you're a lost little sheep, and he's a hungry wolf who can't wait to sink his teeth into your flesh.

"Hello, Chief" you chirp, and smile. Your lips are smeared with blue sugar. It must be delicious.

Jim smiles. "Hey, kid. You okay?"

You huff with an amused laugh. "Kid? I haven't been a kid in a while, Hop. What do I have to do to show you that?"

Adorable. Your games are adorable. "Um, I don't know." Jim takes the lollipop stick, his rough thumb lingering a moment longer on the outline of your lip. The soft blush on your cheeks blossoms on your neck, runs down your chest and his greedy eyes can't help but wonder how far that sweet blush extends on your body. The treat slides out of your mouth, resting on your lips. "A woman, for example, wouldn't waste time with these sweets."

You smile, you fucking vixen. "Really?" you reply, impertinent. Snatching the lollipop from his hand, you suck it once more between your clenched cheeks before handing it to him. There's still a glistening trace of saliva around it. "It's so good, it would be a shame to throw it away. Why don't you taste it?"

His nostrils flare, sniffing in the cool evening air in a desperate attempt to hold on to what little control he has left. And he smiles. Tense, forced-like his pants, increasingly tight and uncomfortable. But when he barely opens his mouth, and tries to take the lollipop from your hand, you push it away, hiding it back in your cheek. "If you want it, you gotta catch it!" and with a goofy laugh, you walk off, hopping towards the parking lots.

God, you will be the death of him.

It's not difficult to find you, leaning against his police van with only one hip, your tongue sinuously rolling around the little blue sugar left, that sweet and colorful stain in your mouth that he doesn't want to wait any longer to taste. You expect him to stop, an amused grin, an almost pedantic reproach, and instead Jim keeps walking towards you with large steps, determined and without hesitation. His eyes have never been so dark and deep, his lips are already anticipating yours and just a moment - he is on you, Hopper cages you between the metal car door and his warm and massive body, his left hand on your hip digs into the softness of your body so hard it almost leaves a mark and his left hand grips your neck - tight enough to take a quick breath away, before covering your lips with his.

The lollipop falls forgotten on the floor.

His tongue eagerly seeks yours, fills your mouth and feeds on your sweet taste. You are perfect - perfect. Your small stifled moans die in your throat as he devours your lips, sucks your tongue between his lips and bites lightly into your mouth just to make you feel how he could destroy you with a simple kiss, break your lip and suck it again.

"Didn't they ever tell you it's not safe to tease a man like me, hm?" he growls into your skin, you feel the roughness of his beard scratching your neck, his lips sucking red marks all over you, as if to write his name on your body. It's terrifying, to find yourself powerless in such intense hands, pressed against such a strong and warm body. It's exciting. Pressing your palm against your mouth, you try to stifle a gasp, somewhere between pleasure and pain when he pinches your nipples from over the top of your shirt. "Your dad knows what you like to do? Runnin' around the parking lot, begging like a desperate bitch, with your stupid, little games? You knew this would happen." His voice makes you tremble with pleasure, and anxiety. "Remember that, when you think about it. You wanted it - you want me, my hands, my tongue, my cock. Come on, feel it.” Jim takes your hand, abruptly, places it on his crotch and squeezes it inside his. Stifling a moan against your neck, he pushes and presses on you. And it's big and hard and thick like no other. You're almost scared, but you're dying to suck it and feel it emptied down your throat.

"Please" you cry, a little whispered prayer, and so desperate. "Please give it to me - please!"

"That's it, love" he grunts "you asked for this." And his hand rips the button of your shorts with an unheard-of force, you almost feel the fabric of the seam tear. Violently, Hopper undresses you. You are naked from the waist down, you are all wet, clammy with sweat and arousal. His fingers are calloused, rough, so thick, when his middle finger swirls around that swollen pearl, you can't help but dig your face into his chest and stifle a cry of pleasure. He smells of tobacco, beer, cheap cologne, sweat. He's so gross and masculine and delicious at the same time - you're confused and so wet for him, you can't think of anything else. Two fingers slide inside you, you're tight but so wet that Jim can only feel the softness of your body. "So fucking wet, baby. So tight - how is it, hm? Tell me you like it."

"God - yes - yes, Hopper, more!"

He laughs, the bastard. "Such a fucking, little slut. That's what you are, fucking desperate for some dick."

"Only yours" you cry "only you, chief."

He groans at the name. "Keep on with this shit and I won't get to fuck you. And you're dying for me to fuck this tight little cunt."

His fingers dig into your sweet juices, so wet you can feel the sound of his movement around your nectar, his fingers pressing hard against that perfect spot inside you, his thumb rough and flat on your clit until it rips a violent, sudden orgasm. Your legs are shaking, you dig your nails into his muscular arms, clinging to him to keep from passing out and you can't even think. You don't notice that he has opened the car door, and you fall backwards into the seats not knowing what to expect. Only when he enters, sitting next to you, fumbling with his belt and the zipper of his trousers, do you know what awaits you.

You smile, spitefully. "I've waited so long, chief. Give it to me, please. Want you so much."

"Yeah?" for the first time he almost seems to blush. Your words stroke his ego in a way he's forgotten; that such a delightful young beauty as you whould so desire him, it was flattering. And exciting. "Then be a good girl and take it all." Hopper pushed you against the seat and spun on top of you. One hand against the window, the other wrapped around your hips to lift your pelvis and push into you. “Oh, shit” he moans, burying his face in the corner of your neck. "Fucking tight."

You have to stuff your gasps against his shoulder, he's so big inside you, he stretches you - so wide open, it's almost painful, but he's perfect inside you. And when he starts to move, coming out slowly, enjoying your softness, and then pushing harder, ruthless and greedy inside you, you can no longer hold back that immense pleasure. "God, fuck yeah-again, again" you plead and he growls, vents and uses your body for his pleasure, like a flimsy toy in his hands, he slams you into the seat, without any kindness. The car sways, screeches, you feel nothing but his hot, ragged breath against your skin, his stiff legs using all their strength to press you against the seat and drive his hard cock between the abused lips of yours wet pussy. You feel him hit that spot, again, your legs gripping his wide hips, wide open to take him all the way into you, so deep—he's touching places you thought weren't there inside you. "Oh fuck, fuck Hopper, I'm going to - I'm gonna-"

"Come - fucking come for me!" he growls. With a desperate moan, one last thrust into you, he feels your pussy throbbing around his member, squeezing and milking it desperately, fully enjoying your orgasm, and it's so intense he can hardly contain himself anymore - as soon as you start again to breathe, Jim slips out and comes too. He empties on you, on your bare thighs, on your belly, splashes of hot cum dirty your skin and your ruined clothes as he masturbates all of his orgasm on you, with a last desperate breath.

"Shit" he whispers, finally. Dropping into the seat next to you, Hopper inhales deeply, and his gasps slowly extinguish, as he decides to grab a cigarette and roll down the car window. "Look at you" he comments, with an amused smile. "Looking like I just murdered you, love."

You smile, tired and fully satisfied. "No, not yet, Hop."

He looks at you, curious. Almost hesitant. But your eyes are so bright – no one should be looked at with such devotion after doing what he just did. Yet there is something so perversely satisfying about seeing his cum on your bare thighs. With a handkerchief, Hopper cleans you, slowly. A hand combs your hair, before stroking your cheek. "Go back to your rides, kid" he grins "I bet we'll see each other again soon."

You bite your lip, and he almost wants to kiss you again, watching you get dressed. "Only if you can catch me, chief." And with that cheeky smile of yours, you leave his car, already fantasizing about your next meeting.

Like it, love it, hate it? Let me know! And if you feel a little naughty and wanting for more, please know my requests are open 🖤

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I’M HERE FOR THE TEA please can we see Mama Rosehearts seeing Trey again?? You know the boy she probably blames for leading her son astray with SUGAR 😆 maybe throw in the Clover siblings or Clover parents too? Only if you want to though!

Scalding hot tea to go with those banned strawberry tarts... 👀 (Not gonna lie though, it's so funny to me that Mrs. Rosehearts may see Trey, one of THE most normal and mild-mannered dudes in the main TWST cast, as some kind of twisted degenerate that peddles an addictive white powder to her child 🤡)

While writing this, I kept thinking of the passive aggressive dinner scene in Shrek 2 (that eventually turned into a full-blown food fight) 😅 Trey can be Shrek since he's green and Mrs. Rosehearts can be Fiona's dad since they're both protective parents-- (I decided to keep it to Trey, Riddle, and Mrs. Rosehearts! The rest of the Clover family would be a lot of people to account for in one interactions.)

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

Trey was used to cutting cakes, not cutting tension. The vice dorm leader job description had said nothing about the latter—yet here he was, newly saddled with the responsibility.

To his right was Riddle, forcing himself to maintain impeccable posture for afternoon tea. Back straight, head up, eyes forward, as he wove a teaspoon through a cup of warm liquid. Normally, he would slightly sweeten his tea with honey—but he went without it today, only stirring on reflex.

A ha-RUMPH! sounded as Riddle set the teaspoon down on his saucer. Their guest was disapproving, as Trey had expected. He gathered his strength and muttered a silent prayer to the Great Seven.

"Tea?" Trey offered the woman to his right, teapot at the ready.

Mrs. Rosehearts tapped a dagger-like nail against her arm. She had painted them a deep crimson, the exact shade of the red velvet cakes Patisserie Clover whipped up—though with the scathing expression she wore, Trey figured the last thing she wanted to hear about was baked goods. The woman looked like she was out for his blood, rich and oh-so-red.

"Okaaay, no tea then." Trey carefully returned the teapot to its spot and reached for a plate of the least sweet item avaliable. "How about a finger sandwich? We've got all different kinds of fillings, so just pick the one you like."

Mrs. Rosehearts didn't so much as pass the poor sandwiches a glance out of pity.

"Alright, I guess that's also a negatory?"

Her icy eyes bore into Trey, silently judging him. The tension thickened, turning heftier than a filling pea soup (though he doubted she was in the mood for any food at this point).

A hand reached over and plucked a sandwich from the top of the pile, staving off some rigidity in the air.

"Thank you, Trey." Riddle offered a small smile.

"You're very welcome. Don't eat it all up in one bite now. Remember to save some for everyone else," Trey joked light-heartedly. "You've got a smoked salmon on whole wheat there. I tossed the fish in lemon juice, salt, and pepper, then mixed it with a little cream cheese, dill, and minced onion."

"Is that right? It sounds delicious and healthy," Riddle said carefully, emphasizing the final word. He delicately nibbled at the crusts--still left on--while eyeing the contents of his teacup.

The table settled back into a stiff silence. Riddle staring at his drink, his mother staring at Trey, and Trey staring at the wall behind her. If he made eye contact, would she explode?

Trey rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. His hand came away damp with perspiration. He dared to say what was on everyone's mind.

"Well, uh... This is awkward."

There was an audibly sharp intake of breath. Riddle, paralyzed. His thumb pressed down hard on his sandwich, puncturing a hole in the bread.

"You're the eldest son of the bakers," Mrs. Rosehearts declared, her first utterance as prickly as thorns. "The boy who led my Riddle astray with sugar."

She makes it sound like I was peddling something way worse than what it actually was! It was only a slice of strawberry tart...

Trey bit back his protests and tried at a smile. He and Riddle had spent hours reviewing and rehearsing their game plan for this dreaded moment. "Don't challenge her, don't instigate," his dorm leader had instructed him. "Be agreeable. Lie if you must. Whatever it takes for us to come out of this encounter unscathed."

His had confidence wavered, worry in his big eyes. A flash of fear, and Trey saw the sad little child from years before, the fat tears that had been dribbling down Riddle’s contorted face. Sobbing, apologizing, pleading.

He had tipped his head and nodded. A mere card soldier obeying his queen. The line he parroted so often was spoken once more: “Yes, dorm leader.”

Trey reached within himself for the best he could manage. "It's nice to see you again, ma'am."

"If only I could say the same!!" Mrs. Rosehearts huffed dismissively. She then snapped, quick as a whip, to Riddle, who flinched. "It’s no wonder why you came home in such a sorry state for the holidays! I suspected it for a while now, but this confirms it. You’ve been reintroduced to bad influences at school."

“That’s not exactly…” Riddle trailed off, his voice weak. His mother continued to rant, undaunted.

“NRC has its fair share of students that cause trouble,” Trey confessed, tactfully cutting in. “Still, that’s to be expected of teenage boys."

“My Riddle rarely ever behaves in such a disrespectful manner,” Mrs. Rosehearts retorted. Rarely stung like a slap to the face. “Were it not for poor choices in friendship, he would never act out.

“Why a prestigious learning institution like Night Raven College would allow such riffraff in, I’ll never understand! They only ruin it for the others. It only takes one bad seed to spoil the whole bunch.”

She didn't name names, but it was clear who she was talking about from where she directed her intense gaze.

“I don’t know about spoiled apples, but bruised ones can still be used,” Trey pointed out, eager to divert the heated topic. “They don’t look the best, but they still taste fine. Bruised apples work for lots of recipes. Salads, sauces, ciders, jams..."

The smoked salmon sandwich slipped, falling into Riddle’s untouched tea. His eyes widened. Then Trey’s slowly followed. Both of them caught the misstep, their times staggered.

The scowl on Mrs. Rosehearts deepened, her crimson lips forming an almost bloody line. “You would just love to stuff my son with more of that sugary poison, wouldn’t you? Just like you’ve filled his head with your poisonous thoughts!!”

“What? No, I wouldn’t… I haven’t—” He instinctively pivoted to providing a defense, something to placate her.

It was an ill-advised mistake.

"Young man!!" Face red, she rose from her seat, slamming both hands on the table. The fine china and silverware clattered violently. "First you feed him that horrible junk food, then you've graduated to feeding him all these untruths!! You've done quite enough damage to my son."

He had one foot in the rabbit hole now, the situation spiraling into chaos. Trey braced himself against the verbal barrage, wincing as her volume climbed higher and higher, her features distorting from rage.

A part of him wanted to cry out. To argue, to shout. But fear clawed at his throat, seizing his tongue.

"Look where hanging around you has gotten him! He comes home over the winter break spouting nonsense—nonsense he no doubt picked up from you. I thought I had done all I could to rid us of the pests buzzing around him, but clearly even those efforts haven't been enough!"

"M-Mother, please... I can explain!" Riddle insisted, jumping up. His teacup wobbled, threatening to topple over and stain the table and rug. "I implore you, don't blame Trey--"

"A mother knows what's best for her child! I'll be speaking to the headmaster about this, and there WILL be some changes around here!"

Riddle recoiled, defeated. He balled his hands into fists on his lap—to stop them from shaking.

It's happening, Trey realized. Again, it's happening...

The edges of his vision blurring, his throat closing up. A distant memory of his parents profusely apologizing to a screaming woman. Riddle huddled behind her, in tears, tugging, begging to be heard. Him, standing frozen, unable to act.

"Riddle..." Trey made to place a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, but a protective arm blocked his path. He met the livid face of Mrs. Rosehearts.

"Don't you touch a hair on my son's head.”

His hand jerked back but refused to fall limp to his side. He frowned slightly, brows furrowing in hesitation.

But he pushed himself forward and tumbled deeper down the rabbit hole.

"With all due respect, ma'am," Trey said very evenly, "I get wanting to support and protect him, I really do. That's part of my job as his vice dorm leader—but Riddle doesn’t need it all the time. He’s not the fragile flower you seem to think he is.”

He was the thorns that warded off enemies. He was the stalk, morally upright and willful. He was the roots that burrowed deep and anchored the group.

He was anything but a rose.

“Frankly, I think you sorely underestimate how strong Riddle really is,” Trey continued. He must be, if he has the courage to speak up for me when I couldn’t do the same for him. “I don’t mean just in magic either. He has the will of a queen too.”

Mrs. Rosehearts drew back, positively appalled. Her nostrils flared. "And just what are you insinuating?!"

Shock replaced the delicate discomfort on Riddle’s face. “Trey, you…”

“Ahahah… Sorry, Riddle.” He passed his friend a faint smile. “I guess I couldn’t help but meddle this time. I broke my promise to you. My bad.”

“No, don’t be.” His response was quiet, like the trace of a whisper on a breeze.

“I understand now. It’s not the school that needs changing, but you,” Mrs. Rosehearts snarled, jabbing an accusatory finger at Trey. “I’ll have you expelled from this school!! You won’t ever be put in a position where you can sink your venomous fangs into my…"

"Stop, mother...!!"

"Riddle?" Mrs. Rosehearts looked expectantly at her son. She had stiffened, the fire in her eyes now petrified to stone.

He hesitated under her gaze.

"... Hey. It's okay. You've got this," came a soft voice from beside him. From Riddle's right, his right-hand man. "No one else can speak for you but yourself."

Riddle swallowed. He tried to maintain his cool, but his words came out shaky.

"Mother, I..." He stopped and started again. "You may see Trey as a villain, someone who leads children astray from the good and morally righteous path with a house of sweets. But that's not what he is.”

Riddle remembered the scene well.

In a garden of rose hedges… Collars turned into fluttering playing cards. Then the pitch black had consumed him. A light he had reached for. The hand that had reached back. Someone calling out to him, panicked.

That person was…

"At my darkest moment, Trey was there to stop me from sinking lower than I already had. When I sought a hand in the void, it was he who reached back for me. His hand is what pulled me up when I was down.

“For that, I will always be grateful, no matter what you may think of him. He is worthy of standing by my side as Heartslabyul’s vice dorm leader. That is my decision—a decision acknowledged by all.”

His mother bristled. "You would side with this… this boy over me? Your mother? Your family?"

“I’m suggesting that raising a complaint to the headmaster wouldn’t change the circumstances. He, too, is aware of Trey’s merits as my second-in-command and would wish for him to stay.”

Riddle shared a small, knowing smile with his friend. Indeed, Crowley had been present for the debacle—and indeed, he would promote their support of one another. To save face and reputation. (“Wh-What nonsense is this!! Of course my students are well-mannered and cooperative! What would make you think anything less of them?!”)

“Clever,” Trey mouthed.

“Well, I never!!” Mrs. Rosehearts huffed, abruptly rising from her seat. “The depths of depravity know no bounds!! To think you’ve magically convinced the entire school that you’re good…!!l

“I’ll do my best to show you my good points too, ma’am,” Trey replied. He couldn’t stop a smirk from making its way onto his lips. “After all, everyone at NRC’s like a diamond in the rough. All they need’s their time to shine.“

At this, Riddle coughed into a fist to conceal choked laughter. “… Yes, one could say such a thing. Rest assured, mother; I’m in good hands. There is no learning institution more fit for me than here.”

At our Night Raven College.

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, today we have the fourth part to our enemies to lovers rec list! You can also find part one here, part two here, and part three here. If you enjoy our rec lists and would like us to continue making them, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word! Happy reading.

1) Say My Name And Everything Just Stops | Explicit | 5,089 words

Harry and Louis are enemies and their friends leave them behind on a camping trip to sort out their differences. In a short amount of time, they do.

2) It’s Hard To Fight Naked | Explicit | 11,189 words

Prompt 6: Louis and Harry are roommates, but they cannot stand each other. When Harry heard Louis moan his name while Louis was riding a dildo in Harry’s room (Louis thought he was alone at home), Harry couldn’t stop himself and so he ended up fucking Louis against the mattress. Happy ending!

3) Works Like A Charm | Explicit | 18,088 words

Ever since Louis joined the team in fifth year, a few facts have become set in stone. One: Louis is the best chaser in Hogwarts. Two: Harry is the best beater in Hogwarts. Three: They do not get along. So it’s really unfair of Liam to think that forcing them to spend time together as Louis recovers from his injury will make them the best of friends. The last thing Louis would do is get along with that git.

4) Uncomfortable Truths | Explicit | 18,125 words

Louis (a sophisticated asshole with a god complex, according to Zayn) is confident, bored out of his mind and in a desperate need of a challenge. Harry moves back to the city, ready to provide him one. Things go sideways. Obviously.

5) Angel Of Small Death And The Murder Scene | Explicit | 20,634 words

Ever since Louis read about the new up and coming Detective in town, he had immediately disliked the man, despite never having met him. So, naturally, it can only be the worst thing that could have happened to Louis when he gets stuck with Detective Styles trying to solve a murder during his supposed to be relaxing vacation over the seas.

6) Manners And Misjudgements | Explicit | 21,178 words

“Everyone you mention the Duke to raves about him, just like you are defending him now. But no one looks behind the façade he so ably maintains to deceive you all.” Liam sighs deeply. “You sound like a crazy man right now, Louis.” “I will prove to you who the Duke really is, just wait.”

7) Help Me, Help You Find Love | Explicit | 23,789 words

The one where they all attend a university for supernaturals and Werewolf Frat president and resident heartthrob Harry approaches on campus matchmaker Louis to help him find love.

8) Strong Enough To Get Us Wrong | Explicit | 24,289 words

Omega Louis have always considered the soulmate etching on his left thigh to be a curse. It takes a world tour, the bustling city of Tokyo, a hike to see Mt. Fuji, some hidden feelings, sea urchin sushi and the alpha he hates most in the world to change him.

9) Like It’s A Game | Explicit | 32,223 words | Sequel

There is little Harry hates more than truth or dare. And Louis.

10) Spoonful Of Sugar | Explicit | 42,900 words

Note: We'd recommend reading the prequel to this fic first.

Louis Tomlinson cares for his family above all else, a fact that’s led him on a twisted path peddling drugs to support them. Just as he’s made the decision to jump ship, Louis gets snared between the two largest crime syndicates in the city. To keep his family safe he’s forced to trust the man that failed to keep his promise two years ago, the resident drug lord he’s unknowingly been working for, Harry Styles.

11) From Dust To Lust | Explicit | 45,437 words

From the moment Louis set eyes on the gorgeous stranger across the airport terminal, he knew the guy was trouble, which was the last thing he wanted. He wouldn’t have thought spending two days cooped up in a car travelling from the Australian Outback to the East Coast would change his mind. It’s funny how things work out.

12) Catch Me If I Fall | Explicit | 47,099 words

Lovers when on the stage but bitter rivals as soon as they step off, Harry and Louis have butted heads from the moment they first met. Locked in a stalemate that they hope to ride out until graduation, things take a turn when Harry learns that Louis is hiding a secret.

13) Hold Me How the Deep Night Has | Explicit | 48,018 words

Louis Tomlinson needs a change. Stuck in a cycle of going to the job he hates, spending time with his friends, and avoiding the one man he hates most in this world, Louis' in desperate need of something new. So when he discovers an abandoned notebook on the way to work, the decision is easy to take it for himself and begin a journal amidst the empty pages. What can't be expected are the words that appear overnight directly beside his own, written on the same day 400 years in the past. What are the consequences of a magical connection between two men of different centuries? And who, among it all, is the mysterious E who only exists on the other side of Louis' journal?

14) Falling Without Caution | Explicit | 50,350 words

Louis Tomlinson, a wanted criminal, was captured by the FBI after years of chasing. Instead of being locked up in a high-security prison, he was offered a deal. What was supposed to be the end of a decade long chase turned into a morally grey circumstance for Agent Styles.

15) A Place With Skeletons | Explicit | 50,765 words

“I would choose anyone other than you,” Louis says, picking up his train of thought again. He feels a lot more cornered and defensive when they’re in Harry’s house, for some reason. It doesn’t really make sense, considering that this time, Louis was the one who couldn’t hack it any longer. He broke first. There’s something about being in Harry’s space, though, the green and earthy feeling of it. It should feel like open space with all the plants, but Louis has never felt more claustrophobic than he does when he’s here. Harry’s chest moves against his back, a sharp intake of air. Before he can open his mouth to defend himself, Louis keeps going, “If I had a choice in any of this, I would have been saved by that elderly security guard over you. I wouldn’t mind having to have the occasional cuddle with her.”

16) We Are But Dust and Shadows | Explicit | 51,468 words

Louis is part of a well respected Shadowhunter family, and Harry is the Mundane turned Shadowhunter who just can’t seem to get it right.

17) Lunar Waltz | Explicit | 56,795 words

Louis has to replace his (missing) twin brother and marry one of the most dangerous alphas of the kingdom.

18) The Luna of Which Pack? | Mature | 72,696 words

When Harry's wolves accidentally kidnap the intended Luna of Simon Cowell's pack, he must decide what to do with the irritating omega that does not want to return home. With the elders disagreeing with the new ‘naive’ pack alpha Styles, a war erupts due to his opposed decisions. And Louis finds himself right in the middle of it.

19) Echoes & Omens | Mature | 100,707 words

Echoes of the dead come in many forms. Their imprints forever tied to the ones who'd killed them. Louis Tomlinson is able to track the dead using their echoes, they call to him. He's used that gift to aid Scotland Yard in their investigations, with the hopes of studying Criminology at Cambridge University. He's lived a life of privilege and good fortune as a Marquess, son of the late Duke Tomlinson, with his life mapped out since day one. Until two terrible truths are revealed. One, he's adopted. Two, his biological parents are London's most notorious serial killers. Against his family's wishes, Louis travels to Chicago to uncover the truth of their incarceration. Much to his dismay, his biological mother's Lawyer, Harry Styles, wants to take his case. Together, they work to uncover what really happened all those years ago, but perhaps more is revealed than they could've ever anticipated. Trapped in a whirlwind of portents and omens, Louis and Harry find themselves pitted against an enemy they'd not foreseen.

20) Where I Burn To Be | Explicit | 143,346 words

There were very few people who managed to get under Louis’ skin as effortlessly as Harry had, and even fewer who had done it in only a day and a half. It was quite an accomplishment, really. They’d only interacted a handful of times and yet Louis had the insatiable desire to slam the locker into that frustratingly well-defined face that never seemed to hold any expressions other than contempt and arrogance. “That’s right. I do own the skies. And you wanna know why?” he sneered. Without his boots on, Louis was a fair bit shorter than Harry, his eyes pretty much level with Harry’s chin and his socked toes bumping into the boots of the other man, close enough that Louis could make out the tiny scar on Harry’s brow and the individual shades of emerald in his irises. He was handsome, but that only made Louis hate him more. Heart thumping heavily against his sternum and his hands balled into fists, Louis lifted his chin defiantly and plastered a coldhearted smirk across his lips. “Because I’m the best goddamn pilot here.”

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[epicfranb]

Fuck it I'm not even rereading this. Here you go

Doc hired Etho, a skilled (probably) assassin to kill two of his most hated hermits: Keralis and Bdubs. And, after a long and fierce battle with Keralis that no one ended up winning, Etho wiped the layer of sweat from his forehead and said "Next one's gonna have to wait."

Does he even need to fight Keralis again? Hopefully, the fact that the fight took place is enough. After all, Doc's main goal is to scare them, isn't it? Etho and Doc go way back, so the guess probably has some truth to it.

Fixing up the gear after a long fight like this is a pain though. His sword needs sharping, the bow probably needs replacing, and his armor is... Well, everything could be in a better shape had Etho thought of a plan beyond "spam crossbows, then do whatever". His anvil aim could use some training, and his crossbow machine gun design could be improved. But it's better off in the hands of a more skilled player anyway.

Etho thinks he is quite a skilled player. But not in terms of fighting, no-no. Someone else could take the lead, someone more experienced – Etho's happy enough devising a plan and preparing the gear. Fighting isn't his forte.

Assassinating Bdubs is gonna need a better plan than this. If he succeeds in at least one of the hits, Doc will be happy enough (to pay him). But, unlike Keralis, Bdubs is... Too easy to kill. Pathetically so. It's just going to be boring. He needs a better plan than this.

Fixing armor was a job so usual and monotone to Etho, that it was easy to space out and lose himself in thoughts, and then wake up to a set of fully repaired gear. Normally, he would get some music on, but he kind of forgot about it before he spaced out, thinking about...

Yes, him again. Bdubs.

That man had an annoying habit of occupying all of the space within Etho's head. And, Bdubs himself doesn't do it directly, but Etho blames him anyway, because he knows it'd make him mad.

Bdubs has a funny voice. Every time he speaks, he voices his thoughts in such a strange manner, using some of the strangest vocabulary, interspersed with his "patented" "Bdubs noises". His speech patterns make no sense, the words never quite come out right, he's loud, he's boisterous, he's hilarious, and he's very, very talkative. Man has so many ideas and thoughts running through his head at all times, and he needs to get ALL of them out, to the point where he's been talking for hours, jumping from topic to topic, from idea to idea, and if he isn't stopped, he gets his throat killed. And a lot of the times, his throat does get killed after talking to Etho, because the other spaces out or falls asleep, as if Bdubs's voice is a lullaby to him.

Even now, one swing forth, one swing back, Etho's hands move on their own, the only sound in his head is a replay of Bdubs's voice, saying gibberish. It's like a catchy song that's been stuck in your head, you may not remember the lyrics, but you're enjoying the general sound of it. And Etho enjoyed his imaginary Bdubs singing to him. He has such a beautiful voice.

Helmet done, now onto the wings.

Honestly, it's appalling how different Etho and Bdubs are, even in the small things. Like, taste in food as an example. Etho's first impression of Bdubs was that he's the same sweet tooth that he is; turns out, it's quite the opposite. Bdubs doesn't put any sugar in his morning drinks, and he's a fan of green tea, which Etho only tolerates. He also likes bitter chocolate, and Etho thought those kinds of people only exist in myths... Oh, and he likes raisins. What a weird guy.

Their sleep schedules are so different, that at the rare occasions they've lived together, they barely ever saw each other. Bdubs goes to sleep early, and, despite taking his sweet time getting out of bed, he gets up early, too. A real morning bird with a solid schedule, in contrast to Etho, who stays up all night, working when no one and nothing is around to bother him – and gets up whenever. Sometimes he woke up first, and took his chance to prank Bdubs; other times he wasn't so lucky, and got pranked back. It was a fun back-and-forth while it lasted, but now Etho has the advantage of knowing Bdubs's exact sleep schedule, which Bdubs can't brag about – Etho's schedule is too chaotic. Those games are always fun.

With all the holes in the wings patched up, leggings are next.

Etho recalled his surprise when Bdubs came to him, all those years ago, and with eyes beaming of excitement, exclaimed: "Teach me how to fight!" Etho was never more than decent at fighting, but Bdubs seemed to be so caught up in his idealized version of Etho, that he thought it'd be better to ask him, and not someone who had actual skill. At least, that's what Etho thought at the time.

It was never about the fighting, no. It was never about swords, nor was it about bows or armor – it was about admiration. Bdubs admired Etho, and wanted to be closer to him. No, not in his skill – although, Bdubs admitted, that too – it was just about spending time together. The warmth of the other's skin on his hands, guiding him, on his torso, teaching him, his voice so close like it's reverberating in his heart, and his breath tickling his neck from behind... At least that's what Etho imagined Bdubs felt. Back then, he couldn't put his finger on why Bdubs shivered and blushed so often during their trainings, but, thinking about it now, it made some sense.

Swords clashing against one another, bodies in perfect sync, moving one after the other, shifting their feet in the same rhythm they got adjusted to – it was more like a dance than it was fencing. Sometimes, all of the competitiveness between the two would fade, and they were moments away from throwing their swords on the ground and taking each other's hands, wrap their arms around the other, to guide him somewhere else, in the same dance, same rhythm, but with much different implications. They regretted only a little bit that they never ended up getting into dance.

It was a nice memory, but Etho was somewhat bothered by his cheeks getting hotter. His entire body got hotter, in fact. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his hands shook slightly.

It seems that it's time for a rest, Etho thought. He still had his boots to repair, but they could wait. He'll be gone only a little while.

For now, maybe he can think about a plan to kill Bdubs... Kill Bdubs, huh. Normally that'd sound quite tempting, but he wasn't really in the mood for any killing now. Getting soft, Etho chuckled to himself. But being soft felt kind of nice once in a while.

If I don't want to kill him, Etho thought as he got into the kitchen – if you could call it that, – maybe I'll find a way to make him die, and me not have to see it. That meant a trap, and, thankfully, Etho had an extensive catalogue of traps permanently in his head. Some of them more obvious, others – devilishly hidden, and whichever one he chose depended on what would get a funnier reaction. In chat, at least. Or in a later conversation.

But nothing really felt right. Etho cracked an egg – fill his base with chickens? no, that won't kill him. Entity cramming maybe? Etho whisked some dough – drowning is a good idea. But it's long, he can get out. And it's painful. Since when was Etho hesitant about a trap being painful? Etho put the cake in the oven –– Wait, cake?

Etho crouched in front of the oven, taking a curious look inside – sure enough, that is a cake. When did he make a cake? Why did he make a cake?

Etho has a pretty strong grasp on his own mind, but even that becomes a mystery when Bdubs is involved.

If the cake was meant to be a trap, it was a bad one. He didn't even put any poison in it! The frosting is now finished too, and that doesn't have any poison either... Unless Etho adds it. Which he doesn't. Whether he forgot, or just didn't want to, he didn't really know. Looking for the right poison, or making it from scratch, was a hassle, and Etho was too lazy to deal with that.

Besides, his mouth watered at his own cake. It was his sugary masterpiece, and he was itching to take a nice big bite off of it... But he held back. This cake is for Bdubs. Once he figures out how to make it into a trap.

Will Bdubs even want to eat such a sweet cake? Etho's mind wandered somewhere else while baking it, so he had no idea how much sugar he actually put into it. Knowing himself and his taste buds, it was probably... Way too much for Bdubs to handle. Maybe the excess sugar can kill him. Yeah, that'll do.

Etho rummaged around his storage system to find a nice big box and some wrapping paper with heart patterns to wrap the cake into. Maybe the heart patterns were excessive – Etho swore he had other types of patterns somewhere – but he couldn't find anything else, and wasn't bothered to. The cake neatly packaged, Etho grabbed his freshly restocked redstone box and flew off in the direction of Bdubs's base.

Etho usually thinks. He thinks about what he's gonna do next, even when he does something on a whim, he thinks first. How am I gonna do it? What are the steps? What am I going to need? His mind was in a haze as he flew, as if locked out of his own head, only able to peek through the bars, and the only thing left of his brain was an enormous screen with just images of Bdubs on it. This was getting ridiculous, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. The thoughts felt nice.

Bdubs wasn't online, thankfully, so setting up a trap didn't require any stealth ninja moves. Etho didn't even try to hide that it was a trap: the gift box was sitting right on top of an observer, ready to trigger it. There was nothing under it but a dispenser – what was in it? a damage potion? lava? exactly 24 boats to entity cram him (forget that you can't fit 24 boats in one dispenser)? Well, Bdubs is going to have to find out himself. The joy of discovery, and all. Etho's heart raced, despite knowing Bdubs isn't here to catch him in the act; he felt hot all over, despite Bdubs's biome being cooler than his; and his cheeks hurt from smiling, even though nothing happened yet. There was no rational reason for any of those body reactions to occur; and yet, they did. A human's body is hardly ever rational, but Etho found comfort in knowing what causes which reactions, and he was clueless about his current state. He guessed that he was just really looking forward to the prank working... I mean, what prank? It's a death trap! Totally!...

***

Etho had completely forgotten about the trap, when his communicator buzzed in his pocket. All of the gear repaired, and all the hitman matters taken care of, he has managed to distract himself from thinking about his... Friend, and get to work. However, the friend demanded attention, and who was Etho to decline him that attention? In his mind, a picture of an excited dog replaced Bdubs for a second, prompting a sudden outburst of laughter from Etho, which, he was pretty sure, could be heard even from Xisuma's base.

Etho took the familiar route through the Nether to Bdubs's base. He circled above it for a second, looking for the town's proud owner – he spotted him right next to his starter house (made of diorite, of course), and landed right behind him, scaring him to death.

"What are ya doin' sneakin' up behind me like that, huh?!" He fumed, stamping his feet all over the place. "What are you, role-playin' a ninja?!"

"Some people do call me a little bit of a ninja." Etho shrugged, prompting a scowl from Bdubs. "Anyway, whatcha got there? A cake?"

Behind him, the cake was sitting on the observer like on a table, unwrapped, with a small piece cut out of it. Bdubs probably checked it for poison; or maybe he couldn't eat the rest because it was too sweet. Either way, same thing, really.

"Aww, dontcha pretend like you don't know what it is!" Bdubs sang proudly like he just solved the world's hardest riddle; Etho couldn't help but smile, giving himself away. "Yeah, I knew it! It's yours! I know how you bake your cakes, you won't fool me!"

"Did I poison you with sweetness?" Etho asked through laughter.

"I'd rather not say what I did with the piece that I put in my mouth." Bdubs nodded behind him, in the direction of the river. Ah, so it was that sweet.

"Awwww, you spat out my cake? That I baked for you, with such love and care?"

"Yes, but I don't want to do it with the rest, so you're here to get rid of it." Bdubs walked up to the cake and shifted it around, sending a short pulse down. The dispenser didn't fire, meaning Bdubs saw the message.

"You mean you aren't going to eat it." Etho sobbed, hugging his arms. "Welp, more left for me!" He smiled.

"Great! Cuz I physically can't eat it!" Bdubs laughed.

He brought Etho a chair, a plate and a spoon, some tea (three spoons of sugar, as usual) and even a tablecloth to turn the observer into a real table (that ticks sometimes). Etho dug in immediately – he'd completely forgotten he hasn't eaten anything since that battle with Keralis. And oh was the cake sweet. Too sweet even for Etho, but he enjoyed it. Bdubs watched him enjoy the dessert, sipping his own tea, with a wide smile on his face.

"Didn't know you enjoyed watching people eat." Etho commented.

"Nope, just you."

"That's weird."

"You're weird, consuming that amount of sugar and not dying." Bdubs chuckled, but kept smiling. He was rather calm – calmer than Etho expected right after a prank.

The warm smile would get imprinted in his mind forever, Etho felt. There was just too much fondness, too much affection in it, that his skin started burning again.

Bdubs took the cherry from the top of the cake, closed one eye and put a cherry in front of the other: "You're as red as this cherry right now." He didn't even let Etho react, before putting the berry into his mouth. Etho tried not to think about the implications of that. "Come on now, what happened? What are you getting flustered for?" He teased.

Etho looked away – tried to, Bdubs followed his gaze – and put on his mask, even though he still had cake left on his plate. That didn't help hiding his rosy cheeks, and now ears too. Etho gave up trying to guess why his body was doing it at that point. He just didn't want Bdubs seeing him like this.

"Ay, you didn't finish your slice!" Bdubs laughed. "Sorry I took your cherry, but it the only edible thing on it."

"It's fine, I'm just gonna take the rest home," Etho said, attempting to appear collected, but regretted it immediately: his voice cracked in the most pathetic way possible.

Bdubs burst out, leaning on the observer for support, sending a few ticks again. The corners of his eyes teared up, but at least his face was now all red too, so Etho wasn't the only one. It was hardly comforting.

"Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't laugh! I shouldn't...!" He wheezed. Etho was ready to just take the cake and fly away in embarrassment, but the cake needed to be put in a box first – doing it now would only make the situation more awkward. Etho believed he could endure it. "Sorry–" Bdubs kept apologizing, "Know what? Next time, c'mere, and let's bake an actually edible cake together. Sound good?"

Etho sat still for a second, eyes wandering in the forest afar. They could bake a cake together, a cake that both of them could enjoy.

"That... Sounds good." Etho uttered from under his breath. It did sound good. Sweet, even.

"Then it's a deal!" Bdubs clapped his hands together. They arranged a time, he helped Etho pack the cake back up, and then it was time to say goodbyes.

Just as Etho was about to take off, Bdubs pulled his sleeve – and then pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around his torso in a sudden embrace. Etho instinctively put his arms on Bdubs's back, resting his head on his messy hair that tickled his nose. Etho could stay like this forever – or if not forever, then for a long time. But Bdubs let him go, and then they needed to go. Etho hastily took out his rockets and boosted off into the sky, to not let Bdubs see his face again.

Bdubs yelled after him:

"You have a good day as well!..."

Etho felt warm.