#of what the archives crew looks like

[ceaselessims]

this may be an unpopular opinion but i hope tma never gets a visual adaptation

[soupdwelling]

lichtenberg moment

[iiiumihottie]

[Image descriptions available in alt text and under the cut.]

first batch of my character portraits from @late-to-the-magnus-archives' fic This Dark Thing That Sleeps In Me :D the character designs in this fic were so over the top and so! fun to draw! go check it out! second batch

[ID 1: A drawing of Martin from The Magnus Archives. He has a determined look, with one hand in a fist above his waist and the other clutching a dark book. He has glasses with green circle rims and wears gothic historical clothing, such as a long coat and knee-high boots. He is a fat man with light skin and short, ginger hair. End ID.]

[ID 2: A drawing of Mike Crew from The Magnus Archives. He is crossing his arms witha smirk on his face. He wears a lightly colored, loose shirt with a high collar that is unbuttoned until halfway down to his navel, as well as grey shorts and white boots. He has short, white hair, light skin, and a white lichtenberg scar running up the side of his chest up into his chin. End ID.]

[ID 3: A drawing of Sasha from The Magnus Archives. She taps her chin with a gleeful expression on her face, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. She wears a long white coat and black gloves reminiscent of a mad scientiest, and a bronze contraption on her head with multiple different lenses and arms to move those lenses around. Sasha has dark skin and dark brown kinky hair tied back messily in a bun. End ID.]

[sevenines]

i did not know about the organic requirement.. is that in one of the books

ok pause i thought it was a confirmed fact but looking around it never actually gets said. closest thing is when peridot says "life doesn't start in a kindergarten, it ends here" in back to the kindergarten implying all kindergartens remove life maybe?

pearl also says gems “suck the life right out of the ground” in keeping it together, but here she’s referring to earth production specifically, so it can’t be ruled out 100%.

[phynoma]

Since I saw an artist's rendition of Jon as a ginger I can't get it out of my head. It's perfect. Jon as a scraggly sad ginger. Martin is a fat British Indian man. Tim has Central Asian ancestry. Melanie is tiny and Swedish. Basira's family is from France. Sasha is chubby and Black. Elias is still just white middle aged management. Georgie is unidentifiably mixed race with gorgeous black hair. Daisy is literally anything but blonde

Please I'm begging you I need VARIETY

[monstersholygrail]

Alien bf never knew there was even more love and affection to behold than what you had shown him and what he’s seen in the data archives found on their ships computers. But ever since he discovered sex and what it felt like to be so deeply connected to you he had turned into a fiend.

If you thought he was taking up all your time before, you literally cannot take a breath without him sliding up behind you and gathering you in his giant arms. Picking up your plush body with ease and molding it against his hard frame.

He carries you everywhere to the point where you often forget the last time your feet have touched the ground. The rest of your crew looks over at you in pity but you honestly can’t find it in yourself to complain. He views you as his mate, it only makes sense to want to do these things for you.

You can’t even delude yourself into thinking it’s innocent anymore. He knows what he’s doing, especially since he was caught watching porn with a hand around his cock. Moaning your name loud enough for someone to think he was calling for help. And he loves it. Making you squirm as he shamelessly feels you up. Soft chirps leaving him as he noses at your cute blush.

But his favorite noises from you come when he’s gotten six or seven orgasms out of your pretty cunt. Making a total mess of his throbbing cock that’s been wrecking you for hours. Fucking you stupid to the point where you forget your own language and start letting out the familiar clicks of his species.

His clawed fingers curl around your waist, using you like a fleshlight as he slams back down on his cock at a brutal pace. Meeting his own thrusts to hammer up into you even harder. Those lovely clicks that sing your pleasure pierce the air and your pussy pulses around his thick girth.

It brings him more satisfaction than he can express. Above all he relishes in the fact that there’s no doubt by now that your crew knows what’s going on in just the next wing of the ship. That’s right. You’re taken and no human cock could ever compare to what he can give you.

“Louder, sweet mate. L-let them, unngh, let them hear how good I make you feel. Need them to know you’re mine,” he growls, his cock twitching inside you and hitting that spot that has you seeing stars.

You cry out loudly, not wanting to admit how good his possession over you feels. Now that you know it’s intentional it makes it all a million times hotter. You’d be embarrassed by the loud squelch that echos with each thrust if you weren’t so unbearably needy, even after coming so much already.

The coil in your belly tightens so hard you fear you’re about to burst. And the second it snaps your releasing streams of your orgasm all over your Alien bf’s huge lap, soaking his lower half entirely. He only lasts for a few more thrusts before he’s burying himself inside you and splashing buckets of cum into your eager cunt.

He keeps you firmly on his lap, your bodies still deeply joined long after he grows soft again. Both of you panting heavily. His breath ghosts across your burning skin as he nuzzles into you, showing no signs of letting go any time soon.

It won’t take much to get him going again. So you take advantage of the break for as long as you can. Trying to ignore the way your pussy flutters as if trying to get him hard again. You can’t control it, he’s turned you into as much of a sex fiend as he is.

Reaching behind you, you brush your hand against your bfs large cheek until you’re weaving your fingers in his long silky hair. A deep purr rumbles from his chest and he leans contently into your touch.

“You’ve gotten pretty good at this whole human intimacy thing. Is there anything else you want to learn?” You ask teasingly, every inch of your body humming with satisfaction.

But of course he takes your words seriously. Perhaps humor will be next up on the list of lessons to get through. Something to think about perhaps when his cock isn’t creating a bulge in your soft belly.

“I wish to learn everything… so long as it’s you teaching it to me, my mate.”

Though all thoughts of lessons and teachings fly out the window when you feel his long thick fingers slowly making their way down to your swollen puffy clit. That he finds with ease by the way. Your bf already growing needy for you again.

[robolvrr]

f-r-e-a-k !‿⁠✷｡✧

lost light members react to human porn (and develop some preferences of their own.)

ft. skids! megatron! rodimus! swerve! ultra magnus!

nsfw under the cut.

rodimus prime - top-five ranked

when he first heard actual, genuine human content had reached aboard his ship, he had quickly formed a half-assed meeting to announce that he, of course, being captain and all should review with ultra magnus.. and perhaps rewind too, before dispersing it out to the crew.

of course when ultra magnus expressed his surprise at this new leaf turned, eager to scour through intergalactic protocol he simply let one word out the other audial and made some grave, grammatical errors to distract the mech and let the captain do his own decision making.

he spends a lot of time nitpicking. he doesn't like movies as much so he reserves those to swerve nor does he care too much about books.

a functioning computer however....

he's bored. and curious. two demons that never dwell well together in the same room.

clearing browser history? never heard of that!

good thing the previous owner has lots of bookmarks, because he finds it infinitely easier to sift through links there than carefully type.

"porn...hub? what's that? must be some kinda uh.. uhhh... uh."

cue the fan whirring. he's hunched over and slack jawed, staring at the frankly color-clashing archive and almost pushing himself away when the cursor hovers over a video - and the humans in it start moving.

clicked the first video with a bold "#1 ranked". he really shouldn't. he really, really should just toss this tempting contraband out the nearest garbage disposal.

"unhh! harder! haaarder! ♡"

he's focused hard on the spike - cock, he learns, or dick, humans got lots of funny terms - ruts rough into you, forcing you to melt forward and squeak through sheets.

the loud, exaggerated moans make him pitifully decide otherwise. imagine him, all weak in the knees, sliding down to sit as he watches transfixed.

flesh on flesh hitting sounds a lot better when it's this and not fighting.

sooner or later, he's huffing into his servo, jacking off his spike and squeezing the tip so rough he's almost jealous seeing you bouncing away. you'd be so, so fragging soft. he can imagine squeezing your limbs and twisting you around to his liking.

overloads fast. he's almost ashamed enough to be embarrassed.

now? can't reach his climaxes unless there's some raunchy, wet-coated squeals in his memory banks. doesn't bother searching up anything because he doesn't have the patience to cultivate. you just happen to be at the top so he gladly sticks watching your holes get sticky any cycle.

skids - playboy bunny

"oh for prime's sake, chromedome don't make me feel like i'm trading for somethin' illegal."

won a "mystery stash" from a late night gamble. of course, not all of rodimus's finds stayed quiet.

he isn't sure why it's such a big deal. the cardboard box which spills open easily under a digit's care isn't filled with weaponry or bombs.

it's almost funny, this giant picking up a magazine in a pinch, helm tilted and keeping it an arm's distance away like the pages might bite.

he looks at the front cover for a long, long time.

his processor isn't catching up. then he squints. gets reaaaaal close.

there's you! all dolled up, as the humans would say. except you're really not, because half of your squishy aft is out, and your servos are covering up your chest but aren't doing a good job.

neither is the bright, blue bow christened at your pelvic area, where he realizes with a jolt is lacking any modesty panels of any kind.

flips a page. oh, it's you again. curved over a lounge. cheekily spreading yourself with a... gathering of lace twisted around your frame.

another one. you got something round in your mouth. he looks carefully at your lips.

and then he's flipping through all of it, and digging into the box and oh, he's found a jackpot because it's all you.

now he understands why it's got the markered "collectors items" on the side. he doesn't question too much when he spits lubricant down onto his spike. dedicated some of that cotton candy gossamer all over your february edition of playboy in approval.

megatron - classic erotica

a true mech of literature. now, unlike many of the lost light, he's had his run in with humanity before. not that he particularly got or wanted to enjoy their culture back then.

though when he did find his way back onto a possible path of redemption, he did indulge once upon a time.

at his spark, he's a poet. a linguist. enjoyer of golden age, art and craftsmanship.

earthen literature has its.. moments. he reads novellas and lost to the history manuscripts, plays, all of which have almost all been uploaded to more convenient means as upkeep for the paper is a pain.

however, he has found one book. a funny looking book, with a funny looking cover.

he observes, rigidly, the scandalous embrace of what he assumed to be the characters, how clothing lacked in areas it shouldn't and skin was almost.. glistening. "seven nights of passion." a chuff left his dermas.

ah, to pit with it. why not?

megatron finds himself slowly involved with the chapters despite the comedy of its advertisement. the writer, you, no doubt under a penname, push development shockingly far.. for a human.

and the intimacy? interfacing? so descriptive. while he has not seen what he is reviewing, he can imagine it. images of sweaty bodies, grinding and yearning and crying.

cybertronians have no reason or function to. the thought of a human, pushed to the brink overloaded with stimulation is... stimulating.

it is a shame when it comes to an end but he might in his free-time peruse for more. leaves his plating warm and intake dry.

the authors note suggests that your inspiration drives from personal experience.

his ... array fizzles at that. fascinating.

swerve - r-rated movie night

"wowza. that's hh. haha. woah! they all do that.. ?"

first movie he flipped onto the projector was supposed to be an "action and feel-good film with hints of romance, angst and sci-fi elements."

not even halfway through, you, the imaginary captain of the imaginary "roman's ravager" have your uniform shimmied down to your ankles, mouth mashing against your supposed rival, who everyone has been heckling for the past forty-five minutes.

some of the mechs cheer, other grumble and argue to skip, others squirm and grimace. swerve watched you push the other down, head tilting back as the camera zooms to your face.

"it's just acting, ya' degenerates, stop acting like protoforms!"

it isn't until he feels a servo smack upside his helm that he starts fumbling for the remote. too much noise but now he's getting a comm from mags asking about what the rackets for so! fast forward he goes.

at 1x.

while the chaos starts to settle, he peeks between digits. catches glimpses of your open mouth. the goosebumps down your chest. how you shake at the insinuation that someone is between your legs, servicing.

slag. when's the last time he's even played with his valve?

movie night was a hit regardless of the commotion. he has to clean up after, which thankfully didn't result in any expelled energon or skid-marks.

that also means he's alone. alone, in his bar. all by himself, staring at the rest of the discs with your pictures on the front, credits humming in the background.

it'll be good for the economy. (all of it is pirated.)

maybe it's for the best. because now, he's realizing you really are a great actor, in lots of different genres, able to adapt and really grab his attention.

it's not as if his spark pulses seeing you in costumes, or using that soft voice you do in all your roles when you make a point.

not like he's riding his digits and crunching into a fist when you're running on the beach, sand dappled and leaving little to imagination.

ends up on his back, charged up and shaking. hurts to speak, to move or to dab up the puddle of transfluid, laughing deliriously when his panels are even too much effort to close.

ultra magnus - audio praise

"you're doing such a good job. you're perfect. you know that, right? yes you do, so good for me."

when he first heard you, he damn near crushes the auditory device and full-blown shudders in the confines of his hab. he's sputtering, optics wide and there's a million reasons he should report this to rodimus and question just what he's given him.

"to help ya uh... research? take the edge off pal."

half-contemplates storming back to the bridge himself if it weren't for your sugar-coated mumbles still coming through the unpaused recording.

you'd think he was dealing with a ticking blast with how he warily handles the device, gruffly spitting out curses that he'd otherwise never allow in crew vicinity.

"i want you to reward yourself. you earned it, honey. can you do that for me? here, listen."

to his horror - and crumbling interest - a slick cacophony of sound rattles in his helm. there's panting, a shift of material that he assumes is tangled around you and frag, he's able to think up you and a thousand faces.

what's worse? is he's hypnotized. you don't demand. you coo to him, just loud enough to let him know you'd be broken too. if he let himself let down that wall, just for the twenty minutes you sing in his audials, he'll know it's done with you just as weak.

"g—gooood job ahhhh!" that does it. ultra magnus groans, shutting off his optics entirely. his large servo feels up along his frame as you suggest.

"i wish you were here. hah.. mmn! could see me. see me fucking myself to you. let you kiss me. you deserve it, sweetie. deserve me on you."

magnus and the sobbed growl to his motors reminds him just how lonely he's felt. always monitoring. always stressed. hearing the spit collect at your throat as your commands grow hoarse makes you feel real.

would you... would you kiss him? would you let him pick you up, rest you flat on his servo and have his glossa lap up your want?

he towers over nearly all. having a partner so much smaller, tinier than even an minibot, shouldn't run up a charge but it does.

he overloads when he's sticking digits near the casing of his spark, ignoring the spurts of pre sizzling down his thighs.

"w-was that as fun.. for you as it was for me?"

dazedly falls onto his berth. this isn't leaving his dermas unless he's had a drink.

a/n : a little haha funny idea i had. there's just something so funny thinking of these giant old robots realizing just how much porn is out there.

[applecidersstuff]

Things different pjoverse characters had done/had happen to them, with little to no context:

Piper mistook Clarrise for a guy and thought ‘he’ was trying to hit on Drew(she’s 12).

Annabeth and Percy were laughing hysterically over it for 10 minutes straight before they could explain anything to her.

Clarrise and Will stole baby Chuck on multiple occasions.

Clarrise is a token ‘responsible adult in the eyes of most mortal parents of younger demigods.

Mortals with no connection to the supernatural look at her like she’s about to molest their kids and brutally murder their families.

All of the Argo || crew jump up in their seats whenever they hear Clarrise yelling at someone.

Percy and Annabeth did the same thing when they heard Coach Hedge yelling for the first time.

Will, Drew and Clarrise occasionally have true crime watching parties.

In the Myth!Ares AU, Aphrodite has kidnapped Clarrise, as she puts it ‘to bond’.

After that they ended up in jail.

Drew called Piper ‘Silena’ once, the same way you’d call someone ‘dad’ or ‘mom’ accidentally, she didn’t speak to her for a week and just cried because she couldn’t forgive herself for replacing her sister.

Clarrise’s smirk is - chin up, look down at you and smile while curling the sides of her mouth down

Drew’s smirk is - chin down, look up at you, grin and wrinkle her nose.

(I have no idea why you need this info, it’s just how i picture their dynamic.)

Ares and Athena cabins have an archive of everything they know about everyone at camp, that they use for planning of capture the flag.

They have a separate archive for hunters of Artemis.

Percy and Clarrise train together a lot. Percy says it’s because he wants to beat her up.

In actuality it’s because at this point Clarrise is the only person who can beat Percy in combat. And they’re the only people, they can train with, using their full range of abilities and power.

Clarrise threw what remained of her helmet into the attic of the Big House after the battle of Manhattan, she now wears none or on rare occasions takes one that belonged to Silena.

Silena’s helmet is covered with ornaments that she scratched onto it and filled in with silver.

Drew and Clarrise both say ‘don’t be mean’ whenever they hear the other talking to someone they have a tendency to be mean to.

Both of them picked that habit up from Silena.

Will once asked Clarrise and Drew to be ‘more ally’

Those two got offended that they ‘have to tone down their gay’

Will just wanted to introduce them to Nico, and needed them to look less judgmental so he wouldn’t think they’re homophonic.

Piper lashed out at Drew for doing something mean, while in Drew’s eyes it was her attempt to create a better relationship with her

[senascoop]

☁︎ . , JUST SO YOU KNOW , Y.JW !

PAIRING: boyfriend ! jungwon × girlfriend ! afab reader. SYNOPSIS: when you can't help but want everyone else to know that he's yours. GENRE: jealous girlfriend trope, drabble. WARNING(S): hickey (mentioned), jealous reader, not proofread. WORD COUNT: 587. [ARCHIVE]

Jungwon sits stiffly in his chair, trying to maintain a polite smile while the female idol leans a little too close for comfort. Her hand casually brushes his arm, and he shifts slightly, hoping to create some distance. His discomfort is evident in the way his fingers twitch nervously at his sides. The crew around them laughs, some whispering that the two of them look "so cute together."

“You two should date, honestly,” one of the stylists says with a playful nudge, completely unaware of how uncomfortable Jungwon feels.

The female idol, catching on, giggles and leans in closer, batting her eyelashes. “Should we?” she asks, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. She knows about you, but she’s choosing to ignore it. Her hand lingers on Jungwon’s shoulder, her fingers playing with the fabric of his jacket, as if testing his boundaries.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he forces a polite smile, swallowing down his frustration. “I’m already datin—” he starts, trying to assert his relationship, but before he can finish, the door to the room swings open.

You step in, your smile so sweet it could melt ice, but the fire in your eyes tells a different story. Without missing a beat, you stride over to Jungwon, effortlessly slipping your arm through his, your body pressing gently against his side. The tension in the room shifts immediately, and Jungwon’s entire posture relaxes at the sight of you.

“Oh? What were you saying?” you ask, your voice dripping with playful curiosity, eyes locking onto the stylist who had just suggested the ridiculous idea. You look so serene, like you hadn’t heard a word of what was said, but Jungwon knows better. Beneath your calm exterior is a storm.

The room falls silent. The stylists and crew exchange awkward glances, the female idol's face paling slightly as you shoot her a glance—sharp, protective.

“Ah... nothing... uh, are you Jungwon’s…” The stylist trails off, unsure of how to proceed under your intense gaze.

You turn to Jungwon, urging him with a tilt of your head to clear things up once and for all. His throat goes dry for a second, but then he nods, stepping up. “Yes,” he says, voice firm but slightly nervous under your watchful eye. “We're dating.”

You hum in approval, but your eyes glitter mischievously. “Oh, really? You didn’t tell them about this?” You feign innocence as your finger softly grazes the side of his neck, pulling down the collar just enough to reveal the faint purplish mark you’d left there earlier that day.

Jungwon’s cheeks flush a deep shade of pink, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His eyes dart between you and the now-silent crew, utterly embarrassed but also relieved to have you there. The rest of the room goes wide-eyed, a mix of shock and sudden realization flooding their expressions.

The female idol visibly stiffens, retracting her hand from Jungwon’s shoulder, now clearly outmatched. She clears her throat and forces a smile, taking a step back. “Oh… I see,” she mutters under her breath, trying to play it off coolly, but the damage is done.

You smirk slightly, giving her one last glance before turning back to Jungwon. Your hand squeezes his arm a bit tighter, possessive but loving. Jungwon finally breaks into a small, relieved smile, the tension from before melting away as he looks at you with gratitude.

Leaning closer to him, you murmur teasingly, “Next time, don’t make me have to do this, okay?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[daargraves]

Something that I'm very interested about is why and when the S1 archive crew joined the institute in the first place. I was planning for a fanfic and that made me looking through their wiki and reread the transcripts.

Jon and Tim are easy, both had been mentioned in the podcast.

Jon had mentioned being a researcher for 4 years by the time canon happened, which took place in 2015, which means he joined in 2011. As for the reason, well, A Guest for Mr. Spider. I don't think it was ever mentioned specifically but I think it's very clear that he wanted to know more about the Leitners.

Tim took a bit of thinking, in the "when". The incident of his brother took place in August, 2013. We can assume that mean he joined the institute around late 2013, because he left his publishing job to find out what happened to Danny. Which, I'm gonna be honest, surprised me when I first saw it.

Every fanfic I've ever read seems to make Tim already working in the institute when Jon joined, which is not true, Tim joined 2 years after Jon. I do understand the confusion, Tim and Sasha feels much closer to each other than Jon to either of them, so you would think they know each other for way longer than with Jon. I guess there's a possibility that Tim already knew Sasha before the institute and maybe she is the reason he knew it existed in the first place. Either way, it's a gripe for me now if anyone mentioned Tim being in the institute for longer than Jon.

Martin, we know why, he's a drop out that needs a job because of his mom. Elias most definitely knew that he lied on his CV and hired him anyway because no one will miss him and he can use him or something, perhaps even because he thought it would be interesting to put someone with a big secret to work in a place that was made for a god of getting secrets out of people. As for when, however, it was never mentioned. We can make a guess, he was mentioned to have seen a statement giver from 2009, so he's already work for the institute in 2009 at the latest, and judging by him being 29 in 2016, he dropped out in 2004. Meaning by the time he was transferred to the archive, he had worked for appoximately between 6-11 years. Which mean, also, he is potentially the one that worked in the institute the longest.

Now, we get to the one who we know nothing at all, Sasha. The only thing we know is that she at first worked in artefact storage for 3 months before transferring to research. She said she had been in academia for 10 years, but that doesn't necessarily mean she had been working at the institute for that long, because she said "I’ve been in academia" and not "I’ve been working here". Of course, it's up to interpretation. We know she knew Gertrude and had talked to her, but knowing Gertrude, this is probably in 2011, after Emma died. I do believe she most likely had been there for longer than Jon, since that could also made her more qualified for the Head Archivist position (if this is a normal job). My personal belief is she started working there around 2009/2010. For the "why"... Sasha never mentioned ever having an encounter before Michael, so that's probably not it. She most likely joined because it's a research job. She also mentioned she couldn't afford to quit after artefact storage, so she was probably also desperate for a job, just like Martin.

Then again, we all know how fucked the timeline is in TMA (looking at you, Jonny) so maybe the "when" are all completely incorrect, who knows!

┐(°∀°)┌

If anyone had any thoughts or corrections, feel free to share! - 💻

[artsninspo]

"Baby-Girl" - Rio X Reader

» next part

➨ rio's library - good girl nbc

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

Author's Note: The draft clear out continues. I know these characters aren't my usual subjects but Rio from Good Girls ... love to hate his mean ass. I think I may have a few more with him, let me know what you think 😊

Summary: It's your sister-in-law Ruby's 40th birthday so you come into town to show her and her friends a good time. Only you meet a flirty stranger who screams trouble in her house.

Word-Count: 957

Your step falters as you see the G-Wagon parked in front of yours. This is the furthest thing from the neighborhood you see luxury vehicles in. Not to mention it looks kitted out. You can't remember the last time you saw one of these around and wonder if maybe Stan rented it for Ruby’s 40th. But with all the money trouble they’ve been having it seems like an unlikely expense. Continuing to the door you knock three times. Stan doesn't answer, a stranger with a neck tattoo does. Hispanic, tall, dark hair, olive skin and dark eyes.

“Uh… is Ruby home?” you ask skeptical and the stranger steps back looking you over. He likes what he sees.

“Ruby, you didn't say you have a sister” the man calls and Ruby materializes from the corner looking nervous.

“You’re early” she smiles and it feels insincere when you see her two best friends in the house and wave. They too look uneasy.

“Thought I would get ready here instead” you explain wheeling your suitcase forward. “Oh, and Ruby’s my sister-in-law Stan, her husband is my brother” you explain. The man smirks again, his charm is infections but there's something infectious about it.

“Got it baby-girl” he nods.

“Don’t call me baby-girl, unless you’re gonna treat me like it” you smile flirting with the handsome stranger and the ladies give an audible gasp. You laugh a little at the wives crew’s reaction to a little flirting.

“Anyways Ruby, I’m gonna go get dressed and when I get back downstairs we’re leaving. You only turn forty once” you tell her running up the stairs to the bedroom. When your brother Stan suggested you take a trip to lighten things up you were reluctant at first. Beth isn’t Your favorite person despite being Rubys. But Ruby has been having a tough time and you decide to support however you can. Tonight’s theme is Vegas. You get on your showgirl jumpsuit and do a quick face before stepping into your heels. You head back down to find Beth and Mr. Neck tattoo in what looks like a heated conversation. Minding your own business you head to the kitchen without a word. You procure shot glasses and retrieve your special bottles from your suitcase, still chilled to perfection. You turn to see him standing alone in the doorway.

“Expensive bottles,” he comments.

“Who wants to celebrate with the cheap stuff?” You ask. He looks you over giving a satisfied smile and you smile impressed by his presence. 

“Ruby doesn’t seem like the type,” he shrugs, coming closer.

“Of course not she’s  sensible, they have kids and expenses” you say getting the bottle open.

“You don’t?” He asks and you smile.

“I don’t even know your name, you don’t get to know my business,” you comment.

“I’m Rio” he introduces, making you smile.

“No, that’s not your name. You don’t look Brazilian, so your mom named you something classic, religious” you say knowing people from your years of service work.

“You’re good,” he nods with a smirk.

“And your trouble. I know because you’re not sweating or stuttering around me like all of Stan’s other friends.” You confess.

“I'm not your brother's friend,” he responds, and you look him over again. It makes sense, he’s far too cool to be a friend of Stans.

“No?”

“Nah, Beth and I’s kids play soccer together,” he says smoothly.

“I’m sure you’re a hit with all the moms. I’d be bored of the Deanzies too” you confess pouring tequila into shot glasses and cutting the lime. Tequila before champagne is a surefire way to make sure these ladies have fun.

“You bartend?” he asks perceptively.

“Yup” You nod as Annie enters. Her outfit isn’t to theme and she takes a shot without waiting for Ruby.

“That’s like a $400 bottle of champagne” she says looking at the bottle with watery eyes.

“For Ruby” you justify.

“Who spends that on booze!” she exclaims.

“A lot of people do,” you inform and she huffs.

“You spent four hundred dollars on champagne!” Ruby emerges.

“This guy who’s into me asked me what I wanted and I said a bottle of Ace because I knew I was coming here for a milestone. Why don’t you ladies stop being the IRS and relax” you snap as Beth emerges with a black duffle and hands it to Rio.

“What does he get in return?” Ruby asks unimpressed.

“For a bottle?” You scoff. “A thank you” you shrug.

“Must be the ass,” Annie says, making you laugh.

“It’s my job to know who’s generous. Stan! Nope, Dean well god bless him, I know girls that could get him to spend mortgage money. Annie, you had a good one” you deduce handing the ladies their drinks. Beth sends you a heated glance full of animosity. Rio chuckles seemingly amused.

“What about him?” Annie asks glaring at the tattooed visitor. He raises a brow with a smirk.

“Nope; and he’s got it too. He’s possessive so he’d probably cash out on his wife and kids. You know, as an ego thing. Might leave a good tip for his regulars. Not just anyone though.” You say throwing a shot back. “Am I right?” You ask and he smiles heading towards you, his cologne is intoxicating and expensive.

“She’s trouble Ruby” he says. “Nice meeting you baby-girl” he says reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash. He places it in your hands. “On me”. He walks out without a care in the world and you count five hundred dollars.

“Happy birthday Ruby!” You smile handing her the funds.

“You have to teach me how to do that” Annie remarks as Ruby and Beth look shocked.

Part Two

[aventurineswife]

Platonic request⭐️!

teen!reader whose like Jinx from Arcane with Dan heng, Boothill, Aventurine, Silverwolf, and Blade.(All separately)

I’d like to think that the characters just stumbled upon reader at some point and just ended up dragging them along with somehow.(Character casually picking them up as if they were some sad wet cat left in the rain)

Bonus points if you give us a Boothill being a girl dad moment btw.

Some Things Just Stick

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Blade x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Platonic Relationships, Found Family, Stray cat energy (Reader), Protective , Jinx (Arcane) like Reader, Banter & Humor, Hurt/Comfort Elements, Implications Of A Rough Past (Reader), Boothill being an accidental dad.

Warnings: Mild violence (mentions of fights, gunplay, and Blade being, well… Blade), Mentions of past trauma (Reader and characters), Implications of neglect/survival struggles (Reader), Boothill casually threatening someone with a gun (protective dad mode), Explosive tendencies (Reader is a little menace with engineering skills), Blade being emotionally unavailable but still taking care of Reader, Dan Heng internally sighing forever, Lots of sarcasm and playful threats.

A/N: I'm gonna let y’all know this is gonna be OOC because, while I'm writing this, I'm on episode 2 of season 1

[Part 1] | [Part 2]

Dan Heng did not sign up for this.

And by this, he meant the wild-eyed teenager currently sprawled out in the Archives, tinkering with something that absolutely did not belong to them.

"You’re going to break that," Dan Heng said flatly, watching as you poked at a delicate piece of Express technology with a screwdriver you had clearly stolen from the maintenance bay.

"That’s the fun part," you chirped, not even looking up. Your fingers twitched as you adjusted the wiring, blue sparks flying as you laughed, unbothered.

Dan Heng sighed, rubbing his temples. March and the Trailblazer just had to pick up a stray.

You had come aboard the Express by accident—a stowaway found shivering in a cargo bay during a pit stop. Your story had been vague, something about getting "bored" and "wanting an adventure" while heavily implying a past you didn’t want to talk about. March, of course, had immediately decided you were part of the crew now, while the Trailblazer had just shrugged and gone along with it. Dan Heng, however, was still questioning how exactly you had attached yourself to him.

At first, you had been like an untamed animal, skittish and unpredictable, yet stubbornly following him around the Express. Over time, though, you started listening when he told you not to mess with the train’s core systems. You learned to recognize his moods—when to push him, when to leave him be. Somehow, without meaning to, Dan Heng had ended up… responsible for you.

He sighed. "At least tell me what you're making."

You grinned up at him. "Boom."

Dan Heng’s blood ran cold. "Boom?"

"Boom!" You gestured to the mess of wires and circuits. "Just a little one. A harmless one. Probably. Maybe."

Dan Heng pinched the bridge of his nose. "No explosives on the Express."

You pouted but set the device down with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto your back. "You’re no fun."

"I am fun," he said, deadpan. "I just don’t enjoy unnecessary explosions in an enclosed space."

You grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. "Sooo, if I built something outside…?"

"Still no."

You groaned loudly, throwing an arm over your eyes. Dan Heng looked down at you—this stray cat of a person, chaotic and loud yet strangely endearing. Despite himself, he sighed and handed you a book from the shelf.

"Read this instead," he said. "It’s about engineering. No explosives."

You eyed him suspiciously before taking it. "…You really are trying to make me boring, huh?"

Dan Heng shook his head. "No. Just… less likely to blow yourself up."

Blade was used to blood. To violence. To the kind of suffering that never truly healed.

He was not used to… whatever this was.

"Stop staring at me like that," he muttered.

You didn’t. If anything, you leaned closer, peering up at him with unnerving curiosity. "You do blink, right? Like, I haven’t actually seen it happen, and I’m starting to think maybe you’re part statue—"

Blade exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the hilt of his sword. He should’ve just left you where he found you—half-starved, covered in soot, and scavenging in the ruins of some forgotten world. But something about the way you had laughed despite the wreckage around you had kept him from walking away.

"Why am I still here?" you asked suddenly, rocking back on your heels. "Like, not that I’m complaining, but you seem like the type to leave people behind."

He was that type. Had been, many times. Yet, for some reason, he had not left you.

"You’re useful," he said simply.

You snorted. "That’s a lie, but okay, edgelord."

Blade twitched. "Edgelord?"

You grinned at his reaction. "What, you don’t like nicknames? C’mon, you look like a guy who collects angsty monologues for fun."

Blade inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if summoning patience from the void itself. Maybe he should have left you behind. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn’t.

There was something about you—something reckless, something broken, something that reminded him of himself. He didn’t know why, but he had picked you up like a stray left out in the cold.

And despite everything, he hadn’t let you go.

Boothill had dealt with a lot of things in his life—gunfights, betrayals, bounty hunters, and enough explosions to last several lifetimes.

He had not, however, ever expected to end up with a kid hanging off his arm like an overgrown possum.

"You do know you can walk, right?" he drawled, glancing down at you as you clung to his mechanical arm, feet dangling in the air.

"Yeah, but this is more fun," you chirped, kicking your legs.

Boothill sighed dramatically but didn’t shake you off. He had found you during a raid on an IPC outpost—scrawny, wild-eyed, covered in soot but grinning like you had just pulled the greatest prank in the universe. You had latched onto him immediately, and for some reason, he had let you.

Now, here you were, an extra shadow at his side, jabbering a mile a minute while he tried to track down an IPC target.

"You ever not talk?" Boothill asked, adjusting his hat.

"Mm… nope."

"Figures."

You hummed, watching as he checked the sights on his revolver. "So, like, if you had a kid, would you be, like, a cool dad or a scary dad?"

Boothill blinked. "What kinda question is that?"

"An important one."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Guess I’d be both."

You grinned. "Yeah, I can see it. You’ve got ‘cool but terrifying’ vibes. Like, you’d let your kid get away with stuff, but if anyone else messed with them, you’d go full murder mode."

Boothill tilted his head, considering it. "Reckon you’re not wrong."

You smirked, still hanging onto his arm like a little gremlin. "Guess that makes you my scary cool dad now."

Boothill stared at you for a long moment before sighing, tipping his hat forward to hide the amused glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, kid. Guess it does."

Boothill had one golden rule—don’t mess with his own.

And right now, some lowlife was doing just that.

"Kid," he drawled, stepping in front of you as the thug sneered. "Y’wanna tell me why this fella’s lookin’ at you like that?"

You shrugged. "I may have stolen his gun parts."

Boothill sighed. "May?"

"Okay, definitely."

The thug growled, stepping closer. "You little—"

Boothill moved faster.

A single, precise gunshot rang out, and the thug froze as Boothill’s revolver hovered an inch from his face.

"Now, now," Boothill said lazily, "let’s not be rude to the kid."

You grinned from behind him, hands on your hips. "Told you I had a scary cool dad."

Boothill just sighed. "What am I gonna do with you, kid?"

[hummingbird24220]

With your love for Various strawhats x reader I feel like sex pollen/aphrodisiac could be right up your alley. Reader comes across a strange plant or takes a strange drink from someone shady either way they come back to the ship and they realize that they have very attractive crew mates.

(You could make a short series with a one shot for what ever strawhat you want if you don't wanna do that then Sanji is always a good choice <3)

Sorry it took so long!!!!!! Ive been working on it for a while and tried not to go smut

i really love this. so many drafts have been archived where the plot is 'tee hee sex tea - NOW FUCK' thank you for your request! slightly NSFW . Fem reader implied.

Pollinated

One Piece x Reader (Slightly NSFW)

You hadn’t meant to bring chaos back to the ship.

It was supposed to be a relaxing walk. Just you, the island breeze, the sound of the ocean, and some nice, exotic plants you definitely couldn’t identify but looked cute enough to poke.

A little fuzzy puffball plant caught your eye. You touched it — it exploded into a shimmering cloud of golden dust.

You sneezed. Thought nothing of it.

Big mistake.

—

You staggered back onto the Thousand Sunny an hour later, head feeling a little hot and weirdly floaty. Your skin tingled like you were sunburned — but it wasn’t painful. More like... sensitive. Everything around you felt too bright, too sharp, and oh god, was it hot out here or was that just you?

“(Y/N)! You’re back!” Luffy beamed at you, running over in that happy, bounce-on-his-heels way he always did. “Didja find any cool stuff?!”

You opened your mouth to respond.

And then you saw him.

Luffy’s grin was dazzling, and his tanned skin glowed in the sun, and you were suddenly, painfully aware of just how hot he looked in that open red vest, muscles flexing as he tugged his hat down cutely.

Your brain made a skreee noise and short-circuited.

“I—uh—" You blurted out, "Found something really nice. Very... very nice.”

Luffy tilted his head, confused but delighted. "Cool!"

Before you could say anything else humiliating, Sanji showed up with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a tray of drinks.

“Oi, (Y/N)-chan~ You look flushed. Sun too much for your sweet skin?” He crooned.

Your gaze dropped helplessly to the way his sleeves were rolled up, forearms on full display, veins tracing delicious lines down to his hands—

You made a tiny choking sound.

"Nope!" you squeaked. "Just thinking about... hard things. I mean! Working hard! I'm fine!"

Sanji blinked, heart in his eyes because you were being adorable (he thought), and offered you a glass.

You took it with trembling fingers and turned — only to see Zoro leaning against the mast, casually glugging water over his head, droplets trailing down his chest.

You were gone. Ruined. Defenseless.

"Hnnng," you whined out loud before you could stop yourself.

Everyone paused.

Nami looked at you. Robin looked at you. Franky, Usopp, and Brook looked at you.

Even Zoro turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

"Uhh... I think I’m getting a little sick," you croaked, practically vibrating with the effort not to stare at every beautiful, sweaty, shirtless crew mate in sight.

Chopper immediately jumped into doctor mode. "You're burning up!" He skittered over, worry in his big brown eyes. "Come on, let's get you inside! You might have a fever or sunstroke!"

"Y-yeah," you nodded quickly, squeezing your thighs together because even walking felt wrong. "Really burning up. Like a... like a fire. A raging inferno. So hot. So needy—"

"WHAT?" Sanji yelped, ears turning bright red.

"I mean NEEDY for water! Hydration! Ha ha!" you babbled, half laughing, half delirious. "Y'know, wet things—"

"OH MY GOD," Usopp muttered, face a mix of horror and second-hand embarrassment.

Chopper tugged your wrist urgently. "We need to get you cooled down right away!"

He dragged you toward the infirmary while you made increasingly less-sane comments.

"Bet the inside of the fridge feels so good," you muttered. "So cold and hard and—"

Chopper stopped in his tracks.

His ears twitched.

He slowly turned his head toward you, wide-eyed.

"Wait," he said slowly, blinking. "Did you... touch anything weird on the island?"

You nodded, dazed. "Pretty... gold plant. Smelled nice."

Chopper’s face drained of color.

"Sex pollen," he whispered.

You blinked, the words slowly swimming through your overheated brain.

"...Sex pollen...?" you echoed dreamily.

Chopper screamed.

"WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!!"

-

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SEX POLLEN?!” Usopp shrieked, voice cracking straight into panic.

Chopper frantically flipped through one of his emergency medical books, flipping pages so fast they blurred. "It’s a rare kind of plant! It releases a dust that affects your brain chemistry — increases attraction, lowers inhibitions — basically, it makes you... uh..." He coughed into his hoof. "Desperate."

Sanji dropped his cigarette in horror. “ARE YOU SAYING (Y/N)-CHAN IS—?!”

You, meanwhile, were sitting on the infirmary bed, swinging your legs idly, watching the chaos unfold with a blissed-out smile.

“They’re all so pretty," you sighed dreamily. "Like... like a buffet. A sexy buffet.”

“OH MY GOD,” Usopp cried again, hiding behind Franky.

Robin tilted her head, elegant as ever, a tiny smile on her lips. “How fascinating.”

Nami grabbed Chopper by the shoulders. “Is it dangerous?!”

“It’s not fatal!” Chopper squeaked. “But if they don’t... relieve the symptoms somehow, the fever could get worse!”

"Relieve the—" Zoro started, then froze. His eye twitched violently. “Nope. Nope. Not gonna ask.”

The room was a mess of rising voices and frantic movement. In the middle of it all, you were slowly sliding off the bed, your mind swimming in a haze of hot skin and pretty faces and very, very wrong but very, very good ideas.

You stumbled toward Zoro first, your brain latching onto the first big, strong thing it saw.

"You look so strong," you murmured, running your hand up his bicep.

Zoro seized up like you’d hit him with a paralysis spell. His entire body locked stiff. You could practically hear the alarm sirens going off in his head.

“Uhh—" he croaked, backing up so hard he hit the wall. "No touching! Bad! Bad touching!"

You giggled, heat radiating off you in waves. "You could throw me around a little," you suggested, way too eagerly. "Bet you could pin me real good—"

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF—!!" Sanji screamed, bodily grabbing you and dragging you away from Zoro like you were a ticking time bomb.

“Be GENTLE, you brute!!” Sanji cried, cradling you in his arms like a princess while simultaneously sweating buckets. “(Y/N)-chan is delicate and— and full of... dangerous urges right now!!!”

You looped your arms around Sanji’s neck lazily, staring up at him through lidded eyes. "You smell so good," you purred. "Like something I'd like to bite."

Sanji promptly exploded into flames.

"BACKUP, I NEED BACKUP," he wailed.

Luffy, watching all this with sparkling curiosity, casually slung an arm around your shoulders.

"Hey, (Y/N)! If you’re that hot, maybe we can dunk you in the ocean!" he chirped.

You turned your head slowly.

Stared at him.

Grinned.

“You could dunk me," you said, voice low and dangerous. "You could dunk me all night."

"LUFFY, NO," Chopper screamed.

"NO DUNKING," Nami screamed.

"NO ANYTHING," Zoro yelled.

Brook, from the doorway: "May I suggest a cold shower? Yohohoho!!"

Franky: "Or I could just blast 'em with a water cannon! SUPER idea!"

Robin just chuckled behind her hand, clearly enjoying every second.

Sanji set you down so fast you nearly fell over, wringing his hands like he’d touched a live wire.

"OKAY," Chopper barked, voice cracking into a command. "Nobody touch (Y/N)! No flirting! No sexy talk! NO NOTHING!!"

You pouted. "But I feel so good," you whined. "All you beautiful people... I’m like a microwave right now. Somebody needs to shove something in me before I explode."

Dead silence.

Usopp's soul left his body.

Zoro turned and walked straight into a wall.

Sanji fell to his knees, blood spraying from his nose.

Chopper looked like he was about to faint.

Robin was absolutely cackling now, hiding it behind a polite hand.

After a beat, Luffy — still holding onto your shoulder — leaned in and asked very innocently:

"Hey, (Y/N)... are you dying?"

You blinked at him, warmth flooding your cheeks.

"...Only inside," you whispered dramatically, swaying.

Chopper stuffed a thermometer into your mouth in a blind panic.

BEEP BEEP BEEP. Temperature: 103°F.

"OH MY GOD," Chopper shouted. "IT’S GETTING WORSE!"

-

Chopper was panicking.

The thermometer beeped wildly as he yanked it out of your mouth and fumbled through his first-aid kit like it might magically contain an antidote for horny.

“(Y/N)’s temperature is still rising!!" he barked. "If this keeps up, they’ll overheat! We have to act fast!”

"How do we fix it?!" Usopp wailed, clutching his head. "We can’t just... let them die sexy!!"

You, meanwhile, were swaying dangerously, your eyes glassy, staring at anything and everything that moved.

No one was safe.

Not even Brook.

You stared at him dreamily.

"Hey, Brook..." you purred, voice thick with heat, "If you had skin, you'd be so handsome. Bet you'd have real good... bone structure."

Brook straightened his suit jacket awkwardly. "Yohoho... thank you?" He visibly struggled for a second. "May I see your p-p-panties?" he blurted out automatically.

Sanji punched him so hard he went flying off the deck.

"NOT NOW, YOU DAMN SKELETON!" Sanji roared.

You just smiled hazily after Brook's airborne form. "Take me with you..." you sighed wistfully.

—

Chopper ordered a cold water operation immediately.

Franky grabbed a hose and started spraying water at you.

It worked about as well as setting a horny cat on fire.

You moaned.

Loudly.

Like a scene.

Everyone froze.

Water dripped down your clothes, your hair slick against your cheeks, and you tipped your head back with a sinful noise that should not have come out of you.

"Hnnnngh, cold and wet all over—"

"TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF!!" Nami shrieked, slapping the hose out of Franky's hand.

You blinked innocently, water running down your body, clinging to your clothes in all the wrong places.

Sanji fainted.

Zoro headbutted the mast just to distract himself.

Usopp hid behind a barrel and started praying.

Robin, for the first time in her life, actually visibly stiffened.

You turned to her, pupils blown wide.

"Robin," you sighed. "You're so... refined. So elegant. So—so... dominantly soft."

Robin smiled, but even she looked a tiny bit flustered. "My, what a sweet compliment."

You reached for her.

Nami tackled you to the ground before you could touch the scholar.

"DON'T CORRUPT ROBIN," she yelled, sitting on your chest to pin you.

Your hands instinctively grabbed her thighs for balance, squeezing her in ways that made everyone around you freeze again.

You looked up at her from your pinned position and purred, "You’re so strong. Maybe you should sit on me a little harder, Navigator~"

Nami flushed bright red, looking like she'd seen God and hated it.

She scrambled off you like you were made of lava.

"NOPE!!" she yelped. "YOU'RE BEYOND SAVING!!"

You just laid there on the deck, panting softly, eyes lidded.

The sunlight haloed your figure, water still dripping from your hair, your lips pink and parted, your shirt clinging scandalously to your chest.

Luffy plopped down cross-legged beside you, still completely missing the point.

"Maybe we just have to wait it out," he said brightly. "Like when you get stung by a jellyfish!"

"THAT’S NOT HOW SEX POLLEN WORKS," Chopper sobbed, clutching his head.

"But what if (Y/N) explodes?" Luffy asked, looking fascinated.

Chopper stared at you.

You smiled lazily at him.

You licked your lips.

Chopper screamed again.

"WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!!"

-

“Okay, okay, OKAY!" Chopper gasped, holding his tiny hooves out like he could stop the rolling disaster you had become. "New plan: (Y/N) needs to think about gross stuff!"

You blinked at him lazily from the deck, soaked, flushed, and vibrating with feral energy.

"Gross stuff?" you repeated, slurring a little.

"Yeah!!" Usopp said, jumping out from behind his barrel hideout. "Like... uh... cockroaches! Moldy bread! Sweaty old gym socks!"

"Rotting fish!" Franky offered, super helpfully.

"An old man's toenails!" Brook chimed from where he was tangled in the rigging.

Everyone started shouting gross things at you, like the weirdest, most desperate intervention in history.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to focus.

Gross stuff. Gross stuff. You pictured... maggots. Rotting meat. Sweaty gym socks.

You shuddered.

It was working!

...Until your stupid, pollen-fogged brain twisted it.

Maggots? Squirmy. Could be hands.

Rotting meat? Hot. Sticky. Messy.

Sweaty gym socks?

You pictured someone's strong arms pinning you down, their body hot and sweaty over yours, panting into your ear—

You whimpered.

Everyone stopped talking.

You cracked an eye open.

"Didn't work," you rasped, voice ruined and wrecked. "Got worse."

Sanji made a noise like a teakettle blowing.

Zoro grabbed a bucket of cold water and dumped it over his own head.

Robin politely looked away, though her cheeks were pink.

—

"PLAN B!" Chopper screeched, losing his tiny mind.

Franky and Luffy manhandled you toward a big barrel filled with ice water.

"You need an ice bath!" Chopper insisted. "Lower your body temperature!"

"Mm," you purred as the boys dragged you over. "If you wanted to get me naked, you could’ve just asked."

Franky short-circuited. "BWAHH??!"

Luffy, bless his pure soul, grinned like you just told him a great joke. "You’re funny, (Y/N)!"

The ice bath was ready.

Nami hovered nearby, arms crossed, glaring at you like you were a radioactive bomb.

"I am so sorry about this, (Y/N)," Chopper said grimly.

You grinned up at him.

"Wanna watch?" you teased.

Nami slapped you upside the head so fast it cracked like a gunshot.

You moaned.

"Harder," you gasped, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Nami looked like she was going to strangle you and then drown you.

Sanji nearly died on the spot, nosebleeding out into the ocean.

Brook started reciting funeral rites for him.

“PUT THEM IN!!” Chopper shrieked.

Luffy and Franky hoisted you up and dunked you straight into the freezing barrel.

You shrieked — a high, inhuman sound — and popped back up like a cork, gasping, water and ice clinging to you.

"Cold!!" you cried. "Cold and tight and wet—"

"DON'T SAY IT LIKE THAT!!" Usopp wailed.

You squirmed in the barrel, legs kicking, arms flailing, looking way too sinful for a situation that was supposed to be medical.

Zoro buried his face in his arms and muttered prayers to gods he didn’t even believe in.

Robin, watching calmly, finally spoke up.

"...Maybe we should just knock them out."

Everyone turned to her.

There was a moment of pure, golden silence.

Then:

"YES," Chopper barked, already reaching into his medical bag for a syringe.

You noticed too late.

"Wait— wait, guys—" you started, realizing what was coming. You tried to climb out of the barrel, water streaming down you like some kind of ruined siren. "I’m fine! I swear! Just need—just need one of you to rail me into next week and I'll be—"

Thunk.

Chopper jabbed the tranquilizer into your arm with all the righteous fury of a doctor pushed to his limit.

You sagged instantly, slumping back into the barrel with a blissful little sigh.

Your eyes fluttered shut, a lazy smile curling your lips.

"...Harder," you mumbled dreamily one last time before passing out.

—

The entire crew stood in stunned, exhausted silence, staring at your unconscious, soaking-wet body.

Sanji collapsed face-first onto the deck.

Zoro shoved his swords under the deck rail so he wouldn't accidentally commit murder.

Luffy just laughed and poked your cheek. "They’re all floppy now! Like a sea cucumber!"

Chopper wiped his brow. "Finally," he sighed. "Crisis averted."

Franky gave a low whistle. "That was SUPER insane."

Robin sipped her tea. "It was... certainly educational."

Nami sat down hard, running a hand through her hair.

"I am never letting (Y/N) out of sight again," she growled.

Usopp just nodded weakly. "Same."

Brook played a slow, mournful tune.

The Thousand Sunny bobbed peacefully on the waves, as if nothing at all had happened.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was pain.

A dull, throbbing headache pulsed behind your eyes. Your mouth tasted like saltwater and regret. Your limbs were heavy, your body sticky and weirdly sore, like you’d run a marathon, gotten dunked in a washing machine, and then lost a fight with a fridge.

The second thing you noticed was smell.

Something was cooking — eggs, bacon, fresh bread — the kind of smells that tugged you out of bed on pure instinct.

Groaning, you staggered to your feet, blinking blearily around Chopper’s infirmary. A thin blanket was tossed over you, and your clothes (still damp from... something?) clung uncomfortably to your skin.

God, what happened? you thought, holding your head.

Last thing you remembered was... going for a walk? Finding a shiny plant?

Everything else was a blank.

Following the siren song of Sanji’s breakfast, you stumbled into the dining room.

The entire crew was already gathered, plates stacked high.

As you shuffled inside like a zombie, every single head turned toward you.

The room went dead silent.

You froze.

"...Uh," you croaked intelligently. "Morning?"

No one answered.

They just stared.

Luffy had a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Usopp’s mouth twitched like he was holding back screams. Zoro wouldn’t meet your eyes — just shook his head slowly. Robin smiled over her coffee like she was already writing your obituary. Sanji looked like he was halfway between fainting and proposing marriage. Brook tipped his hat solemnly. Franky gave you a very slow thumbs-up. Chopper blushed furiously and avoided your gaze. Nami looked like she was planning your funeral.

"...What?" you rasped, feeling sweat prickle your back.

Nami stood up from her seat, arms crossed.

"You," she said, voice dripping with menace, "owe us an apology."

"For what?!" you yelped, looking around wildly.

Robin sipped her coffee and said, perfectly calm: "You told Brook he had very sexy bone structure."

You choked.

"And you asked Sanji if he wanted to 'shove something in you' before you exploded," Zoro added, deadpan, without even glancing up.

You made a strangled noise.

Franky pointed at you. "You moaned when I hosed you down!"

"LOUDLY," Usopp emphasized.

Luffy, grinning ear to ear, jumped in cheerfully: "And you told Nami to sit on you harder! That was super funny!"

You stared at them all in growing horror, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

"No... no way..." you mumbled, clutching your head. "You’re messing with me. You have to be messing with me."

Robin placed a hand gently over her heart, smiling. "I only wish I was."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face, feeling like you might die from pure secondhand embarrassment alone.

"Okay," you muttered defensively, voice cracking, "listen... you can’t blame me! I was—poisoned!”

Nami’s chair scraped back.

You barely had time to see her move before her arm was around your neck in a practiced chokehold.

"Poisoned, huh?" she hissed, no mercy in her beautiful, vengeful eyes. "You listen to me, you little disaster—"

You choked on a laugh and wheezed, "Harder—wait, NO, I MEAN—!"

Nami growled and tightened the choke, dragging you down into a headlock while the entire crew absolutely lost it laughing.

"You are going to a nunnery," Nami hissed in your ear, ignoring your flailing. "I’m shipping you off first thing tomorrow! You’ll never see another hot person again!"

"Maybe the nuns are hot," you croaked, grinning even as you were being strangled.

"CHOPPER, GET THE TRANQ," Nami bellowed.

"Noooo!" you wailed, squirming. "I’ll be good! I swear!!"

The crew howled with laughter as Nami dragged you away in a chokehold, shouting threats about convents, chastity belts, and ice-cold showers forever.

Somewhere behind you, Luffy piped up:

"Hey, (Y/N)! If you go to a nunnery, can we come visit and make you explode again?"

You screamed.

Everyone else did too — with laughter.

And somewhere deep down... you knew you were never living this down.

Ever.

[leyavo]

| Into the hornets nest | 5

Part Five: nothings as simple as just filing a report.

🐞Previous parts > [Bug’s masterlist]

The wheel keeps turning, a viscous cycle you can’t quite seem to escape. If you’re up, there’s plenty knocking you back down. And right now the hits keep coming.

You should have known better, should have questioned the archives assistant requesting your presence in the dingy paper archival basement. Thought that maybe you’d have to go over your report before the meeting, but no.

The aisles and aisles of documentation lost in the shadows, a few dust covered lanterns shining a pathway through the maze of shelving units. You just hoped you’d be able to find your way back.

No waiting for you in the dim lit office was Captain Reynar. The turn of the key clicking behind you, but you didn’t look back. Basic survival 101.

Reynar sits on the edge of the desk, muscular arms stretching the fabric of his sleeves as he crossed them over his chest. Flexing as if he were displaying his strength. Be careful now bugs can get crushed.

His call-sign Wasp before he became a captain, because he looked like he was chewing on the stinger. Face twisted and turned up in disgust. Ugly fucker.

It’s not like you can swing at a Captain, so you’re fucked either way. The departments skeleton crew wouldn’t hear you if you were to raise your voice. And you’re certain they’d turn a blind eye if they saw Reynar. You’re just another sergeant getting reprimanded.

“Think I don’t know ya.” Reynar’s toothy grin sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes rake up and down your figure, sizing you up. “No wonder you like slipping under the radar, wouldn’t want everyone to know, eh.”

“What do you want?” There’s no use dancing around whatever this is, they always want something. As long as you don’t lose your cool, you might have a little control on the situation.

Reynar clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Is that how you address your superiors, Sergeant?” He pushes off the desk and circles you, his words spat like venom.

He’s nearly a foot taller than you and you’re not small to begin with.

“Only when they drag me down to the basement with no consideration to protocol,” you snarl, not quite able to hide the curl of your lip as his face leans into yours.

The tic of his stubbled jaw flickers and he falls back a step, but it doesn’t remove the wave of nausea washing over you. So many things screaming in your mind, but you can’t act on them. Not when he’s a captain, not when he’s got so much influence over you.

His meaty hand circles your arm and forces you into a seat. A lone lightbulb swinging in the room, his head knocking the heated glass with a hiss. It doesn’t seem like it’s been used in years, the dull hum of electricity buzzing through the room.

“Ah, speaking of protocol.”

You open your mouth, but the palm of his hand smacks into the back of your head, shutting you up. Black dots cloud your vision and you just about catch yourself before you fall out of your seat.

Reynar drags the back of the chair across the room and sets it beside the filing cabinet. His boot planting in between your legs on the metal folding seat, daring you not to move an inch. You eye the watch on his wrist, a clunky timepiece that costs more than your monthly salary. There’s no way you’re making your meeting now.

“Where was I?” He scratches his chin, gaze dropping to yours. “Your friend, what’s his name…Roach. Wouldn’t want the sergeant to get in trouble for hitting a superior?” He leans forwards, arm resting on his knee and you try not to move away. Back straight, neck aching as you stare at him, you’ve dealt with worse than a man on a power trip.

There’s no way you’re talking your way out of this one though.

“Haines is a sergeant…” you’re cut off again, a hit to your temple and the side of your head crashes into the filing cabinet. Your ear ringing and whirring, you can’t mask the sharp intake of breath as you try to focus on the captains words.

Reynar grabs your face, fingers grasping your chin as he tilts your head to look at him. Tears threatening to spill over your lashes, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“He’s a lieutenant now, nothing stopping us from saying he was promoted a few days before.” He says it like the incident didn’t take place over two weeks ago. As if they can just gloss over the fact there’s a trail of paperwork and a system to follow.

Oh, you’re definitely fucked. You’re starting to wander who Haines really is and whether he’s connected to someone higher up. Double fuck.

“Leave Roach outta this,” you seethed, head jerking out of his grasp.

Reynar removes his boot off your seat and chucks a pair of handcuffs into your lap. You have to close your legs in order to catch them before they fall to the ground. “Dominate hand, cuff it to the filing cabinet,” he barks, digging in his pocket and pulling out the key.

“I’m not…”

The captain’s in your face in the blink of an eye. Your head crashing into the filling cabinet again, “I recon you’ll get out in eight minutes, sergeant,” he says, the snap of metal curling around your right wrist. He yanks your arm up to the filing cabinet and secures it to the handle.

He raises the tiny key, placing it on the desk in the middle of the room. Even pushes it a little further out of reach.

Bastard.

Rage spreads like wildfire across your chest, the burn climbing up your throat. You lunge for the for the captain, but you’re yanked back by the cuff.

He laughs, taking slow and deliberate steps to you.

“The 141 guys might be untouchable, you however I can touch,” the captain strokes your cheek, knuckles tracing the faded scar there. “A contractor, not fully integrated into their team for another two months.” His palm tapping your jaw like he would a dog.

The tender skin on your temple is hot, dull ache throbbing. His gaze flickers to the small nick on forehead, he licks his thumb and swipes it across the across the dried blood. His other hand clamped on the back of your head so you can’t move.

“Just enough time for you not to make your meeting.” He pouts, pressing his finger to the cut and drawing a wince from you. “John will not be pleased that you let him down. Made him look a fool.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and the dread twists the knot in your stomach.

Of course, they don’t want you to plead your case and ruin a ‘good’ man’s reputation. Want to make you look like you’re flaky so that no one will take you serious. To drive a wedge between you and the 141. Because if you can’t make time to fight for yourself, who’s going to fight for you?

“And Roach?” You spat, shaking the cuff around your wrist. You don’t know why you were more concerned for Roach, but you don’t want anyone else getting dragged into whatever this was.

Reynar pauses in the doorway, hand hovering over the handle. “Well no meeting, no report. Well done sergeant.” He nods, slipping through the door.

Silence, the lightbulb swinging from the ceiling, yellow glow sweeping across the shiny key.

You inch closer to the desk, slow so not to be yanked back when you come too short. The last stretch of distance, you curl your fingers around the chain connecting the two cuffs and lean over, arm reaching. Your fingertips brush the edge of the dusty wooden surface, but you’re nowhere near the key.

“Fuck!” You spring back, dropping the chain from your grasp and kicking the chair beside you. The metal ring around your wrist bites into your skin, blood weeping. You tug on the cuff, trying to break the handle of the filing cabinet, but it doesn’t budge. All it does is let the metal sink further into your flesh.

Think, think. You bite your nail, eyes trailing every single item nearby. The chairs too heavy to lift with one arm, the filing cabinet weighed down and secured to the wall. There’s no way to break the drawer lock with, no paper clips to pick it.

You walk as far as the cuff will allow you to and balance on one leg, lifting your boot and dragging your heel on top of the table. Still too short. Dropping your boot to the ground, you hook the front of your foot around the table leg and drag it towards you. It takes a few tries for you to tug it closer, enough for you to snatch the key and free yourself from the cuff.

Three minutes, not bad. You twist the door handle, but it doesn’t open. Of course Reynar would lock that too, might as well have buried you in shallow grave. You can’t kick it down as it opens into the office.

A breeze of warm air hits the crown of your head as you step back and you tilt your gaze to the ceiling. Whirring fan pushing the stuffy and dusty air. You stand on the chair, wedging the nameplate from the desk between the fan blades.

Dirt rains down on you as you break the fan and yank one of the blades out. Thankfully it’s old and made of metal instead of plastic. You search the desk drawers, wrapping some tape along one side of the fan blade.

Now you’ve got a pry tool, you wedge it between the door and the frame, hitting the lock until it breaks. Wood splinters and a chunk missing from the frame as it opens.

You run down the rows of shelving units, shoulder crashing into an archivist, but you don’t have time to apologise. Not that you would, the bastard could have let you out but didn’t.

The maze making you feel like a rat running through the alleys. You won’t make it to the meeting, but you sure as hell are going to push yourself to make it to the armoury. Hoping that Price would hear you out.

Whatever hornets nest you’ve kicked, you didn’t have the luxury of asking for help. No, your name was dragged in mud. If Captain Price won’t listen, then who will?

The light blinds you as soon as you force the door open and enter the main building. No longer underground shrouded by shadows, a few soldiers eye you suspiciously.

You spot Roach’s helmet, the only one that dresses in full gear before actually getting to the armoury. You elbow your way through the crowd waiting to go into the canteen. A few hands shoving you deeper into the bodies.

He turns as if sensing you’re behind him, but he doesn’t stop. No he quickens his pace, slight tremble of his head that doesn’t go unnoticed. You both sign in to the armoury, the rest of the team already checking weapons and talking between one another.

You swipe a cap off the rack as you walk in, slipping it on and covering the small cut on your forehead. Gaze dropping to your sleeve as you make sure it’s covering the dried blood circling your wrist. You can tend to it later.

Roach shrugs you off, his gloved hands unclasping the ammo box on the table.

“Roach, look I…” you keep your voice low. He’s angry, you would be too if you’d stuck up for someone and they didn’t show up to back you. His silence isn’t something that bothers you, it’s the way he won’t even look at you or give a verbal response like normal that does.

“Bug! Gear up,” Price barks, the chatter dwindling to nothing as they all turn to you. His piercing glare leaving no room for anything else.

Lieutenant Riley stares at you, pausing the inspection of his gun. Gaz and Soap scan the room, well aware of something going on that they’re not privy to, but they’re too focused on the op to give a damn now.

You shove your tactical vest over your head and tighten the straps. “Captain, I can explain…” you murmur as he walks up to you and it takes everything in you keep your spot. Straight spine and chin lifted as you look up at him.

“Not the time,” he says, tugging the strap at your hip and tightening your vest. He keeps it in his grasp and leans in, “Do not let your problems fuck up this op, this is years worth of planning. Understand Bug?” His hot breath fans against the side of your face.

“Yes, Captain.”

He lets of go of your vest and you stumble back. You busy yourself with checking your weapons and loading your ammo. Double checking your pack and basic medi bag. The Captain relays the mission and the objective.

You just need to make it through, you don’t know how many days with lieutenant Riley and Roach. Working in threes to extract intel.

Looks like you’ve kicked another hornets nest.

[Part six]

✨ It’s getting complicated. Please note I am dyslexic so there might be errors/mistakes. I do try to edit a few times but I will miss stuff. Thanks for reading - Leya

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 7 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 9 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hihi!! i would’ve updated sooner, but unfortunately, my body decided to nerf me with a sickness debuff. tragic. 😔 BUT!!! i had so much fun writing this chapter. like, full-on giggling to myself like a mad scientist. i really hope you guys enjoy it!! (or at the very least find it as funny as my fever-ridden brain did)

The day starts like any other. Which is to say, badly.

Greg the Manager, who has been conveniently absent all morning, suddenly materializes with the urgency of a man who just remembered his parole officer exists. He’s slightly out of breath, like he sprinted exactly halfway here and then gave up. His tie is loose, his shirt is untucked, and his eyes have the glazed-over look of someone who is about to make their incompetence your problem.

“Oh, by the way, a news crew is coming in five minutes.”

You pause mid-coffee pour. The statement is so absurd, so wildly out of pocket, that your brain flatlines for a solid three seconds. “A what.”

Greg, already retreating like the rat he is, waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, some feel-good story about supporting small businesses or whatever. They called a few weeks ago? Thought it’d be good PR. Forgot to tell you. Anyway, good luck!”

You stare at him, waiting for some kind of elaboration. An explanation. An apology. A joke. Anything.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

Greg shrugs, the human embodiment of the ‘Not My Problem’ energy. “I forgot.”

“Greg.”

“Gotta go, bro.” And like that, he vanishes, as if he were never there to begin with.

You stand there, emotionally buffering. You stare at the empty space where he once stood, trying to come to terms with the fact that a news crew is about to descend upon your personal hellscape with exactly zero warning. You look down at your apron, which has a very concerning stain on it (origin unknown), and realize your only hope is radical acceptance.

There’s no time to panic. You take a deep breath, straighten your apron, and slap on your best retail smile—the one that says I hate my job but I need to pay rent!

The café door swings open, and in comes the news crew with the confidence of people who have never suffered a single day in food service. The camera crew bustles in, setting up tripods, adjusting microphones, and looking around like they’re trying to absorb the rich ambiance of your workplace. Which, to be clear, smells like burnt espresso and quiet desperation.

The reporter, a professionally dressed woman with overly bright eyes and the enthusiasm of someone who has never once been berated by a middle-aged woman demanding to know why oat milk costs extra, beams at you. "We’re so excited to feature your charming little café!"

The words I would rather die are on the tip of your tongue, but you figure that’s not what she wants to hear. Instead, you nod politely. “We are also excited.”

She turns toward a customer near the window—Muffin Guy, your most mysterious regular. He sits in his usual spot, staring unblinkingly at the muffin before him, as if waiting for it to reveal a prophecy.

The reporter, undeterred by the strange aura surrounding him, approaches. “We love to highlight loyal customers!” she chirps. “Sir, could you tell us what you love most about this café?”

Silence.

The camera zooms in.

Muffin Guy does not blink.

He does not move.

He does not acknowledge the camera, the reporter, or the fundamental concept of human interaction.

The silence stretches.

The tension is suffocating. The reporter’s smile wavers. A single bead of sweat rolls down the intern’s forehead. Someone in the back coughs.

The reporter, clearly regretting all of her life choices, tries again. “Sir?”

Still nothing.

The camera stays on him for a full twenty seconds.

It is unbearable.

You mentally check out just as the reporter shifts focus to you, her expression slightly cracked but still hopeful. “So, tell us about this lovely café.”

You recite your dead-inside script: “We serve coffee. Sometimes people drink it.”

There is a beat of silence.

The reporter’s enthusiasm dims like a cheap LED bulb. “Wonderful.”

The reporter, visibly eager to move on from whatever existential nightmare Muffin Guy just put her through, scans the café for her next victim. You can see the calculations happening in real time behind her eyes: Okay, that guy and the barista were a bust, but surely the next person will be normal.

Unfortunately, she picks Choso.

Choso, who has been standing near the counter watching you with his usual unblinking intensity, straightens up as she approaches. You can tell he's eager to be of assistance, but his posture is too stiff, his expression too serious, and he moves with the slow, deliberate energy of a cryptid trying to blend into human society.

“How about you?” The reporter smiles, extending the mic. “What’s your name?”

Choso stares at her for a beat too long, like he’s mentally reviewing whether or not he should tell her. Finally, he leans toward the microphone. “Hello,” he says in his usual dead-serious monotone. “I am Choso."

The way he delivers it makes it sound like a warning. Like he's introducing himself as an omen of death.

The reporter, momentarily thrown off by his delivery, laughs nervously. “Oh! And what do you like about this café?”

Choso considers this. Too long.

Like, way too long.

The camera guy shifts. The boom mic sags. The intern wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.

Finally, Choso nods to himself, having seemingly reached a conclusion of great personal significance. A normal person would say something safe like the coffee or the atmosphere or that it’s not a Denny’s. But Choso is not normal. “The barista.”

The camera zooms in on your horrified expression.

The world stops. The temperature drops. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

The reporter blinks. Once. Twice. Three times, like she’s trying to reboot her system. Her professional instincts desperately try to steer this awkward trainwreck back onto the tracks. “And what about the drinks?”

Choso nods, like this is an acceptable question. “The lattes bring me peace.”

The reporter hesitates. “They… bring you peace?”

“Yes.” Choso stares directly into the camera, like he’s about to issue a public service announcement. His expression is completely unreadable. “I have known suffering. But the lattes are satisfactory.”

There is an audible silence. The kind that only happens when everyone in the room is simultaneously thinking Oh, this man has killed someone before. It’s like everyone suddenly realizes they are part of something far bigger than themselves. Something unknowable. Something profoundly unsettling. Somewhere in the background, Yuji is shaking his head like a man watching a car crash in slow motion.

There is no appropriate response to this, and yet the reporter is contractually obligated to continue this interview. “...Right. And, uh, what do you do?”

Choso doesn't hesitate. “I protect my brother.” he answers with a hint of pride.

“Oh!” The reporter latches onto this like a drowning woman grasping for a life preserver. “That’s… nice?”

Choso tilts his head, as if considering the very concept of “nice.” Then, as if suddenly struck by divine realization, he adds, “I would also protect the barista. If required.”

You nearly choke on your own spit.

The reporter, alarmed, shifts slightly away from him. “...Required from what?”

Choso does not blink. “Threats.”

“What… kind of threats?”

Choso narrows his eyes. “Unclear. But I remain vigilant.”

The weight of that statement sinks into the room. The energy shifts. The café suddenly feels smaller.

Then, with no warning, Choso reaches into his coat.

The reporter flinches. The intern drops his clipboard. The cameraman tenses, like he’s about to record a live crime.

Yuji, who knows exactly where this is going, starts waving his arms in the background like a man desperately trying to stop a rogue missile launch.

Choso pulls out… a single hard-boiled egg.

The collective exhale from the crew is audible.

Solemnly, as if this is the most important action he will ever take, Choso extends the egg to you.

“Eat.”

You stare at the egg, then at him, then at the egg again.

You clear your throat. “I, uh... Thanks, Choso.”

Choso nods once, as if you’ve just agreed to some kind of unspoken contract.

The reporter looks at the camera like she is moments from calling the police.

While the reporter is still trying to process the whole mildly threatening egg presentation situation, Gojo—human calamity, agent of chaos, destroyer of peace—has decided that his one and only mission is to singlehandedly ruin every single camera shot.

The moment the cameraman turns around, Gojo materializes behind the reporter, flashing a double peace sign like he’s about to drop the hottest mixtape of the century. His grin is blinding. His sunglasses somehow catch every possible light source.

The cameraman pivots, adjusting the shot.

Somehow, impossibly, Gojo is already there.

This time, he’s leaning against the counter, holding a latte he definitely did not pay for, sipping obnoxiously with exaggerated flair. He winks at the camera like he’s in an over-the-top commercial for overpriced cologne. If he had a fan blowing his hair back in slow motion, it would be perfect.

“Sir, please move,” the cameraman pratically begs.

Gojo, unfazed, turns his full attention to the lens.

“HELLOOOOO~,” Gojo sings, waving both hands like a game show host who has just revealed a brand-new car. “I’M THE FACE OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT!”

This is objectively false.

Before you can attempt damage control, Gojo launches himself next to you like a man with zero impulse control and a PhD in being a public nuisance. He throws an arm around your shoulders, his sunglasses catching the light dramatically, making it impossible to tell if he’s about to endorse your café or announce the second coming of Christ.

“This barista?” he announces dramatically, pointing at you with a flourish like he’s about to knight you on national television. “The best. The backbone of this place.”

Yuji, in the background, is visibly panicking. “Gojo-sensei, please. No.”

Gojo completely ignores him. Instead, he strikes a different pose, basking in the camera’s attention like it physically sustains him.

“I come here every single day,” he declares with the confidence of a man who lies recreationally.

You narrow your eyes. “You show up, like, once a week at best.”

Gojo ignores you, too.

The reporter, attempting to maintain some semblance of control, nods hesitantly. “Oh! So you’re a regular—”

“You know why?” Gojo interrupts and then pauses, letting the tension build as if he’s delivering the monologue of a lifetime. “The experience. The drama. The coffee that, against all odds, continues to exist despite this machine’s cursed energy.”

He gestures vaguely to the espresso machine.

As if in response, the espresso machine lets out a deep, unsettling groan that seems to reverberate through the walls.

The reporter looks horrified. “Cursed—what?”

“Nothing!” Yuji yelps, visibly panicked, as he attempts to grab Gojo. “He’s joking! Joking! Ha ha ha!”

Gojo, still completely ignoring Yuji, gestures dramatically to the café at large.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, effortlessly resisting Yuji’s efforts, “the vibes? Unmatched.” He motions toward Muffin Guy, who is still staring directly into the camera like an urban legend caught on night vision footage. “Where else do you find a guy like that?”

The cameraman—who is either an artist or a man in the process of losing his grip on reality—zooms in on Muffin Guy.

It is haunting.

Yuji tries to grab him once more. Gojo dodges effortlessly, throwing up finger guns at the camera.

“Hashtag Support Local Businesses!”

You consider whether it's legally permissible to quit mid-shift.

The reporter, who looks like she has aged twenty years in the past five minutes and like she's beginning to suspect that this café is actually some kind of underground social experiment, attempts to regain control.

Before she can salvage any part of this nightmare of an interview, the door opens.

The camera instinctively pans toward the entrance. The crew is expecting another customer, maybe, finally, someone normal.

They are wrong.

Toji walks in, moving with the kind of dangerous ease that suggests he’s about five seconds away from committing a felony or taking a nap—whichever comes first.

Toji, who was very much not expecting cameras, tilts his head slightly, his eyes flicking to the reporter, then the crew, then to you.

You lock eyes with him.

You watch, helpless, as he slowly takes in the situation.

Then, with the kind of ease that only comes from years of very questionable decision-making, he smirks.

“Damn. This place got cameras now? What is this, evidence?”

Behind him, Shiu walks in, immediately lights a cigarette inside the café like a man who has never respected a single law in his life, then realizes—far too late—that there are cameras everywhere. 

Slowly, with the calculated movement of a man processing a series of very poor life choices, he lowers the cigarette, muttering under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

The reporter goes still.

You can see the realization dawn on her face—the slow, sinking horror that she has just stumbled into something she was never supposed to witness. The reporter looks at you, eyes wide with concern.

You meet her gaze, deadpan.

You just nod.

By the time the segment actually airs, it is nothing like the wholesome, feel-good small-business feature it was supposed to be. Instead of showcasing a “quirky but struggling café,” the final product is an absolute trainwreck.

The official headline?

"Muffin Man, Mystery Egg, and Wanted Criminal? Local Café More Concerning Than Quirky."

It gets worse.

The tone of the segment suggests the café is possibly haunted, a front for illegal activity, and a gathering spot for deeply concerning individuals. It does not encourage people to visit. It warns them. Every shot looks like it was pulled from an unreleased horror documentary about places you should not go. The ominous background music—something that belongs in a Dateline special—only adds to the effect. 

The highlights include:

The news crew inexplicably leaving in the full, unbroken 15 seconds of Muffin Guy staring directly into the camera like he’s either a demon or an AI-generated horror experiment. No words. No movement. Just him, staring—waiting—as if challenging the audience to comprehend his existence. The way they edit it makes it look like he’s part of some psychological horror movie, a lost soul trapped between dimensions.

Choso’s interview, which, thanks to the dramatic lighting and his very serious tone, is framed like a true crime documentary. They use dramatic zoom-ins on his expression, emphasizing the fact that he looks way too intense for a man talking about coffee. The way he deadpans “I have known suffering. But the lattes are satisfactory.” is played over eerie background music, making it sound like he's fought in at least three wars, suffered great personal loss, and only finds solace in lattes. The words "Remains Vigilant Against Threats.” slide across the screen in bold letters.

Gojo and Yuji wrestling in the background while Gojo dramatically yells, “They can’t prove I don’t work here!” The footage is grainy, shaky, and the captions just read: [Incoherent yelling] as Yuji desperately tries to prevent Gojo from launching himself directly into the camera.

Toji, smirking at the camera, casually implying he is a wanted fugitive. The producers slow down his words for dramatic effect: “Damn. This place got cameras now? What is this, evidence?” followed by a zoom-in of his grin and the words: "??? Unknown Criminal Activity ???"

The espresso machine, actively rattling and smoking in the background of multiple shots. At one point, the camera catches it letting out a deep, unsettling groan, and they overlay dramatic violin music as the reporter visibly recoils. The segment's b-roll footage of the café includes multiple instances of the espresso machine shaking, glitching out, and occasionally making a noise that sounds vaguely like a demonic whisper. The captions simply read: [UNSETTLING METALLIC GROAN]

Greg the Manager, with the most suspicious phrasing humanly possible, stating, “We’re totallyyy not violating health codes!” The phrasing alone guarantees that everyone now believes the café is absolutely violating health codes. The camera cuts immediately after, giving it the same energy as a villain’s last known sighting before fleeing the country.

There is a random, blurry, and heavily pixelated, freeze-frame of Greg at the end of the segment, edited in black and white, with the words: “DOES THIS MAN KNOW WHAT HE’S DOING?”

The answer is no.

And finally, the closing words from the reporter, who stares deadpan into the camera, fully drained of life and hope, and states with exhausted finality:

“I am never going back there.”

The screen cuts to black.

A single ominous boom sound plays.

Gojo, watching the segment from his phone at full volume in the café, nods to himself, clearly proud of his work. “We did great!”

Yuji is actively attempting to dig a hole and bury himself in it.

Choso, on the other hand, looks genuinely pleased. He gives a slow, approving nod. “I have promoted the barista’s establishment.”

You stare at him. “That was not promotion, that was a federal warning.”

Gojo waves a dismissive hand. “Details, details.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. You’re already preparing for the worst when you walk into work the next morning.

You expect Greg the Manager to be pacing anxiously, waiting for someone from the health department to shut the place down.

You expect fewer customers because, surely, surely, no sane human being would willingly come to a place that was just portrayed as a front for criminal activity, a ghost-infested hellhole, and a potential cult meeting ground all in one.

You do not expect to see a line out the door.

You stop in your tracks, processing the sight of dozens of people wrapped around the block, all eagerly waiting to enter the chaos.

The café is more popular than ever. People aren’t scared. They’re curious.

Inside, Greg—who has learned absolutely nothing—is practically buzzing with excitement.

“Dude, FREE PUBLICITY!” he cheers, spinning in circles like a man who thinks chaos is good for business. "We need to, like, start making merch!"

You stare at him. Then at the never-ending line of morbidly curious customers.

Then at the espresso machine, which lets out a low, menacing growl.

Then at Muffin Guy, who is—as always—unmoving.

Then at Choso, who is standing in his usual spot by the counter, nodding approvingly, like he has manifested this outcome through sheer force of will.

Slowly, you reach into your pocket, pull out your phone, and start updating your resume.

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: fun fact: this chapter is based on my real-life nightmare scenario. i have never been a barista, but i have worked in an animal shelter (as a manager, no less—why did they trust me with that? unclear.), and i still have war flashbacks to the absolute menaces that walked through those doors. (there was a time when a man i instantly recognized from a local true crime documentary tried to adopt a dog from us?? he was found innocent because of very questionable reasons so needless to say i was terrified the whole time lmfao)

one day, the higher-ups told me the news was coming to interview us, and i lived in pure fear from that moment on. i spent days spiraling, imagining the absolute worst possible situations. (what if i tripped over a dog? what if i accidentally said something insane on live tv? what if i just. forgot how to speak?) i had actual nightmares about it. thankfully, they never came while i worked there, but the fear? the dread? permanently ingrained in my soul. so naturally, i had to make the barista suffer through it. :)

also!! just a heads-up—i wrote another side story for a choso x reader request set in the minimum wage, maximum suffering universe! not canon to the main fic, just a fun little “what if” scenario, feel free to check it out! as always, thank you so much for reading and your feedback!! reading your reactions makes my day, and i’m so grateful for everyone enjoying this little unhinged fic. hope you all enjoyed the chaos of this chapter!!

₊⊹. tag list: @alpha-mommy69 @luluminati @amortsukii-writes @inthedarkshadows000 @isomehowexist @not-aya @emochosoluvr @lov3vivian @literallyushiwaka @kodditty @arrozyfrijoles23

[bluebnny]

Out of control - part 2

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

trafalgar law x reader

contents: reader teases law, suggestive, but probably counts as smut, established relationship, everything that happens is consentual

warnings: NSFW, MDNI, law feels up reader, a lot of teasing from law in general, very light bondage - reader is technically gender neutral (ie. no use of pronouns), but has a vagina

a/n: ok, so remember how i wrote in the last one that i would make a part 2 because i'm too much of a yapper to actually get to the smut? yeah... i didn't get to the smut this time either, sorry. This part is the foreplay and setup, so the next and final part will definitely be smut :). Mostly proof-read. Dividers made by me. I hope you enjoy <3

word count: 3.504

The steady hum of the Polar Tang’s engine greets you once more as you leave Law’s office. You don’t immediately go back to work like you had let him believe. Instead, you make your way to the old storage room, walking fast.

The old door creaks a bit as you enter, but this level of the ship is almost always deserted, so you know you have nothing to worry about. Still, you don’t slow down once inside the room, your destination clear in your mind. Aside from the fresh layer of dust coating everything, the storage is in pristine condition, which is a fairly recent development.

A few months back, Law someone had made a huge deal out of some dumb old medical textbook getting misplaced. You and a few other crewmates had been tasked with cleaning out the room, spending the better part of a month tidying, scrubbing, and sorting everything in there until the air in the entire level felt clearer. You had taken your job very seriously, having turned the dingy and disorganized old room into a proper archive.

Everything is now so well organized that every single item has its own place, even some unusual ones you and your crew mates had had a lot of fun arguing over the categorisation of. You had ended by rounding up all the weirdest items no one could agree on and decided on their categories by coming up with funny ways to use them. The rule had been that whatever category could fit the most items in it would win, the logic being that it was more efficient than judging each item separately.

That’s how you had decided on the name of the box you’re headed to, now. You reach the desired row of shelves and don’t hesitate before diving into a box jokingly labelled “emergency supplies: use next time captain rejects bedrest while sick” which had been occupying your mind for months. Because aside from a few running jokes between you and your fellow crewmates, the odd items you found had also given you a new idea.

You rummage around between the various objects in there, pushing aside some random pieces of rope that weren’t rotten enough to discard, an old toy gun no one knew the origin of, a foam knife that must have been a prop for a halloween party at some point, a leather belt no one had claimed, and a real taser that no longer worked. Your hand finally closes around the item you were looking for.

“Still there.” You smirk, quickly closing the box again and sneaking out of the room before anyone notices the open door.

…

Dinner is lively as usual, and a very welcome opportunity for you to avoid Law a little longer. Not that he would ever do something in front of the crew, that’s not what you’re worried about. This time, there is a different reason for you not meeting his gaze. You have a plan. A way to take your revenge. But you know that if you look at him, Law will immediately know something is up. So, the best option is to immerse yourself in the conversation around you, letting him think that nothing is out of the ordinary, and that your avoidance is simply still due to being flustered from earlier.

When you’re done eating, you don’t immediately go back to your shared room even though you can barely contain yourself from anticipation. It’s important to act normal, to not let your nervousness show. So, despite how tired you are, you linger a little like you usually would, chat a little more, and join in on a few activities, acting like you don’t have a care in the world.

Law is already in the room, having left with a glance to you that clearly communicated that he wanted you to join him. But you had simply pretended not to get the obvious message, instead smiled at him innocently and said, “Oh you’re going to bed? Good idea, you must be exhausted after working so late yesterday.” Quickly trying to focus your attention on the card game, as if you weren’t already losing from your lack of concentration.

When you do finally decide to get up about an hour later, you rush to your room, not knowing if the rapid beating of your heart was due to excitement or nausea. You don’t even look at him upon entering, heading directly to the bathroom, and quickly grabbing your toothbrush. You hear his footsteps follow behind you, and he speaks after a moment.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Law’s voice is level as usual, and you look into the mirror over the sink to see him standing in the doorway. You’re already brushing your teeth, having done it partly in the hope that it would hide the way your hands were shaking a little, partly to have an excuse not to speak. But Law is, unfortunately, patient, and stays where he is.

You can’t help but admire him a little. His hat is off again, and the way he’s casually leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed highlights his toned physique and broad shoulders. He had put on the white tank top and light grey pyjama pants that he usually wears to sleep. He also has that look on his face again, the same one he had in his office earlier, and you’re starting to wonder if Law knows how ridiculously attractive he is.

You have to quickly spit out the toothpaste to hide the fact that you were just about to start drooling. “Have I?” You ask him, still trying to sound innocent. You’re not turning around, unable to pull your eyes away from his reflection.

He steps behind you now, hands on your shoulders, gaze locked on yours through the mirror. The dark circles framing his lower eyelids only deepen the effect that his bedroom eyes already have on you. It’s quite unfair, really. You also see how flustered your expression is, and he smirks at that and leans down to trail some light kisses down the side of your neck. Your sharp intake of breath only spurs him on, becoming a bit rougher and sucking down, clearly aiming to leave bruises.

He turns you around, still holding your shoulders, leaning in as if to kiss you, but not letting your lips touch. He’s taller than you and can easily stay out of reach of your lips, which just about reach his shoulder. “Yes, you have.” He mutters.

“Well, I’m not anymore.” You respond, trying to reach his face “I’m actually trying my very best to kiss you right now.” Deciding to wrap your arms around the back of his neck in an attempt to pull him down by sheer strength alone.

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on letting you avoid me much longer.” There’s a moment at first where he doesn’t budge, his only purpose to show you how easily he could overpower you if he wanted, demonstrating that he’s only kissing you because he chooses to, not because you’re putting most of your body weight into it. But he finally obliges and catches your lips in a heated kiss.

Together, you stumble to the bedroom, both trying your best not to break the kiss. You subtly push him backwards against the bed until the backs of his knees are touching it, and press on his chest a little, indicating that you want him to sit down. He completely ignores this, however, instead spinning you around and guiding your waist in a similar way. When you don’t budge, he doesn’t hesitate to simply bend down and pick up your legs, so your now unsupported torso drops back onto the bed.

You let out a surprised yelp when your head sinks into the soft blanket, but he ignores it. Instead, he spreads your legs and kneels down between them, bending down to continue making out as if nothing had happened. His hands are on your sides again, and before you know it, he gently lifts your torso and drags you further up the bed. Simply positioning you the way he wants you if you won’t take the hint and do it yourself.

His mouth is hot against yours, and just like every other time you’re in this position, you’re taken aback all over again by how good of a kisser he is. He’s kissing you so well you feel a little lightheaded, struggling to regain control. But you’re not giving up this easy, although it’s definitely tempting.

“Wait, Law. Stop.” You manage to breathe out between kisses.

“Hm?” He looks up, clearly confused, but respects your request. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I do! It’s just…” You look down a little flustered “Just, can you lie on your back? Maybe?” God, is it always this tough to meet his gaze?

His expression immediately turns to one of mischief. You can’t ignore the fact that he looks quite intimidating when he’s turned on, his lean frame towering over you with ease, eyes fixed on you like a predator about to devour his prey. It’s probably helped by the fact that he only smiles when he’s either about to fuck you, or about to murder someone. Your stomach tightens deliciously.

“Why.”

It’s not spoken like a question. It’s a challenge. He sees right through you, knows exactly what you’re trying to do. And he’s not going to make it easy for you. If you’re going to attempt being in charge, you can’t expect him to simply comply. Still, he doesn’t want to push back too much just yet, wanting to see where this is going.

“I uhm… I don’t know. Just want to change things up a bit, that’s all.” If you were looking at him, you would see the way he smirks darkly at you, but you’re too preoccupied with fiddling with the neckline of his tank top to notice.

For the second time that night, he lifts you up without warning, by your waist this time. Before you can understand what happened, he’s falling back against the mattress, with you on top, straddling his lap. His hands are firmly planted on your sides, eyes still locked on your face. In your surprise, you look at him, noting his cocky expression.

“Well?” God he’s a bastard.

You just lean down to kiss him again, knowing it’s best to avoid answering. Law is too smart for his own good, so trying to win an argument against him now that you’re not thinking straight is an even worse idea than it is usually.

You do everything you can to show him you want to take control this time. Pushing down on his chest when he leans up into the kiss a bit too much, holding his face and neck like he always does when kissing you. And you see why he does it. God, this feels good. You start to feel a weird sort of craving, a longing. The feeling of needing to be close to him overcomes you, and you almost forget you were about to have sex from how deeply you’re enjoying just being intimate with him.

It's when his hands move from your waist to your shoulders that you remember you were trying to take back control. It takes everything in you to grasp his hands and lift them off you. You pin them on either side of his head, leaving him completely exposed. Vulnerable. But you keep kissing him.

You almost squeal when he forcefully shoves his hips up into you, the way his bulge roughly collides with your clit making you lose your composure for a split second, and he takes his chance to once again move his hands to your body while you’re distracted. Neither of you break the kiss, but you can definitely feel his smirk against your lips now. You lightly bite him through the kiss, but it just makes him hum in amusement. You should have known better than to think he would make it that easy for you.

Realizing that you have to resort to your backup plan – and secretly delighted about it – you reach your hand under his pillow, where you had hidden your secret weapon after fetching it from the storage earlier. Your other hand is busy taking one of his arms and placing it above his head again. Finally, having found what you were looking for, you pull out the pair of handcuffs from under the pillow and quickly fasten one of the manacles around his wrist. Law makes a noise of surprise but doesn’t stop you from wrapping the chain behind one of the bars of his headboard and tying his other hand up too.

You both pull away from the kiss now. You, to admire your handiwork, Law, to look between you and his tied hands in utter surprise and shock. Seems he didn’t see through you all the way after all.

It’s your turn to smirk now, straightening up a bit and placing your hands on your hips. You playfully narrow your eyes at him, challenging him to make his next move. Of course, the handcuffs aren’t made from seastone, only normal metal, so Law isn’t actually trapped and could easily get out of them if he wanted to. He quickly regains his unbothered composure, but humours you, it seems, and rests his head down on the pillow again.

“Didn’t see that one coming, did you, captain?” you tease him, and he just scoffs. Law looks mildly annoyed; the type of exasperation that makes you want to agitate him further to see where it leads.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t.” He responds, tone unreadable. But the recklessness in his eyes gives him away.

So, you decide to resume making out with him, glad he didn’t put up more of a fight, and thinking you’ve got him where you want him now. But you’re quickly proven wrong when he roughly pushes his hips into yours a second time and again manages to elicit a moan from you at the intense sensation.

“Speaking of seeing things coming…” he murmurs into the kiss, and you don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s grinning at the state you’re in. “Someone’s sensitive.”

But the fight hasn’t left you yet, lowering your hands to his chest and your mouth to his neck, you start grinding your hips roughly into his while sucking a hickey into the place under his ear. The reaction is immediate, Law letting out a breathy groan before he can stop himself.

“Fuck.” He lets out and you look up just enough to throw him a little smirk back before trailing little kisses all the way from his jaw to his collarbones, nipping at his skin every now and then.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who’s sensitive?” you ask him in between kisses, and the breath he lets out at that sounds more like a barely contained growl than anything else. However much Law can seem pissed off sometimes, you quickly learned from dating him that he loves it when you talk back. Not that he would ever admit that. Not that he even realizes it himself.

But the pushback excites him. As someone who has learned to expect every good thing in his life to fall apart, being with someone too calm would only stress him out. He would try – and fail – to figure out their sick and twisted mind games, finding the person unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. That’s why he loves when you fight back, allowing him to push further under the guise of standing his ground, loving the challenge. It makes it all the more satisfying when you break apart for him.

And his excitement is clear from the way he’s instinctively pulling at the shackles still tying his hands to the bed and from the hard bulge forming under his pyjamas. You know he’s about to start bucking his hips into yours again, wanting to take back control. Trying to abuse all your weak spots to make you fall apart for him, depend on him. Law desperately needs to reduce you to the mess he is so scared of becoming himself.

But this time, you see it coming and refuse to let him get to you again. You place the top of your feet over his thighs behind you and move your hands to his hips, right where you can feel his pelvis, and hold him down like that. The position makes you unable to reach his neck, so you simply sit as straight as your can with your hands firmly planted on his sides and give him a teasing smile that you hope makes you look confident.

God, he looks utterly wrecked already. The way his eyelids are heavy and his mouth half open, the overall effect greatly enhanced by the way his chest heaves with every deep breath. His head is thrown back on the pillow a bit from how you were attacking his neck, and the look he throws you through half-lidded eyes is one of pure lust and need. The sight makes you want to fuck him right now, but still, you hold back, wondering how much self control he must have to be able to do this to you every single time. But you’re not done messing him up, not yet.

Still sitting over his hard cock, you start grinding your core over it again, this time making sure to give him as little friction as you can. You manage not to roll your eyes but can’t stop yourself from biting your lip at how good it feels. Fuck, you could cum just from this. He’s fully hard beneath his pants now, and you can perfectly feel the outline of his thick cock from how you’re dragging your clit against it.

Law is trembling slightly beneath you, clearly struggling to cope with the fact that you can get him just as needy as he can get you. “Y/n, if you don’t do something soon…” He urges through gritted teeth.

“You know, this is where you would usually make me beg for it.” You answer him, not able to stop yourself. It’s the truth, but you don’t actually plan on it, knowing he wouldn’t let you be on top ever again if you tried. Plus, you’re enjoying it too much to give it up. When he shoots you a menacing glare, however, you stop your teasing and lift off of him. He lets out a low groan at the loss of touch but doesn’t want to stop you now that you’re at least doing something.

You pull at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and he lifts his hips to help you pull the fabric down his legs. Much to Law’s displeasure, yours remain on. He usually undresses you fully and toys with you a little before he even thinks of pulling down his own pants, often making you cum a few times first, but sometimes opting to simply edge you until you’re almost sobbing.

Your hands find his cock. It’s hard, twitching, and leaking almost as much as you must be from all the teasing and foreplay you’ve both endured from each other.

Law watches you reposition yourself and bow your head down, your tongue out. He braces himself and manages to only let out a shuddering breath when it makes contact with the sensitive underside of his shaft. You slowly lick a stripe up his length, taking your time to savour it, occasionally applying a little more pressure by sucking the side of it with your lips. You do this a few times, but always make sure to avoid his sensitive tip, where you know he needs you most.

“Y/n, if you don’t do something now, I’m going to make you regret not using seastone cuffs on me.” He growls through his clenched jaw, and you know he means it.

Law likes to be a bit rough with you. Nothing extreme, he doesn’t want to hurt you or anything like that, but he loves to mess you up a little. There’s something so delicious in being able to make you so desperate, to lovingly break you, knowing it’s all because of him. You’re surprised he even let you go as far as you have, since he usually ignores it every time you attempt to take the lead.

“Someone’s getting worked up, huh?” You answer, but you’re quick to take off your remaining clothes and go back to sit in your initial position over his cock. You take it into your hand once again and use your other hand to lift his tank top a little, exposing his stomach up to the bottom of his chest tattoo. The sight almost has you drooling again. Hovering above him, with one hand on his chest to steady yourself, you slowly guide his tip to where you’ve both needed him for hours.

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you liked it :D (This is my fic, don't repost! Reblogs are always appreciated <3)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3