#once again more freckles because i say so!! can never have enough freckles

[vampiredaisiesss]

touch me — d.w. x reader

synopsis - you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. the lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter. you find him all the more beautiful like this.

trigger warning - older dean winchester (early 40s) with younger reader (early 20s)

He thinks about time, about how it marks you, about how each silver strand falling to the floor is another reminder of all the years between the two of you.

The harsh glare of the bathroom light is unforgiving, casting every line on his face into sharp focus. Dean watches your reflection in the mirror. The gentle snip-snip echoes off the tile walls as you work the scissor over his hair, your lip caught between your teeth.

Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror from your shower, making the edges of your reflection soft, dream-like. Your tank top's damp where his hair falls against it, and there's something so domestic about this moment it makes his chest ache.

You hum "Hey Jude" while you work, because of course you know that's what Mary sang when she cut his hair. Of course you know that's what he sometimes hummed in his sleep whenever he'd have a nightmare.

"You're thinking too loud, again," you murmur, running your fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"I've got shirts older than you," he says finally, the words tasting bitter on tongue.

You laugh out loud, and it sounds like every good thing he probably doesn't deserve. "And they're all flannel, and they all smell like gunpowder and cheap liquor that you probably spilled on them two decades ago, but never got dry-cleaned, and I love them." Your smile turns soft at the edges. "Just like I love the man wearing them."

"Kid—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't 'kid' me, Dean Winchester. Not when you're balls deep inside me every night." You pause for just enough time to fix him a determined stare, and he offers you a small smile.

"You think I don't know who I'm choosing? You think I haven't counted every scar, every gray hair, every year you spent saving the world before I was old enough to know it needed saving?"

The scissor is forgotten on the countertop as you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. Your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. The lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter.

You find him all the more beautiful like this.

Dean's throat tightens. You're stripping him bare with your touch. "Exactly. You could have anyone. Someone who—"

He swallows hard, but he's smiling now. His chest feels heavier with something else. "When you say it like that, sounds like I should be in a museum, not your bed."

"Someone who what? Someone who hasn't survived forty years in hell? Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a weapon? Someone who doesn't understand why I keep rock salt by the bed and devil's traps under the rugs?" You shake her head. "I don't want easy, Dean. I want you."

"There," you say finally, brushing loose hair from his neck. Your lips find that sensitive spot behind his ear, and he can feel you smile against his skin.

"Please," You chuckle. Your hands slide back into his hair, resuming cutting. "Museums are for looking, not touching. "And I'm very..." snip "...very..." snip "...fond of touching you."

"Touch me," he says, and it comes out like a prayer he never learned properly – rough and wanting and holy all at once. It curls around your heart in the shape of Dean's hand.

He reaches up, catches your hand before you can move away.

You touch him like you're reading braille, like every freckle on his body has a story to tell. Your lips trace constellations across the map of blue veins over his body. And when you finally put your lips on the scar along the side of his hip — the first ever souvenir he collected on his skin — you feel the smallest tremor in his breath. It’s so faint, but unmistakable, and for a moment, you could almost swear you made Dean Winchester mewl.

And you do.

[moonstruckme]

babe you’ve got me obsessed with doctor remus!

can i request a drabble where reader gets into like a car accident and has been taken into a&e with like mid/severe injuries and remus has been assigned to treat her?

if not then that’s fine! love your work bae 🎀

Hi gorgeous! Thank you for requesting (I'm obsessed with him too) :)

cw: hospital

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 716 words

The nurse leaves, and you think you might finally get more than five seconds to yourself but then the curtain pulls back again, a tall doctor taking her place. You’ve been able to feel your heartbeat pulsing through every inch of you since you’d stumbled out of your smoking car, and this new man doesn’t help matters. 

He’s lovely. With a face smattered with warm freckles and silvery scars and a mop of brown hair that looks like it’s never once been brushed, this is the kind of person who would fluster you on a normal day. Now, you don’t even know the word to describe the effect he has on you. 

He has to ask his question a second time before you hear it. 

“Have you had allergic reactions to any medications?” 

You blink. It still feels like reality is moving at twice its usual speed. You don’t know if it’s just you shaking, but it feels like the whole room. “Uh, no. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright.” The doctor’s voice is businesslike but kind, with a Welsh lilt. He flips a page on his clipboard. “Anything we weren’t able to address in the ambulance? Any new aches and pains?” 

“I—I don’t think so.” 

He lowers the clipboard slightly, looking at you. His eyes are a lightish brown color, like honey left too long in the sun. “Has anyone talked you through grounding exercises?” 

You feel your brow wrinkle. “What?” 

He almost smiles. “I’ll take that for a no.” He sets down his clipboard on the edge of your bed, pulling up a rolling chair and sitting down in front of you. “I’m going to have you breathe with me for a minute, alright, sweetheart?” 

It’s not in your nature to contradict professionals, but you feel your head shaking as if from somewhere outside of yourself. “Why?” you ask. “Aren’t there more important things?” 

“There are still things left to do,” he allows, seeming unaffected by your questioning, “but you’re stable. It’s nothing that can’t wait for a few minutes, and it’s important that you’re calm so you can think properly.” He takes your hands in his, ignoring the odd padding of the splint around your broken wrist and holding your fingertips instead. “All I need from you is for you to copy my breathing. Can you do that for me?” 

You nod. As he starts to talk you through it, your eyes begin to sting, an effect of his gentle tone or the respite your body has been craving or both. Your doctor’s expression doesn’t change when he sees the silver lining your eyes, but he gives your fingertips a light squeeze. 

“Okay, in for eight this time,” he says in that lulling voice. “Good job, just keep at it.” 

You manage to breathe in for long enough to satisfy him, and after the exhale he drops your hands. 

“Well done,” he murmurs, mindful of the small cuts on your face as he thumbs away your tears. “Are you feeling a bit better?” 

“Yeah,” you answer honestly. The word comes out like a sigh, and his lip curves softly at the plain relief in the sound. 

“Happy to hear it. You were right earlier, there’s still plenty left to do,” he says, expression sombering somewhat as he looks at you intently, “but if you ever need a break, you tell me or someone else, okay? I don’t want you suffering in silence.” 

“Okay.” You wet your lips, feeling much more solid than you had a few minutes before. The world has slowed to its regular speed. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

He smiles, which is altogether too charming for a place like this. It makes the long scar going across his cheek crinkle slightly and you could swear his eyes lighten a shade. “Well, see, that’s how I know you weren’t really with me when you came in, because we’ve already been introduced.” His expression lets you know he hasn’t taken any offense, but your face still heats at your impoliteness. “It’s Doctor Lupin, but you can call me Remus.” 

Something in you rings at this new knowledge, like a tuning fork has been struck. Remus, your consciousness echoes quietly. 

His smile softens. “We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other today.”

[firelilyfox]

Choose Your Next Words Carefully

Dune: Paul Atreides x female reader

Warnings: se&ual harassment (assault) / cursing / angst / blood

Words: 2k

Summary: Paul & you were childhood friends but suddenly he distanced from you. On a night full of celebration you get into trouble & Paul protects you … but what happened two years ago?

______________________

Caladan looked even more beautiful at night. 

You are watching the peaceful waves collapsing under the balcony you are standing on. Behind the whole castle is celebrating another victory against the Harkonnen. A soft breeze lets the fabric of your dress flow in the wind and you take a deep breath of the salty air. 

It wasn’t your wish to be here tonight, but your father insisted that you would watch him getting honored for his work for Duke Leto. And you did. But when the duke’s son joined the celebration, you had to get out of there as soon as possible. 

You and Paul Atreides had a very … complicated past. 

As long as you could remember you had a crush on him and he knew it all along. When the two of you were younger, you would play everyday and make mischief all around the castle. But suddenly you barley saw him once a week and Paul acted kinda cold around you. Once you wanted to talk to him about his weird behavior, he just laughed at you and made fun of you for having a crush on him. Everybody around could hear him laughing and began to pity you for being so naive. 

The daughter of a soldier would never be good enough for a future Duke. 

You never spoke to Paul again. This was two years ago, but every time you see him at big events, your heart tightens and you become overwhelmed with sadness and anger. How could he do something like that to you? Even if he never had felt the same for you as you did for him … friends don’t hurt each other like that. 

„What are you doing out here?“, a voice asked behind you. When you turned around you saw a man standing there, looking at you with a drunk smile. It was a friend of your father. A soldier, just like him. 

„Just catching some fresh air“, you said. 

The man comes closer to you, stumbling over his own feet. His wrinkly face showed many scars from battle in the past. „It is dangerous … for a young Lady … out here.“ 

He leans towards you, but you duck away from him. „Uh.. thanks for the heads up. I will go inside … where its safer.“ 

As you turn your back again, you can hear him mumbling something about find me later, but you don’t want to keep listening to this creepy guy.  

Quickly your feet carrying you inside the great hall, where most of the people are dancing and drinking. You couldn’t see your father anywhere because you are shorter than most of the men and women here. So you decide to get on one of the stone benches to get a better view from up there. 

„These things are meant to sit on, you know?“ 

Green eyes. A crooked grin. Freckles. 

„What do you know, Atreides? Shouldn’t your royal ass be sitting on a throne or something?“

Paul chuckles. „Sassy as always. Some things never change, hm?“ 

You rolled your eyes and went back to keep on looking for your father, so you could finally leave this goddamn party. That’s when Paul joined you on the bench. 

„What are we looking for?“, he asked amused. 

You’re frowning at him. „WE are not looking for anything. I am looking for my father. And YOU should leave me alone, Atreides.“ 

Paul looks confused. „Have you forgotten my first name? It’s Paul, you know?“ He smiled again and you catch yourself almost smiling at his dumb joke. But you manage to pull yourself together before that happens. It almost felt like when you were kids. 

„Fuck off, Paul.“ You jump from the bench and trying to make a way through the crowd of drunk, dancing people. Paul follows you. 

„You tell your future Duke to fuck off? Hah! You are as brave as I remember“, he says laughing. Before you could respond anything, Paul grabs your wrist and turns you around. His other hand holding your waist and you find yourself pressed against him. The high difference forces you to look up at him. 

„What are you doing?“, you stutter. 

A smirk appears on his face, as if he know how much impact his presence has on you. „I’m dancing with you. I mean we are on the dance floor.“ 

For a moment you let yourself enjoy the feeling of being so close to him. The pressure of his hand on your lower back, his chest moving against yours. Your fingers on his bicep. Hands holding each other. This was something you always dreamed about. Your heart begins to pound like crazy. His smile faded and his gaze softened. Now he looks at you like you are the only thing that is existent. Time moves slower. Noise faded. Only you and him. 

Paul leans his forehead against yours, closings his eyes and he takes a deep breath. The moment was intimate and all you wished for at some point … but it felt wrong. 

„What has gotten into you tonight?“ You pushed him away. A hurt expression crossed his face and you almost felt bad. „Two years, Paul. Two years and now this?“ 

Without waiting for a stupid response you took off and managed to find a way through the crowd out in the hallways. Tears filled your eyes, but you are to stubborn to let them run down your face, exposing your hurt feelings. 

Desperate for some privacy you opened a small door and find an empty room with sofas. The perfect hiding spot until you’ll be able to shove down your feelings again. 

„I see. The Lady found me.“ 

A high pinched scream escaped your throat as you were grabbed roughly by the shoulders and got pushed down on one of the sofas. Your head slammed against something hard and you feel warm blood running down your cheek. 

The man from the balcony holds you down with a big smile on his face. His gaze is hidden in shadows but you recognize him. 

„Let me go! My father will behead you with his own hands!“ You scream at him, trying to get away but against his heavy body you have no chance. 

He was not listening and even if he was, he seemed not to care. The man took one hand of your shoulder to grab you by the neck to choke you and the other hand loosened up his pants. 

„No. No please. No“, you beg for him to stop. 

„Not so bratty anymore, hm? I shall teach you a lesson you little slut! I will…“ 

But his words came to stop. Slowly you opened your eyes again, as his grip around your neck got loose again. You could see a knife at his throat, forcing him to stop and not move a muscle. The hand, that was holding the knife belonged to … Paul. 

He was standing behind the man. His eyes dark and full of rage. The knife scratching the skin and making the old man bleed a little bit. 

The old guy shouted in anger. „Whoever dares to interrupt me will be punished!“ 

Paul chuckled dangerously silent and forced the man to turn around to look at him. His eyes widened in shock. „My Lord“, he whispered. „I didn’t know that you own this whore … I mean I …“ 

„If I were you“, Paul interrupted him with a deadly glance. „I would choose my next words very carefully.“ 

Paul lays more pressure on the knife and it’s cutting deeper into his skin. The man began to whimper. Before the damage would be irreversible, Paul pushed him to the ground. 

„I won’t wash my hands in your blood.“ As if he had given a silent sign, two guards came in to drag the man outside. „These guys will handle that.“ 

You look at Pauls back. He was standing there like a true leader. Like the man he became. He was not a child anymore … and neither were you. 

As the door closes again he dropped the knife and turned around to you. Faster than lighting he got down on one knee to met your eyes at the same hight. His hands cupping your face and he wipes your tears away that mixed up with the blood. 

„Does it hurt badly?“, he asked with a soft voice. The contrast to his fearless and deadly side couldn’t be any bigger. 

You shake your head. „No it’s fine.“ 

„He will be beheaded in the morning. You don’t have to worry about seeing him ever again.“ Paul tries to calm you down. His eyes holding your own captured and you weren’t able to look away. 

„Thanks. I mean …“, you shake your head again getting rid of his hands. „I should go now.“ 

You stand up and opening the door. Paul is standing right behind you, pushing the door shut again. His hand were right next to your head but you refuse tu turn around right away. 

„Please let me explain“, he whispered. Paul was so close, that you could feel his breath on your skin. You sigh but still refuse to turn around to look at him. 

„There is nothing to explain. I know everything that I need to know.“ 

„You asked me what has gotten into me tonight.“ 

You stay silent. 

Paul sighted. „My father told me that I don’t have to be married to be the next Duke.“

Confusion brings you to look over your shoulder and met his sad green eyes. The honesty in them lets you turn around. „What does that have to do with me?“ 

He smiled but it looked so sad and broken. „Everything. I … i stayed away from you on purpose, y/n.“ 

„What do you mean?“ 

„The day you told me, that you … you had feelings for me, was the same day my father told me to that I have to marry Princess Irulan in the future. I was so mad at him because I already lost my heart to someone and I … but he said that it had to be this way.“ 

„So you let out your anger about your father out on me?“, you asked angrily. 

Paul shakes his head. „No. I just thought … if you would hate me … then it would be easier for me to stay away from you.“ 

Suddenly all fell right into place. His behavior on that day two years ago made much more sense … he was cold and distant but… 

You punched him on the arm. „That still don’t give you the permission to act like an asshole!“ 

Paul smiled and nodded apologetically. „You are right but I was young and not so smart like I thought I wished to be.“ 

A moment of silence fell over the two of you. Just the eyes spoke louder than a voice could ever manage to do. 

„So … you lost your heart to someone else than your reflection in the mirror?“, you joked. 

„God I missed your sassy mouth so much!“ Paul laughed and it was the first real laughter you heard from him for such a long time. „Yeah i did. Even if my reflection is pretty stunning … nothing compares to the girl that I lost my heart and soul to.“ 

Paul gently laid his hand on your cheek making sure you keep on looking into his eyes before  he kept on talking. „I always loved you, y/n. Of course I did! How could I not love you?“ 

Tears start to fill your eyes again … but this time for a good reason. 

„You are still an asshole for behaving like that, Atreides.“ 

His smile melted your heart away. „Will you forgive me?“ 

You nod. 

Paul slowly leans towards you and when his lips met yours, there where nothing else to say. 

[adverbally]

Searching for a Trail to Follow Again

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “The Night We Met - Lord Huron” | wc: 1,111 | rated: M | cw: nonexplicit sexual content | tags: Eddie’s insecurities, not really breakup sex, kind of more like goodbye sex, at least until Steve knocks some sense into Eddie, hopeful ending

———

Eddie has never understood the concept of breakup sex.

Either you were ending the relationship and didn’t care if you never saw the other person again, or you were still in love and devastated that they didn’t want you anymore. What closure could someone get from that?

He wishes he could go back to that ignorance. Now he knows that not all relationships end because the love is gone; now he understands wanting to make the last time special, to savor something you will probably never have again. Sure, it hurts to know the end is coming. But the end is coming whether you know it or not, and Eddie would rather be able to plan for it.

Their end is here. Tomorrow, Steve will be taking his community college credits to Ball State University to become a teacher. He’s so excited to start his deaf education program and work with kids like him. Eddie’s excited for him too, except that Muncie, Indiana is over 200 miles away from Chicago, where they’ve both been living with Robin.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Steve, but who wants to go to school with a partner chaining them down when they could be meeting new people, enjoying their youth? Who wants a loser like Eddie holding them back? Wannabe musician, part-time bartender, part-time record store clerk, full-time disappointment.

As much as Steve protests that line of thinking, he concedes that he won’t be able to make the trip back to Chicago often, between his coursework and his internship and working part-time. He refuses to call it a breakup, though; this is just a temporary disruption in their relationship.

Eddie wishes he had that confidence. Instead, he’s kissing Steve like it’s his last night on earth and committing everything to memory in case he never gets to touch Steve like this again. The lean muscle of him, the freckles that dot his skin, the coarse hair against Eddie’s fingertips, the taste of his sweat. The way Steve can’t seem to get enough of him, reluctant to let their lips part for more than a moment. The sounds he makes, low moans and gasps and quiet praise and Eddie’s name, over and over.

Afterward, they lie curled around each other in Eddie’s bed. Steve’s belongings are already packed and loaded into the truck he rented. The finality of everything is setting in but Eddie is determined not to be dramatic, just this once. He’ll enjoy Steve while he still has him and not waste the precious hours they have left.

“Maybe you can visit me sometime,” Steve suggests, like he wants to ask Eddie to come but doesn’t want to be too direct about it. Like Eddie isn’t grasping for any crumbs of Steve he can gather.

“If you want me to, I will,” Eddie promises.

“Of course I want you to.” Steve is quiet for a minute before he speaks again. “Are you saying goodbye to me? Was this– it felt… I don’t know. I don’t want to leave with you thinking you���ll never see me again.”

How can Eddie explain that that’s how it feels? Steve is going to be at school for two or three years; that may be a short time in the grand scheme of things, but compared to how long they’ve been together? Compared to how many other people Steve has dated and slept with? Just because Steve has undeniably ruined Eddie for anyone else doesn’t mean the reverse is true.

So instead of trying to explain, he says, “You know, they say it’s, like, scientifically proven that you never forget the person who gave you your first kiss or the one who took your virginity.”

Steve laughs. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is!” Eddie insists. “And yeah, you weren’t my first kiss, but you were my first everything else, you know? And I don’t get to be that for you.”

“They may not be as glamorous, but I’ve had plenty of firsts with you,” Steve argues, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at Eddie. “Like, I had never laughed until I cried during sex before you. And I had never been to a metal concert until that one I saw with you.” His voice is soft when he continues, “I don’t think I’ve ever really, truly been in love with anyone but you, either.”

Eddie gnaws on his own lip, pulling at the dry skin until it starts to bleed. “Just because I was the first doesn’t mean I’ll be the last. There might be someone else out there for you.”

“Yeah, there’s probably someone else for you, too. It doesn’t matter, I don’t want someone else.” Steve’s hand is gentle on Eddie’s cheek, caressing the stubble along his jaw. “I want you. As long as you want me back, I’ll want you.”

“I just— I don’t want you to resent me when I’m not there.” Eddie can’t look away with Steve holding his face, so he can’t hide when he tears up. “I worry you’ll realize you’re too good for me, or you’ll wish you didn’t have to deal with me anymore or something.”

Steve looks devastated. “Baby, am I that bad at telling you how much you mean to me? I love you. I’ve loved you for two years, and I’ll keep loving you forever.”

Eddie sniffs as Steve helpfully wipes under his eye with his thumb. “That’s not always— What if the love isn’t enough?”

“What if it’s not?” Steve challenges him. “If we couldn’t make it work, what would you do?” When Eddie doesn’t respond, he continues, “I’d rather be with you now, really be present and enjoy our time together, than worry about some hypothetical. And even if it does end someday, I would rather face the pain of losing you than never have you at all.”

“I didn’t think about it that way,” Eddie admits, almost ashamed. Here he is, making Steve comfort him when he should be focusing on Steve.

“I get it if you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I’m gonna be in a new place, studying hard, and I’m not gonna have you there to make it better.” Steve’s smile is fond and a little teasing. “But we can still talk and send letters. And three hours isn’t that long of a drive.”

Eddie nods. “Yeah. You’re right, of course. I want to be here for you. Even if I can’t always be there.”

“So be here now, and be here when I come back.” The kiss Steve lays on his cheek is chaste, but it might be the most intimate feeling Eddie has ever experienced.

[juneknight]

Beneath His Breath

Kink: Forced orgasm

Dorm room Marc deserves this.

*

“I can do it,” he mutters softly, not to you, but to himself. He repeats it again and again, his head slowly lolling to the side. He suddenly jerks against his bonds, cock twitching in your grasp as he loses the battle against relaxing his muscles and thinking of something—anything—besides your lubed hand smoothing up and down his shaft. Marc lets out a frustrated breath, head thudding backwards against the headrest.

“Don’t you want to cum, Marc?” you murmur.

“No,” he mutters. His lips start moving again. Maybe he’s whispering song lyrics, like he was ten minutes ago. Or praying, like he had briefly twenty minutes ago. You glance down toward his cock and give your own shaky sigh. You have never seen him harder than he is now, his cock a dusky red. To switch things up, you let your lubed hand down to cup his balls, to feel the heft of them and how tight they’ve become after thirty minutes of focused edging.

Except it isn’t really edging if you’re trying to make him cum.

“You’re so pretty, Marc, you know that?” He doesn’t respond, lips still moving. Your thumb brushes along the spot where his sac meets his shaft. No response. “This iron clad willpower you’re scraping together is truly impressive.”

“Thanks,” he mutters. You lift his balls gently, searching for that spot behind them, pressing the pad of your thumb against it softly. Marc’s eyes open, staring at everything and nothing all at once as his jaw goes slack. Then his mouth shuts with a click, eyes squeeze tight as he swallows down the groan that vibrates through his entire bare, sweat-slicked chest.

“Very impressive,” you remark. “But baby, we both know you’re a little slut for me. How long do you really expect to last?”

“Til you give up,” he mutters, feet shifting restlessly beneath him. Though his hands are bound behind his back, you left his legs free. You know he likes to bounce his knee when he needs to distract himself. A glance toward your time shows that you have ten minutes and thirty-three seconds to make Marc cum or it’s Game Over.

“I’m never gonna give up, baby,” you whisper. “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with your pretty dick in my hand. I’m gonna fuck and suck it as often as I choose, because you’ll always be hard for me, won’t you?”

“Stop,” he says, breaths growing even shallower. You know Marc’s body well: the length and girth of his cock, the spots that make him groan, the ones which give him goosebumps. The scars. The freckles. You know just where to touch and with how much pressure to coax a symphony of different sounds from him. All that, and you know that nothing turns him on more than getting inside his head, and the best way to do that is by talking to him.

“I don’t know why I’m even trying to make you cum,” your murmur. “I should leave you just like this, on the edge. Maybe put a ring on your cock. Then you’ll just be my toy, won’t you baby? A pretty toy. Prettiest cock I’d have ever fucked myself with, that’s for sure.

“Please,” Marc mutters, eyes flickering beneath his lids. He loses the rest of his breath, just mouthing the word again and again. Please, please, please.

“I’m gonna fuck myself so loose with you,” you sigh happily. “Keep you inside me even when I’m sleeping, ‘til my pussy feels empty whenever you—”

Marc cums. The first indication that you’ve pushed him over the edge is the breath he takes: full, chest expanding in a way he hadn’t let himself dare until now. His head lolls back, baring his corded throat to you as his mouth parts. In your lubed hand, his cock twitches, lengthening that last little bit before it bursts, cum splashing against the hard line of his abs in one, two, three spurts before spilling down over your knuckles as you work him through his orgasm. The groan that rips free of his throat is enough to haunt your dreams in the best way.

When at last his body has stopped trembling, you pump your other fist in the air.

“Haha! Take that, Spector! Now who’s doing the dishes?”

“Me,” he sighs.

“Say it, say it all in one sentence, it’s so beautiful—”

“I am going to do the dishes.”

You lean in and place a smacking kiss on his lips. He grins against your mouth and laughs at your enthusiasm, shaking his head a little as you untie him. Watching him flex his wrists and fingers, you see his mouth mutter one more thing.

You think he says, Worth it

[a-libra-writes]

can I please request for a Mordecai Heller x female reader? like reader is a showgirl who sings on stage like Mitzi one and tends to attract a lot of attention but backs out when they feel this murdercat plotting their death lmao. thank you 😁

heyo! I decided to do a looot of the cats for this one, since its p similar to my Peaky Blinders Jazz Singer post that I was fond of. GN Reader.

Being a Jazz Singer & Performer!

Rocky - When he was hired and met you for the first time, it was absolutely an "infatuation at first sight" situation. Pros!: He's unfailingly polite and sweet, he seems to play with even more energy when you two share a stage, his grin is very off-putting to creeps who shout up at the stage and harass you. Cons: He can get quite distracted when you two share a stage. Many times Zib has had to pull him back with the rest of the band, because he keeps unintentionally scooting closer to you.

The worst part of the Lackadaisy falling onto hard times is the fact you rarely worked there now - you had to sing at other clubs to make ends meet. One of Rocky's big motivators for getting the club back to its old self is you'd come back! Forever this time! (Probably). Rocky doesn't exactly have the time or money to visit the other clubs you work at, so he wants all of your attention during your infrequent visits to the Lackdaisy.

Freckle - Look, he's a shy kid, and the whole 'sneaking out under cover of night to do bootlegging/torpedo shenanigans' is still new. He doesn't have a lot of experience or frame of reference for what a good club singer is like, but Freckle thinks you've got to be one of the best. You have to be, right? Your voice is wonderful and you look positively celestial under the stage lights - wait, that's weird to think, right? Thank God he didn't say it out loud. ... He didn't, right?

Freckle hasn't the slightest idea of how to approach you, so it's up to Ivy and his cousin to drag him over and attempt conversation. It's... a little pitiable, but he's trying. That said, he's surprisingly outspoken and a little scary if someone tried to mess with you while you performed. You're used to the heckles and catcalls, but it's shocking to see that shy tabby jump up from his seat and raise his voice at them.

Ivy - She liked you from the moment she first saw you perform at the Lackdaisy, and that crush hasn't dulled over the months. She maaaay have kept a few posters that advertised the clubs you sang at, and may or may not have cajoled her way into those clubs so she could watch the show. She could easily sweet talk her way to backstage, too - seems you've got a fan.

When the Lackadaisy goes downhill, it's Ivy who wants to sweet talk you into returning. You'll bring in a crowd! The acoustics are great! Pretty pleeease? Her dad Ivy will pay you and not get in trouble until months later when the family accountant goes over the finances. Obviously she cares about the club's wellbeing, but she also wants to spend time with you! Though she's bold enough to just ask you outright. She's also bold enough to outright shout and fight anyone whose heckling you - throwing a heel is a favorite tactic.

Viktor - You're someone he saw often in the olden days, back when the club could afford to have you perform several times a week rather than once a month. Viktor never cared much for the cacophony the crowd and music made, though he knew objectively you were an excellent performer. Rather than endure the crowd, he'd listen to your voice drift across the caves backstage, rehearsing with the band or just by yourself. It was pleasant to listen to, and he could do so in private, either coming back from a job or about to go on one.

Once things began to fall apart, it's not as though he went around to clubs ... or anywhere, really. So if you stopped performing at the Lackadaisy, you might never see each other again. Choosing to stay (or at least do a few pity gigs) would lead to the surprising sight of the big, morose Slav working behind the bar and watching from there, rather than his previous hideouts. It's a little intense to be under that stare... but not all unpleasant? And given how sparse the crowd is, anyone making trouble and catcalling will get dealt with so promptly, they won't even have time to finish their wolf whistle.

Zib - Well, obviously he's going to be drawn in by an attractive singer. Come on. Zib can be smooth when he wants, chainsmoker-scent and rumpled clothes aside. The band likes to tease him mercilessly about it, but that doesn't stop him from cozying up while you two perform together and shooting his shot backstage after every show. Back when the Lackadaisy was thriving, he could afford to hang out at the other clubs you performed at; nowadays, though, that's not so likely.

Even so, starting up a friendship or even fling wouldn't be difficult. He's attracted to and interested in creative spirits, doubly so if you two had very different taste (so there's more to discuss!) and you got on well with the rest of the band. Late-night debates about this musician or that show over a game of cards and several bottles of wine, either together or with the rest of the boys, and waking up half-dressed and seriously hungover come sunrise. Opportunities for visiting would dwindle as the Lackadaisy's business dried up, though if you stayed on ... No, he wouldn't want that for you. If anything you'd be mentioning to him and the band that there's other places to perform to pay the bills. Well, it'd be food for thought.

Wick - Wick wouldn't call himself a music aficionado, especially what's listened to at these rowdy speakeasies, but he won't deny how hard it was to focus on his business associates when you were on stage. So when he discovered you often performed at his favorite club, it was a pleasant surprise. He really wanted to speak with you at some point, at least compliment the performance, but didn't want to come off as those typical entitled wealthy guys who get too fresh with ""lower"" class performers ... so sometimes you'd find flowers in the dressing room and an anonymous note of appreciation.

He finally gets a conversation when you're a guest at a posh party he's attending, or when you continue to perform at the Lackadaisy in spite of the dwindling crowd. It's a shame your large audience is missing, but at least it's way less awkward for him to strike up conversation when you come to the bar? He probably won't bring up the flowers. Oh god, what if you think that's weird. You probably assumed the flowers were some freak fan. Is he a freak fan? He's not, right? (It will take him like months of dating to finally admit to the flowers thing)

Serafine - A good-looking cat with a nice set of pipes is certainly someone she'd notice, especially if they were a regular performer at the Marigold Room and other places she frequented before that. If it was the former, she'd have plenty of chances to wink when you met eyes, "chancing" across you backstage or just being forward and chatting you up after the show. She certainly isn't shy about expressing her interest, and it could be a fun fling.

You do look adorable swinging your hips and swaying your tail along to the beat, not to mention the different get-ups you have to dress in. Serafine maaaay or may not have wanted to help pick a suit out, or help with make-up, or give you some of her jewelry to wear... It's half marking her territory and half she loves to lounge around your dressing room and be a pest. You'd never kick her out and she knows it. She'll do it in other clubs, too, though you have no idea how she keeps getting past security.

Nico - Like his sister, he has no qualms nor shame about trying to get your attention on stage. Unlike Serafine, though, he'd start doing it immediately and be a general pest after the show. The difference between his attention seeking and the other men's in the audience is he actually has some charisma when you two meet backstage, so you're only slightly inclined to tell him to buzz off. He wasn't much of a music expert, and he still isn't ... But he likes hearing you rehearse and hum to yourself, and it's endearing when he requests songs.

He's pleased when you get gigs at the Marigold Room, as it's easier to hang around before and after the show - and bonus, he gets to be extra aggressive with throwing creeps out to impress you! But if you're performing elsewhere then Nico will stop by. He might be bruised and/or bloody because he just left a job, but don't worry! Sometimes he'll even bring flowers or whatever - though without Serafine knowing, she'd never let him live it down.

Mordecai - He wouldn't approach you any differently from others - he'd still be his usual prickly, anti-social, often awkward self - in fact, he might avoid an avid performer, simply because they often have fans around them or at least people recognizing them. What could get his notice was someone whose real persona is very different from their ostentatious self on stage - more quiet and pensive, perhaps. Like any attempt at friendship, let alone romance, it's slow going with him.

That said, he's the type to admire professionalism in a performance. A well put together outfit, thoughtful musical arrangement (as if he's an expert ...). He wouldn't like a femme presenting singer have to wear skimpy clothes or tolerate a rowdy audience. If there was a questionable manager or creepy fan bothering them, Mordecai can deal with that, at least, not that he'd tell his friend/partner. Mordecai would generally glare down any touchy fans and annoying admirers like a jealous terrier. This amuses Mitzi to no end.

Asa - Simply put, he saw you performing at a ritzy party he was invited to and reached out to your manager so you might perform on a weekly basis at the Marigold Room. Very professional! He'd send flowers with his name to the dressing room afterward, would make sure you're finding everything to your liking and not being bothered by anyone. Requests to continue performing would bypass your manager to being nice, short handwritten notes.

Eventually he'd pay you extra and treat you to a nice dinner afterward, if you were comfortable with it. If you let the older man down, he's not too bothered. He'd continue the friendly business relationship and would still send flowers and so on. He'd rather keep you as a good business associate and continue to enjoy the performances than let his silly feelings get in the way. Alas, he is hopeless at discussions of your music. My guy called a ukelele a tiny guitar.

Wes - He never hung around the Marigold Room after hours - it's his workplace, and not really his vibe - but it's very hard to resist not sitting by for an hour (or three) with a drink while you finish your set. Sometimes you two will meet eyes, or he thinks you are, and he considers dropping backstage to say ... hello? He's an 'employee', so isn't checking up on you a normal thing to do? Make sure you're satisfied with the Marigold Room and all that. Right.

Ironically that's how he's finally able to meet the singer he's been mooning over for months. A drunk patron was getting too cozy on your way out, and Wes happened to be there. His face and ... charming demeanor is good for scaring off upper class wimps. So there's that. He's not so bad, though - clumsy, and prooobably realizes you're out of his league. You get to see more of his earnest side when you two meet outside of the Marigold Room, where his fellow murderous gangsters coworkers aren't watching yalls every move with popcorn in hand.

[jinx-xxed]

3 A.M. Snack

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; I’ve always wanted to do this with someone so of course I wrote it with Kylo :D this trope (?) is a classic and always one of my favs!! Also a little glimpse of the modern AU I have cookin

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; It’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep, so naturally you make a trip to the kitchen. Your husband decides to follow you.

Content; Modern AU, pure fluff, cooking + dancing in the kitchen at 3 am, married to Kylo, sleepy and soft and lovey Kylo (the best version), also very clingy Kylo, you can’t cook for shit (I’m projecting), so Kylo’s like your personal chef, sharing a meal, how many times can I say cook in this intro, you have a pet cat :), cuddling

Wc; 1.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The clock reads 3:27 AM.

Far too late for you to be awake, but sleep has escaped you once again and you’re not a fan of laying in bed just tossing and turning all night. So you slipped out of your lover’s arms—which is a feat in itself considering the iron grip he has—and went down to the kitchen. What else are you supposed to do at 3 AM? You don’t want to work on answering emails or anything like that, that’s for sure, and besides, you didn’t have much to eat the day prior anyway because you were too busy. Might as well.

You keep your steps light through the house that’s filled with silence, moving so quietly it’s like you were never there. Each room is bathed in the darkness of night, save for the massive window-wall in the living room that bleeds into the kitchen. Moonlight filters through, giving things a pale glow. BB is one of those things, the cat having followed you downstairs. His black and silvery fur reflects the moon, making him seem like a little star if he stands in the light rays at just the right angle.

You stand in the wide kitchen, hands on your hips, wondering what to do. BB gives a curious meow, winding around your legs. “Shh- I’m thinking.” You mutter. Cereal? No. Muffin? Also no. Oatmeal? Definitely not. You have just about everything you could want in here and yet your mind is annoyingly blank.

You perk up at the sound of footsteps and then there’s strong arms around you, one crossed against your chest, a warm hand coming up to lightly grip your jaw and leave kisses peppered along your neck. You lean into the gentle touches like a cat. You’re not surprised he showed up, he always does. Whenever you’re awake in the middle of the night, he’s awake minutes later. It’s endearing, having someone miss you so deeply even in their dreams.

“Sweetheart,” Kylo mumbles against your skin, clearly still half asleep, “you have a conference in the morning.”

You huff and resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even without most of his wits about him, he still pesters you about work. You have a secretary who does that enough—with him around it’s like you don’t even need one. Sure he’s kept you from missing more than a few sponsorship meetings, but that’s besides the point. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep. Also I was hungry.”

He hums, taking the opportunity to kiss your cheek. “Then I’ll make you something.”

You tense, turning yourself around and pushing him away as a result, much to his dismay. “What? No, no, you go back to bed. You had a long day.” You say, trying to be stern. Your hand cups his cheek, thumb rubbing along the freckled skin. You see the darkness beneath his eyes; his job hasn’t been kind recently. You consider returning to bed just for his benefit so that he’ll sleep, even if it’ll leave you lying awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

He doesn’t give you a chance to do such a thing, pulling you close again and resting his head in the crook of your neck. You feel his sigh blow across your skin; it makes a shiver run down your spine. “I don’t want you to burn down our kitchen.”

You scoff, incredulous. “I think I can handle it. You have no faith in your wife.”

“Last time I did, the house smelled like burnt chicken for the whole day.” He says pointedly. You pout, and he straightens to peck your lips, begrudgingly making you smile. “I’m already up, let me do this.”

Kylo leaves it unmentioned, but you both know he won’t be able to go back to sleep unless you do either. You find how clingy he is at night to be pretty cute; he’s like a puppy that can’t stand being away from you for more than two seconds. You sigh. “Fine.”

“Good.” He says, heading towards the fridge. “What do you want then?”

You have no response because you were working on trying to figure that out before he came in, and you were ultimately unsuccessful. But it seems that’s not a problem for him—probably because he could cook whatever he thinks of and you… can’t. “Eggs on toast?” He asks, already pulling out the egg carton.

Your eyes light up, hands clasping together enthusiastically. “Oooh yeah that sounds good.”

He smirks knowingly, tossing you the loaf of bread and flicking on the overhead stove light. “I can trust you to toast bread, right?”

You glare at him in mock anger. “I don’t know, can you?”

He huffs a laugh and leaves you to your own devices, that being the toaster. You pop two slices of the thicker bread between the slots while he works on the eggs, buttered pan situated on the stovetop. You turn on the speaker that sits on the counter, gentle music flitting through the kitchen. You scoop up BB and hold him like a baby in your arms, his legs flailing as he accepts his fate. You hum along to the tune, dancing around on the linoleum floors, socks making it easy to slide. Kylo hooks an arm around your waist when you go by, bringing you in to kiss the top of your head. You smile, warmth buzzing in your chest.

BB gets spooked when the toaster finally goes off, scrabbling out of your hold and hurrying from the kitchen. You take the toast and put the pieces on plates, with Kylo’s being a bit more toasted than yours, just how he likes it. The eggs are finished around the same time, their smell filling the air and making your stomach growl. Kylo carefully slides them from the pan onto the toast, lightly peppered and cooked perfectly, of course.

You two take the late night snacks into the living room, sitting comfortably against each other on the couch, his warmth bleeding into yours. This was exactly what you needed; warm, tasty food, and simply enjoying the presence of your partner.

“Thank you,” you mumble around a mouthful, head bumping against his shoulder.

“Mm.”

You finish your egg on toast rather quickly, where he takes a bit longer, as usual. You feel your body droop while you wait for him, eyes burning with a sudden tiredness, like sleep has been waiting for the right moment to creep in and get you. It’d be very easy to just fall asleep on the couch…

Kylo doesn’t let you though, instead scooping you up into his arms with annoying ease after setting the plates on the table. You can get them in the morning. “Back to bed for you.” He says as your arms come up around his neck. You can’t find it in yourself to argue. You’re carried upstairs and to your shared bedroom, BB eagerly following behind. He jumps on the bed first, meowing in a way that tells you to hurry up.

Kylo sets you down gently, a whine coming from your throat when he separates from you, even though it’s only for a second. Then he’s next to you under the covers, pulling you into his chest and securing his arms around you once again. You drape one of your own arms over his middle, lightly dancing your fingers over his ribs, humming happily. He sighs in content, murmuring something loving that you can’t quite hear against your hair. BB is curled against your back, purrs rumbling.

With everything feeling right in the world, sleep is quick to claim you both.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

heart to heart

cw. selfship-coded, childhood friend au, pre-canon, pre-relationship, slight angst, fluff, one piece spoilers

pairing. portgas d. ace x reader

notes. apparently it isn't enough for me to brainrot in private about a character i've been obsessed with for a decade, you guys have to be subjected to it as well. whoops🤪

It is not hyperbole to say that early mornings are the only time of day when the Dadan Family base is peaceful.

The sun has barely risen, the morning birds have barely begun their song and most everyone is still snoring away in their cots. Early mornings and late evenings have become Dadan’s favorite time of day, citing them as the only times she is ever allowed a moment of peace.

That peace is stalled whenever Garp visits.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us,” you ask Ace a final time before you leave for your hometown.

Ace shakes his head with a small smile, “they’re more your friends than mine.” A true sentiment, in your six years of knowing each other, there is still a distinction between your friends in Windmill Village and your friends living among bandits on Mt. Corvo. “Tell ‘em I said ‘congrats’ though. We might end up seeing them later down the road.”

“As marines!” Garp calls over his shoulder gruffly, not waiting for you to catch up. He has one more year to change his grandson’s mind about becoming a marine before the two of you left Dawn Island for saltier pastures. If he knew that fact, however, you’re sure the marine would grab you both by the back of your shirts and drag you to the port in Windmill Village this second. “You should take after those boys!”

The boys in question are Demarius and Stacey.

They’ve adored Garp since before you knew Ace was his grandchild, constantly pleading for him to take them to a naval base. He promised to do so once they turned 16. The least you could do was bid your friends farewell before they lived out their naval dreams.

Ace rolls his eyes, “Pirate!”

“It’s too early in the morning for you two to start that old fight again,” Dadan grumbles, turning around to head back inside. This was enough kissing Garp's butt for her, tucking away her handkerchief. “I get nothing but headaches when Garp comes around.”

You snicker at the grouchy woman’s exit, looking over her shoulder. The door to the room you share is shut close but you can easily picture Luffy stretched out and snoring, limbs all over the place wildly. He’ll be adding to Dadan’s headache soon enough. “Alright, well, I’ll be back later,” you tell Ace unnecessarily.

“You should spend the night in town,” Ace’s disgruntled expression shifts into something warm. You remember a time when he seldom smiled and could only offer you scowls. It’s hard to believe how much he smiles now, your lips quirking instinctively at the sight. “You haven’t been in town for a while. Everyone probably misses you.”

You lean forward, wiggling your eyebrows, “aww, trying to get rid of me now? You’re just trying to get more of a cut at dinner.”

“Maybe,” Ace’s grin widens and you share a laugh before Garp calls after you, further away than he was last.

Damn for an old man he moves fast. “See you,” you nudge your freckled friend before turning on your feet, nearly tripping as you stumble after his grandfather. “I’m okay,” you call over your shoulder.

Garp is grumbling to himself as you approach him. You don’t need to hear his words clearly to know he is thinking about his pirate obsessed grandsons. “Those dolts,” he mutters. “You used to play marines all the time with those kids in town. Now they’ve got you talking about being a pirate. You’ll all be marines, mark my words!”

“I really only ever wanted to just sail on the seas,” you tell Garp truthfully. Even as a child when Demarius demanded you play marines because he always wanted to play marines, you never played because you aspired to be one. It didn’t have to be the marines, it didn’t have to be pirates, you just wanted to set sail on the ocean blue. Pirate merely became the subsequent medium you vowed to pursue. “The marines kinda seem,” you mull over your next words carefully. “Strict. I just wanna see the world, not be told what to do.”

“Discipline is a good thing,” is his rebuttal. He certainly was very strict in the training you unwittingly got pulled into once he discovered your true intentions.

Silence falls between you both but it isn’t comfortable, not like the silences you’re used to.

Silence in Dadan’s home is accompanied by snores or the movement of someone heading to the bath. Luffy mumbling in his sleep about the many adventures he and his dream crew are on causing you and Ace to share a look and chuckle quietly under your breaths.

It’s when you tell yourself ‘Today’s the day I actually do it’ and you count away in your head the number of Ace’s freckles until you inevitably mess up the count and have to start all over again.

It’s when it’s raining and you, Ace and Luffy sleep in an empty hollow of a tree, the croak of the frogs singing to the drops.

Silence with Garp is suffocating and the jungle is too quiet and your brain too full of anxiety-ridden hypotheticals to even think about your childhood friends you’d be bidding farewell to. Instead, the ones you wouldn’t be saying goodbye to were at the forefront of your mind.

Another minute of silence follows before you’re unable to stop the words from falling from your lips, “Mr. Garp?”

Garp hums gruffly, bark worse than his bite, “what is it?”

“Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking of course, Ace and Luffy do become pirates,” you begin nervously, wincing at how the older man’s eyes sharpened at the word. “Hypothetically!” You’ve been a recipient of many of the marine’s Fists of Love, despite not belonging to his family, you don’t fancy receiving another. “They hypothetically become pirates and end up getting taken in,” you lick your lips as you try to imagine the scenario.

To your discomfort, it is terrifyingly easy to imagine Ace and Luffy in shackles.

The spectacle the World Government would make of it all. The grand executions of the sons of Gol D. Roger and Monkey D. Dragon.

The vitriol of the onlookers spewing words of hatred and damnation. No one would know who they are, not the onlookers in the crowds or the marines holding the weapons that would end their lives. Devils, they would be called. 

There would be one marine who knew them, however. Who truly knew them and not what they represented. It only breaks your heart that in your many years of knowing the older man that you don’t know what end of the spectrum he falls on. No, that’s an incorrect assessment. What breaks your heart is that it has always been too easy suspecting precisely where Monkey D. Garp would fall.

In spite of your suspicions, you still part your lips and ask, “would you help them?” Uncharacteristically, you fiddle with your fingers, the index finger of your right hand being nestled by the thumb and index finger of your left. Clad in a tacky red button up with white roosters, the stocky man’s back seems broader than usual.

It’s the long pause between your question and his answer that sinks in your chest like a knife. “They,” Garp begins but you cut the man off with a laugh.

“Don’t be so serious,” you laugh so convincingly you almost believe you’re unbothered. “I was just messing around. I’m up in the air on the pirate thing but for all we know, Luffy’ll start talking about being the Marine King the next time you see him.”

The elderly marine laughs at the absurdity of your thought, “a king among marines, that’ll be the day.”

ー

“Your shadows not with you for once?” Stacey jokes lightheartedly as he leans his head over in mock surprise at the lack of people accompanying you.

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Garp would drag them onto that boat if they did,” anything to make those two follow in their grandfather’s footsteps. “Ace sends his congratulations anyways.”

“I’m still convinced that guy was replaced by aliens,” Demarius murmurs, squinting at the mountain’s peaks with narrowed eyes. You snort at the absurdity. You, along with your village-bound friends, had met Ace when he was more angry at the world and nearly all of the people inhabiting it. To say they’d been shocked when, the next time they met him, Ace was polite and all smiles is an understatement. Demarius’ suspicious glance lasts a beat longer before he turns his dark eyes to you, shoulders set back. “You can still come with us, you know.”

You remember being 10, running down these dirt roads playing marines with your friends as a rowdy quintet.

The battles you pretended to have against whatever made-up opponents Demarius decided you’d be fighting against. He’d always been the leader of the five of you ー him, Stacy, Pierre, Lisa Lisa and you ー would find yourselves on the tempestuous seas of the Grand Line, all odds against you.

“This is not a good day for battle but it is a glorious day to die,” you remember resolutely saying, words too heavy for someone who hadn’t been in a real fight her entire life until that point.

Real fights came after you met Ace and Sabo. When you began running amok in the capital and Gray Terminal. Real battle came when their angering the Bluejam pirates caught up with them. You couldn’t say you felt glorious fighting the Bluejam pirates in the flames of their hideout. Nor could you say Sabo’s horrifying end was glorious either. There is no glory in fighting but you will do what you have to to protect who you have left.

Pulling yourself from the memories, you shake your head, “you’ll see me at sea next year,” you vow with a grin. You lower your voice so the cantankerous marine behind you cannot hear what you say next. “It’ll just be in a way that pisses off the old man.”

There’s simply one more year to go.

You, alongside the other locals, wave the boys down until they become nothing but a speck on the horizon. Well, off their asses go. You sit on the porch step of what used to be the house that belonged to you and your grandfather. I think the last time I came here it was like, you purse your lips thoughtfully. Shiiieet, 3 months ago? You seldom spend time in the empty shack now. It is only good for your occasional visits and when you’re too lazy to head back up to Dadan’s. That is where home is now.

It’s wherever Ace and Luffy are.

Ace and Luffy who you know Garp loves but will always choose work first. He always has and he always will, so you will always choose them instead.

[separatist-apologist]

On My Vigilante Shit Again

Summary: At the High Lords Meeting, Rhys doesn't dress for friends-He's dressed for revenge.

Read on AO3

Thank you @velidewrites for the moodboard!

Note: This is what should have happened post High Lords meeting and you can quote me on that

-

“The moment you let him fuck you like an—”

Rhys was going to explode. Was going to kill him. Laws be damned, Rhys stared Tamlin down as he ripped through Tamlin’s feeble defenses and held his mind. Just his tongue, for now. But his mind was pliant, his will weak. Rhys could so easily rip his mind apart, make Tamlin beg and plead. Make him grovel before Feyre on his knees, head bowed so low he couldn’t breathe for the marble slammed against his nose.

Rhys’s hands shook under the table, his jaw clenched so painfully he could taste blood. Had he bitten his cheek or was he merely tasting what was to come? Even as he held Tamlin’s tongue, forcing the High Lord into silence, Rhys thought it wasn’t enough. This was merely a show to the five others watching what he was capable of should they test him.

Should they insult his mate, his wife, his life. Feyre was visibly shaken, freckles stark against her gray face. Her eyes were too bright and if he really parsed through the mingling scents of the room, he knew he’d smell salt gathering in the corners. Tamlin had succeeded in undermining her at her first meeting, at the first test of power and everyone knew it. Weakness wasn’t tolerated among High Lords and they’d be circling her like vultures now, looking for more cracks.

Rhys could kill them all. His eyes flicked toward Beron Vanserra, brown eyes locked firmly on Feyre. It was a dark impulse and yet…if they wanted to test him, he’d destroy all six of them and leave their territories in ruins as their ruthless courtiers fought and killed for power. He’d let them eat themselves alive and then sweet in benevolently and take all of Prythian for Feyre. He’d lay waste to the world and set all that power at her feet.

Did they not know what Rhys would do to keep the ones he loved safe? Happy? Rhys kept Tamlin’s tongue silent for the duration of the meeting with barely a second thought. But there, in the darkest recesses of his mind—the part Feyre never ventured, in part because she didn’t think to—Rhys knew what needed to happen next. And he knew how he’d justify it when the other High Lords came to him, furious and fearful.

Tamlin had opened the gates for Hybern. He was a traitor to them all. That’s what he’d say, anyway. Some of them might guess the true reasons—Helion, certainly, who had very loud fantasies about doing worse to Beron than Rhys intended to do to Tamlin. And some might not care very much at all so long as they were reassured they were in no danger. Tarquin and Thesan, certainly, would know he was a liar and not care—Tarquin especially. Though he wasn’t fond of either Rhys or Feyre, his anger for Tamlin burned so hot that Rhys had been able to feel it in the back of his throat.

Tamlin’s foolishness had cost him more lives than Tarquin was able to count. He wanted to see Tamlin punished, too, and couldn’t for the same reason none of them could—they were forbidden from interfering in the matters of other High Lords. Rhys simply didn’t care. Stalking the halls, he listened until he found Tamlin’s pathetic thoughts.

Where did you go? Feyre’s voice floated through his thoughts, her presence caressing his own as she asked for entrance.

Rhys had never once refused her, but he did then. Go back to sleep, my love. I’ll be back before you can miss me.

Rhys, her voice carried a warning, some of the sleepiness gone. Whatever you’re thinking—don’t. Come back to bed.

I can’t.

It was the truth. They could insult him. Call him a whore, a bastard, evil, Amarantha’s right hand—whatever they liked. Rhys didn’t care. Even if they said it in front of his family in their attempt to humiliate him, Rhys didn’t care. Let them say whatever they liked about him.

But how dare they say a word against Feyre. She was the reason they were able to speak freely at all. If Rhys had his way, they’d get on their knees and worship her like a goddess, not taunt her like she was lesser. 

Rhys!

Maybe it was better to let her see—not to shut her out, but to invite her into his mind. To let her see the lengths he’d go. He’d promised her he’d do this once, didn’t he? That he’d hurt anyone who hurt her and he’d take his time doing it. He’d enjoy it.

As Rhys turned the handle to Tamlin’s door, he dropped his defenses so Feyre could slip in. He could feel her peering through his eyes, settling softly just behind his eyes. Her presence was a comfort, reassuring him that this was the right thing to do.

Rhys found Tamlin standing by a window, hands folded behind his back. When Rhys slipped inside, Tamlin turned, green eyes glowing brightly for just a moment. 

“Have you come to gloat?” Tamlin asked, teeth sharpening ever so slightly.

“Not exactly,” Rhys replied, jamming his own hands in his pockets. 

Tamlin sighed, eyes rolling in his skull. “Have you come to defend your mates honor? Spare me—she has none.”

The hair on Rhys’s neck stood on end.

Don’t, Feyre pleaded softly, her voice a shade too high pitched for his liking. He’s not worth it. 

“She’s the reason you’re standing here,” Rhys reminded Tamlin, forcing himself to remain calm. If he alerted Tamlin to his plan, he wouldn’t get to say everything he needed to say. “You owe her your life.”

“I’ve given her enough—”

“You’ve given her nothing,” Rhys snarled, his magic swirling around him like furious vipers. Tamlin didn’t blink, didn’t blanche, thinking incorrectly that Rhys was all talk and no action. 

“Are you angry about what I said or angry I had her first?” Tamlin spat, a fool to the very end. 

“When I found her locked in your home, it was only her love for you that spared you. I would have ripped you apart piece by piece otherwise.”

Tamlin turned back to the window. “She’ll betray you, too. Feyre isn’t capable of loving anything or anyone but herself and her power.”

Rhys’s stomach twisted in knots. 

“She died for you. For that love.”

“And I tried to make it up to her—”

“You locked her away like a trinket!” Rhys snarled again as Feyre pushed closer against him, talons stroking against his mind lovingly. “You were satisfied to let her waste away so long as she warmed your bed at night. If that’s love, well. I’d say I shudder to think what your hatred feels like, but I am intimately aware of how hateful you can be.”

Tamlin only sighed. “When she leaves you—and she will—I’ll be waiting for your apology.”

Rhys raised a hand as Feyre gasped softly in his mind, understanding right then what he truly intended to do. Tamlin, too, realized the danger he was in. It was too late. Immobile, Tamlin’s eyes widened as Rhys cocked his head to the side.

“You can wait for that apology in the afterlife and we’ll see, when I arrive, who was right.”

“Rhys—!” Feyre burst into the room a mere second before Rhys snapped his fingers. Blood sprayed through the room, coating not just his skin, but Feyre’s too. Where Tamlin had once stood, now there were merely the remnants of a male who’d lived a pathetic half life unworthy of memorial. 

Feyre turned, still in her silken nightdress, eyes wide. “You…”

Rhys didn’t dare back down, though he felt a sliver of genuine fear. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t…you didn’t…” Her eyes welled with tears as she approached him. Raising a hand, Rhys flinched, expecting her to slap him. Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Soft fingers caressed his jaw. “Thank you,” she whispered. Rhys exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“You’re not angry?” he asked carefully, eyes darting around the room. There was something delicious about his mate soaked in the blood of his greatest enemy. He wanted to strip her naked and lick her clean. 

“No one has ever had me,” she whispered, inching closer. The scent of her arousal slammed into him, nearly knocking him to the floor. “Not like you.”

That was all he needed to hear. Just the knowledge that she could see his worst, ugliest impulses and still love him for it was enough. Rhys needed her right then, so badly he was unwilling to even make the walk back to their shared bed chamber. She knew it, too.

Feyre surged upward on her tiptoes, their mouths crashing in a symphony of heat. Rhys groaned, snaking an arm around her waist to pull her flush against him. 

“I need you,” he told her, unable to add that what he needed was for her to confirm what he already knew to be true. They belonged together—he’d waited his whole life for her, would have waited centuries more. And it had all been worth it, in the end—to know it was her on the other end of all those sleepless nights, the years of misery, the loneliness that had plagued him. No one understood him the way she did, had ever truly looked at his very soul and found it beautiful rather than horrifying.

“You have me,” she told him, arching her neck so he could scrape his teeth against her soft, sensitive skin. “I’m never leaving.”

What would she say if she realized he wouldn’t let her leave? That his hatred of Tamlin was almost unjustified because Rhys understood why someone would want to lock her away and keep her all for themselves. Rhys felt the same urge, felt the same drive to snarl and snap at every male that dared to look at her without showing the proper reverence. They were too casual about her, didn’t venerate her the way they should. Feyre was more than just High Lady—she was a living goddess, the Cursebreaker herself. 

“Fuck,” Rhys groaned, tongue licking a path down her throat to taste the blood adorning her skin like rubies. If Rhys had known she’d taste so good coated in another male's blood, he’d have killed Tamlin at their wedding. That scrap of silk was soaked and when Rhys ripped it away, he found the skin beneath stained red, too. Rhys needed her more than he needed anything else.

They’d condemn him for this. When they found the remnants of Tamlin, they’d smell his arousal and what he’d done atop the bits that remained. Rhys didn’t care—he hoped Tamlin’s soul lingered so he could watch how well Rhys fucked Feyre. And if Tamlin were still alive, Rhys might have told him that he’d fucked Feyre so thoroughly she had no memory of his pathetic attempts at satisfying her.

You were inadequate, Rhys wished he could say. The problem was always you and never her. 

“I can hear your thoughts,” Feyre complained as Rhys sank to his knees. “Stop thinking about Tamlin and your witty comebacks.”

“I have so many things I didn’t get to say,” Rhys complained, pushing her gently against the very same bloodstained window Tamlin had been brooding beside mere minutes before. 

“You can say them at his grave,” she reminded him. 

“You’re so brilliant,” Rhys praised. “And beautiful. And you taste…”

He had his face between her legs as he spoke the words, raising one slim leg to hook it over his shoulders. Feyre exhaled, leaning her head back so her thick hair spilled over her shoulders, the tips teasing peaked, rosy nipples. 

Rhys almost stood back up but Feyre, the clever thing, pushed his head back down. “Focus,” she whispered. He’d forgotten she was still in his mind, listening to his thoughts and watching through his eyes.

“Can you feel how badly I want you?” he whispered, letting his breath curl like shadows against her wet cunt.

“Yes,” she panted, nails scraping over his scalp. 

Rhys let go of his power, drowning the two of them in darkness. His wings flared outward, enveloping the both until she was hidden from the world unless someone happened to be flying by the window her ass was pressed against. Feyre moaned loudly, unconcerned about anyone else hearing. Good. Rhys wanted her screams to echo off the vaulted ceilings, to keep them all awake. Let them hear—let them know how far Rhys would take it. That the true power in his home was Feyre herself.

Feyre was High Lady and Rhys was her sharpened blade. 

Rhys licked up the side of the thigh, cleaning the blood before switching to the other. Feyre was practically trembling by the time he reached her center, the taste of copper mingling with the sweetness of her arousal. Rhys reached upward, using his strength to hold her so she could relax and, perhaps selfishly, so he could spread her further apart. He liked to see her flushed pink with arousal, liked to tease her with his fingers without wholly penetrating her. He wanted her desperate for his cock by the time he finished with her. Rhys teased her with his thumbs, pulling her cunt apart to rub her clit with his fingers and his tongue while Feyre writhed over him, gripping his hair so roughly she was in danger of ripping them out by the roots. Rhys was so aroused it was making him stupid, the throbbing between his legs almost painful.

But he needed to do this. Needed her to see him on his knees before her, worshiping her the way the rest of the world refused to. Besides, the taste of her was soothing something wicked and angry in his chest, calming the raging beast threatening to go on a rampage.

Feyre’s breath hitched in her chest, her free hand coming to his shoulder to stroke the edge of his wing just the way he liked. He didn’t need her to touch his cock at all to come—if she kept her cunt in his face and her hands on his wings Rhys would be spent before he ever had her grinding against him.

Still, Rhys began to work faster, tongue flat against her just the way he knew she liked. Feyre began rolling her hips against him, her orgasm building. Ride her through it—that’s all he had to do, now. Rhys liked when she used him like this, taking her pleasure without concern as to what he thought about her. Daring to press into her mind, Feyre’s arousal slammed into him with enough force to nearly knock him on his ass. 

Her thoughts were a mindless chant of one word—Rhys, Rhys, Rhys, Rhys, Rhys���

If he hadn’t been so turned on, he might have wept. Unwilling to disappoint her in the final moments before she fell over that ledge, Rhys doubled his efforts, looking up as he licked her to watch her come. Feyre was radiant, glowing like silvery moonlight as she fell apart. Head thrown back, breasts arched toward the ceiling and her skin flushed, Rhys wished he could paint so she could see herself the way he did.

“Stop,” she panted, fingers sliding from his hair to cup his face. “I can hear you, I—”

“I need you,” was all he could manage to say. He could have laid her out on the bed if he’d wanted to, taken his time. But Rhys didn’t want to. He wanted her right then, right now, and he’d have her against that window or not at all.

Feyre clawed at his clothes, drawing forth a talon to slice open his shirt. Rhys didn’t want to think about the walk of shame the pair were going to have to undertake when they were finished. Perhaps he’d call Cassian and beg his friend for a favor and endure the inevitable teasing that would happen in the aftermath. It was well worth it—Rhys couldn’t wait to tell Azriel, Mor, and Cassian that he’d slaughtered Cassian. Unlike the rest of the ruling elite, his friends would find it funny.

“Now,” Rhys told Feyre, hoisting her up so her back was flat against the window. He offered no other warning before he slid his aching cock into her body. Rhys nearly lost himself, rutting into

Feyre like the animal Tamlin claimed he was without a care or concern for the female pressed against him. Her body gripped him so tightly, still convulsing from the orgasm he’d given her with his mouth. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” Rhys whispered, biting gently against her shoulder. “Sometimes I think you were sent to destroy me.”

“You should have run from me, then,” Feyre replied as she raked her nails down his back.

“Dying at your hands would be a gift,” he said, half delirious from pleasure. All Rhys could focus on were his hips, thrusting hard enough that the window rattled in time behind them. His words were merely his unfiltered thoughts given voice because Rhys had never learned when to shut his mouth. 

“There will be no death for you,” Feyre told him, lips gliding over his jaw. “Only me.”

Rhys shuddered, holding her so tightly against him he felt her ribs groan in protest. He needed her like he needed the air in his lungs, the sun on his skin, the wind on his wings. How had he managed so long without her? Rhys could barely remember that time before, the memories tinged gray with loss. 

How much different would every horror have been if he’d had her at his side? If he knew she was at his back, bow pulled taut, gaze focused and lethal on his enemies? Rhys tried to imagine Feyre going up against his father, against Amarantha in the first war, against Tamlin and his family.

His breath stuttered at the image. Gods, they would have been unstoppable. 

“Rhys,” Feyre breathed, holding his face so he had to look at her. “Come for me.”

Rhys was everything Tamlin accused him of being, but without any shame. He was fucking her like an animal because that was how Feyre liked it. She panted, nails clawing at his tattooed skin until the smell of his fresh blood mingled in the air. He was desperate and needed to feel her come again, wanted her wrapped so tight around his cock he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could do nothing but wait until she released him.

Snaking a hand between them, Rhys rubbed circles over her clit—it took two, maybe three before Feyre cried out, allowing Rhys the pleasure of capturing the sound with his tongue and teeth. 

Taste yourself, he ordered, thrusting into her with brutal efficiency. Feyre was pliant in his arms, her cunt just as tight as he’d hoped it would be and twice as wet. Rhys couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to, coming with a snarl so loud there was no way everyone in the hall didn’t hear him.

Rhys poured himself into her, half wishing something would take. He didn’t want to stop, even when he was spent, balls empty. He could have kept going if he took a minute to catch his breath.

Feyre, too, seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“You’re so beautiful covered in blood,” she murmured, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

Rhys suddenly didn’t care if someone watched him carry Feyre naked through the palace. Fuck everyone.

“Come on,” he purred, pressing a soft kiss just beneath her ear. “Let's get you to bed.”

[matchadobo]

hello! can i request ace reacting to his female plus size s/o wearing a beautiful dress and makeup (the whitebeard pirates has a party to attend) because usually she barely do things like that and this is the first time he has ever seen her like this :D

ACE; the way you look tonight

wc: 688 i made it clear in my rules that i wouldn't do any appearance-specific request bc i just don't roll like that homie. buuuut i'd love to write for ace in this set-up 🔥🥺 thanks for the requesttt! but next time, please stick to my rules. warning/s: afab reader, all fluff, just ace being so whipped for you 🥺

"i mean it now, i swear!" you reiterated as you give one more brush up of blush and a sprit of your perfume. after having one last look at yourself in the mirror, you gave yourself one last smile at your appearance. "i'm coming out now, ace."

"i don't believe you at this point, i'll let the crew go ahead, oka- oh fuck!" ace fell backwards when you opened the door, completely lying on the floor. once he gazed at you, he mumbled through his breath that you once again took away. "oh fuck..."

he mused at you as you donned a tight, red dress to match his three-piece, red tux, its glitters shone and almost blinded him. the v-cut by the chest enhanced your mounds, the dumbass gulp as his saliva got stuck on his throat. you were garbed with an long, white gloves that made you look even more regal. you clutched a white purse, sophisticatedly lined with gold; it's a gift from him. and my god, the rouge you colored your lips and cheeks with seemed to have made you even more radiant. your eyes are more striking with the sharp eyeliner and voluminous mascara, he found himself getting lost at your eyes despite lying flat on the floor at your feet.

he had his mouth agape, sitting down to get a better look at you from head to toe back to your face again. a vivid, red blush made its way from his neck to his ears to his entire face. he pressed his lips together before hanging his head down low.

"i-i'd like to apologize," he said through the violent rhythm of his heart. "i shouldn't have rushed you, you look like a fucking princess." he covered his face, trying to calm down.

you found yourself smiling ear to ear, you bent down to your knees and placed a hand on his shoulder. "don't be silly, ace. i really took a long time, sorry for making you wait like that."

"no, no, i mean- l-look at you! this is the first time i've seen you so... so..." he seems to forget whatever he was cooking with his statement when he gave you one more look, the kind smile on your lips made his chest even tighter. your freckled lover just whined again, hiding his face in his palms. "will you please, please, do this more often? i-i just... love the way you look tonight. you're so... pretty." he can't keep his eyes off you, gaze frantically trying to memorize and engrave the way you look tonight in his brain. "i'll even help you! i'll curl or brush your hair! i'd learn make up! i'd go with you to shop for dresses, i'd gift you stuff!"

tears almost pooled in your eyes, you fanned them so as to not smudge your make up. you held his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks together as his mouth made that of similar to a fish. his eyes got even more frantic at your actions and at how close you are.

god, he is so in love with you. you really have him wrapped around your finger, on a goddamn chokehold. you just never stop taking his breath away, nor do you ever look unattractive to him even in your normal look without the cosmetics and accesories. your eyes somehow always look brighter each time you two lock eyes, he says he needs a map outta it 🤣.

"you're so cute~" you pouted, pressing a quick kiss on the corner of his lips. "now, enough dilly-dallying! i don't wanna keep the crew long!"

he'd always show you off and give you a spin each time he had the chance. the entire evening, he compliments you so much you'll feel your ears ring! but you're no complainer! ace always loves to shower you with love. and when a moment to dance comes whether it'll be a party dance or a slow dance, he'll always invite you and have you be completely free and happy with the way you look. that's just the kind of lover he is.

[hannahbarberra162]

Can't Fix Fix A Broken Heart

Now on Ao3

All chapters

This is my first OP fanfic. I love the Whitebeard Pirates and I wish Whitebeard was my dad. I HC Ace does sometimes talk like Luffy but only around other WBP and / or people he feels very comfortable with. TW: reader has significant trauma, will be explained in later chapters. let me know if you like it!

Synopsis - you are an anxious bar cleaner with a practical but otherwise uninteresting Devil Fruit. You're free from your past - until today. Can your new friends help you? Or do they just want to keep you for themselves?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Letting yourself through the backdoor of the bar, you sighed heavily to yourself. The bar was more destroyed than usual - and that was saying a lot because it usually looked like a hurricane had come through and destroyed half the place. Looking at the few remaining kegs of booze on the shelves behind the bar, you could guess why. It looked like there had been quite a rager last night and it had gotten rowdy. Taking another deep breath, you went to get the broom in the cleaning closet. Waiting around wasn’t going to get the bar any cleaner. “The Brothers Bar” had gotten a reputation for being able to take whatever damage the customers decided to do, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. 

The rays of sunshine streaming through the windows highlighted the dust in the air. You opened the unscreened windows as wide as you could to let in the refreshing, cool morning breeze. Like you did every morning, you put on your work apron and started by sweeping up what you easily could. It was a way for you to survey the damage done the night before and mentally prepare yourself for the tasks at hand. Sweeping up the broken glass, debris, dirt and was that a pineapple fruit crown? You looked about and in the corner, there was an immense pile of broken table legs and cracked table tops all in a heap. What had happened? A table throwing contest? Just one more thing for you to do. At least they were in a pile.

After you swept the small stuff into a dustpan and threw it away, you walked over to the pile of debris. It would be easier to clean the floor once all the large furniture was out of the way. Walking over, you saw something unusual - a large black boot sticking out of the pile. You carefully peered closer and it seemed the boot was attached to a leg. Sucking in a gasp, you slowly reached out to touch the leg. You had never seen anyone in the bar in the morning - the brothers always cleared out any patrons at the end of the night. Was the person dead? Would you have to deal with a dead body? You hadn’t seen anyone dead in a while and always hoped it would be a while longer. 

Your questions were quickly answered as your fingertips touched the smooth leg sticking out of the pile. The leg jerked back, and the person attached to the leg let out a huge yawn. Arms dusted in freckles rose out of the pile as a young man sat up and did a large morning stretch. Your eyes widened as he reached behind him with lingering sleepiness and reached for a black cowboy hat with some faces on it. He yawned again, put it on his head, and looked at you with a crooked smile on his handsome face. 

“G’mornin’”

You stared at the younger man. He had…slept in that pile of broken wood? He didn’t even seem confused or upset by his waking circumstances? He was starting to sit up, mildly scratching at his unclothed chest and stretching his torso. He seemed perfectly at ease and started brushing wood shavings off of his shorts. 

You backed away instinctively - anyone coming near you was enough to have you taking a few steps back just in case. A moment later, he looked at you again and smiled guiltily. You didn’t know what to say or do, so you did what came naturally: you laughed. A huge belly laugh - the kind you hadn’t made in a long time. He looked back at you surprised and flashed a genuine smile that made him seem much younger. 

Now that the young man was awake, you thought you recognized him. He was very handsome - dark black hair hanging in soft waves framing his face, soft dusting of freckles, big bright eyes looking your way. But what identified him for you was the “ASCE” tattoo along his arm and the giant Whitebeard tattoo across his entire back.

“You’re…hmm….Fire First Ace, right?”

“Yep.”

“Why are you here?”

“We’re on the island getting supplies for the Moby Dick.”

“No, I figured that. I meant, why are you in this bar right now? You should have been kicked out with everyone else last night.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unperturbed by the circumstance.

“I fell asleep and I guess no one saw me, so here I am.”

You didn’t really know what to say to him. He just…fell asleep? Usually the bar was raucous and you couldn’t imagine sleeping in a pile of lumber. You glanced at him sitting on the pile of rubble and he looked so….young. He was staring off into the distance not looking at anything. He looked a little lost and sad and cute and a bit like….but you didn’t have time to think about that right now. You generally were a solid judge of character and you had a pretty good feeling about Ace. Ultimately it didn’t matter since you had work to do and he didn’t seem to be interested in causing you harm for the moment. 

“Hey, get out of that pile. If you sit down at the bar I’ll make you my most amazing hangover cure.”

“Who says I’m hungover?” Ace said with a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the light.

“Just a hunch after a few hangovers of my own,” you said smiling again. “C’mere. I’ll make you a drink and then I have to get back to work. You can stay here for a few.”

Ace did one more stretch of his back and started meandering over to the bar and sat on a bar stool. “Sheesh,” he said, running his hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t remember us doing such a one over on this place. It looks like a shipwreck.”

You hummed but you were already behind the bar, grabbing the ingredients you would need. Lemon, honey, vinegar, chili peppers, seltzer, and of course, your secret ingredient. Mixing them all together, you handed the young man the beverage in a clean glass, which he accepted. You also handed him another glass of plain water.

“What is it? Looks like shit” Ace asked warily, swirling the beverage.

“Tastes like it too, but it’s the best hangover cure around. Chug it, then drink the water. Wait 5 minutes and tell me you don’t feel better.”

Ace must have decided the headache was the worse of the two, so he tipped back his glass and chugged the beverage. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stuck his tongue out making a face. “Absolutely disgusting!” “Yep, now the water.” He grimaced but chugged the water as well. After he was done he handed back the glasses and was still sticking his tongue out. You chuckled lightly and started to clean them behind the bar.

You couldn’t help yourself, he reminded you so much of one of your brothers. You teased him saying “you know, if you keep that up your face will get stuck like that.”

Ace grinned and said “haven’t heard something like that in a long time. So, what’s your name anyway? Since you already know that I’m Ace.”

“I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, and thank you for the drink. I do actually feel better already.” You smiled warmly at him and moved back to the floor to start the real work of the day. 

“Do you need any help?” Ace asked, tilting his head to the side. “I can see how clearing this would take you all day. You’re…not very tall, I can’t imagine you lifting all that. Besides, you look pretty tired.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m barely below average height on my home island! And besides, nah, I’m OK. Just sit for a few more moments and let the drink work its magic.”

With that, you continued walking towards the pile of broken tables and chairs. You held out your hand, crossed your index and middle finger and touched one of the pieces of the tabletop. Quickly, the broken pieces of the table flew together and combined themselves into their former state as if nothing had ever happened. You were a devil fruit user of a very practical fruit - the Fix Fix fruit. You had the ability to fix almost anything - tables, chairs, floors, roofs, forks, clothes, anything really. You had even started pushing the boundaries of your fruit and were able to “fix” broken bones and simple lacerations. You were how the bar went from destroyed to ready for business every night. 

Once all the debris was rearranged back into furniture, you looked back at Ace sheepishly. “See? Not a big deal. I do this all the time.”

Ace of course was known for having eaten the Flame Flame fruit - an interesting and useful fruit that had helped him become a famous Whitebeard Pirate with a huge bounty. By comparison, yours felt like the Loser Loser fruit. What was fixing some broken glasses compared with creating fireballs big enough to destroy ships and save your friends?

But Ace was transfixed on your work. His eyes were wide and he looked like he was watching you walk on water. You became a little embarrassed as he said nothing, so you turned away and started fixing the other furnishings in the bar that needed attention. 

“Is..is that your power? Your devil fruit power?”

“Y..y-eah. I know it’s not as amazing as yours but I can fix almost anything and it can sometimes come in hand-”

Ace didn’t let you finish your sentence before he was on his feet waving his arms and yelling

“DO YOU KNOW HOW HELPFUL THAT WOULD BE ON THE MOBY? OR EVEN ON THE MOBY JRS? Oh my God! We wouldn’t have to fix all those pipes! The pipes! Do you know how much time we spend fixing the goddamn pipes alone?! The sails wouldn’t require days and days of downtime to repair when they rip! We could fix the doors! The stairs! Can you fix broken Log Poses?! Do you know how many I’ve accidentally set on fire?! Come to the Moby please!"

Ace was clearly excited and eager to have you join in his happiness. But the noise of his sudden outburst made you flinch and shift your weight backward away from him as if getting ready to run. Your smile dropped and you looked at him with no expression on your face. Ace noticed your discomfort after a moment and held up his hands and said “hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just thinking out loud about how amazing that fruit power would be.” He sat himself back down on the stool as if to show he wouldn’t get closer. 

You didn’t blame him, you were a jumpy person. “It’s OK, I just haven’t seen anyone so excited about fixing tables before,” you shrugged and tried to lightly laugh off the awkwardness. You didn’t want to upset him - there was no telling what could set off a pirate. Especially one as strong as Ace. You wanted to show you weren’t upset with him - and you really weren’t. You were thankful he acknowledged your discomfort and settled down. So you decided to allow him to complete Step 2 of the Complete Hangover Cure if he so desired.

“Would you like to take a shower? It can also really help with hangovers, opening the blood vessels and all that.” 

“Hmmm…not too sure about that one.”

“You…smell…not great. You slept on the floor of the bar. There was a literal pissing contest here a few nights ago. I highly suggest you go shower. Come on, I’ll let you into the place upstairs.”

Ace narrowed his eyes, seemingly trying to determine if you were trying to catch him in a trap or use him in some kind of way. You must have passed the test because he agreed and bounded behind you as you led him up the stairs to your small apartment.

The Brothers were letting you live above the bar for the moment. It was great because they barely charged you any rent and you didn’t need much. It had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a very small living room big enough for a comfy chair and table, which was more than you had in years. Even though they were not always expressive, you thought they did care for you in their own way.

You let Ace into the apartment and showed him where clean towels, soap, and combs were. You really had to get back to work, so you told him just to come back downstairs when he was done. You also mentioned that you had half a loaf of bread on the table and eating some would be the final step to cure his hangover.

“Aren’t you worried I’m going to rob you or look through your things?” Ace questioned as you started to walk towards the door. He was giving you a strange look, like you were trying to trick him.

“No? I don’t have anything worth stealing. I don’t have any money or valuables. I mean, I would be annoyed if you stole the book I’m reading but I can always borrow another copy.” You left Ace in your apartment and went down the stairs. You heard the water running down the pipes so you knew Ace had at least started the shower. After his shower, you’d tell him to leave and come back when the bar was open - you’d be long gone and the Brothers could deal with all this nonsense. 

You were reflecting on what a strange morning it had been, but things needed to be done. You were really behind schedule now after dealing with Ace all morning. You started cleaning again when you heard knocking on the thick wooden door at the entrance of the bar. You looked at the clock - it still wasn’t close to opening time and the Brothers all had keys to the back door - so who was it? 

With a groan, you pushed a heavy bar stool towards the door. Since the Brothers owned the bar and had never hired anyone but you, they had put the lock where it was convenient for them. Which meant it was inconvenient for you since they were all at least two and a half feet taller than you were. Again, you were almost perfectly average size on your island! It wasn’t your fault all these people were so tall. 

After pushing the stool, you stood up on it and reached to open the old lock. “Just a second!” you called out, hoping the person on the other side wouldn’t push the door in causing you to fall. You heard deep voices talking on the other side of the door and for a moment you regretted opening it at all. But you got down off the stool and moved it aside. Grabbing the iron door handle and pulling it with most of your strength, you managed to crack the door about a foot open. 

There was a group of three men looking down at you. You smiled up at them politely and said “Hi, the bar isn’t open right now. You can come back again later when we are” and tried to shut the door.

One of the men, who had a funny hairstyle not unlike a pineapple, smiled back at you with half closed eyes and put his hand casually on the door, keeping it open. He said

 “We’re actually just looking for our brother-yoi. We couldn't find him and this was the last place we saw him.”

You weren’t sure what to do - you were almost positive they were on the same crew, but what if they weren’t? What if they wanted to hurt Ace? Wait, why did you care? Ace could handle himself. Taking the safest route, you asked “Who are you looking for?”

“Fire Fist Ace. He’s pretty short, black hair, freckles, charming, sleeps a lot.” The man, who you thought might be Marcott? Marcus? Something like that, you think you might’ve seen his picture a long time ago, held up Ace’s wanted poster to show a picture of him. 

“...um…” you were trying to stall for time to decide what to do. On one hand, you didn’t want anything bad to happen to Ace if they were bounty hunters or had a vendetta against him. On the other, you didn’t want to upset this new group of people you didn’t know. This is why you were the morning bar cleaner! You didn’t like to deal with conflict or these kind of issues. Why couldn’t one of the Brothers be here this morning? 

“Well, I’m the only person in the bar right now. I just clean here.” You decided to not exactly lie, but to obfuscate the truth just a little. It was true that you were the only person there - because you let Ace go upstairs to shower.

“Do you mind if we look around? We are getting worried about him - he can sleep in the strangest places.” The man wasn’t threatening you and he did seem genuinely concerned about Ace but you felt vulnerable and uncomfortable. You couldn’t think of a way to diffuse the situation easily so you just gave in. Maybe they would leave quickly?

“Sure, come on in,” you said as you pushed the door further open. The three men, politely waited until you moved out of the way and then followed you into the bar. All you had to do was hold out another 15 minutes and at least one Brother would probably be there to help you. The men were walking around the bar, looking a little puzzled.

“I thought Jozu accidentally smashed this table last night?” a man with a long mustache and black top hat said quietly to his companions. 

“Yeah, and Haruta definitely broke at least one chair.”

“They say this bar is magic and can fix anything inside it.” said a man wearing white with a yellow sash and a pompadour hairstyle with a grin.

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Pineapple Man while looking at you. You didn’t like him looking at you so you pretended to be giving all your attention to your cleaning. But when you heard the water in the pipes turn off, you glanced up out of habit. 

Pineapple Man followed your glance up and said with a small smile “Someone up there yoi?”

You swallowed harshly and felt a stiff pressure settle at the base of your neck. You were feeling unsettled and anxious. You just wanted everyone gone - and soon. Ace, these  men, everyone needed to be out of your comfort zone. There were too many people asking you too many questions.

“It’s not really any of your business. W-who are you guys anyway?” you settled on saying.

“We’re Whitebeard Commanders, I’m Marco. This is Thatch,” he said pointing to the man in white who smiled and waved, “and this is Vista,” jerking his thumb at the large gentleman who took off his top hat with a flourish. “We’re looking for Ace - he’s a Commander like us. Here, let me show you.” Marco then opened his shirt and showed a large tattoo that matched Ace’s, but Marco’s was on his chest. Your face flushed but you weren’t sure why. You’d seen many men shirtless before, but this felt weird. You were too out of sorts for people to be taking their clothes off.

Before you could respond, you could hear Ace hurtling himself down the stairs. Cringing at being caught not telling the truth, you went to go meet him at the door to the bar. Before he could enter the bar, you quietly said “Ace” so the others wouldn’t hear you “there are three men here looking for you.”

“Hmm? Who?” Ace replied, unconcerned. He was still shaking the water out of his hair, kind of like a wet dog.

“Do you know them? They said their names are Marco, Thatch and Vista.” 

Ace’s face lit up in a smile and said “oh yeah! My brothers! Wait till they meet you Y/N!”

His sudden shift in mood made you feel safer, but he also grabbed you by the forearm and brought you towards his brothers in the bar. You tried to recoil your arm but he held on tight. You were being pulled back towards the men - somewhat unwillingly. 

“Acey- boy!” Thatch exclaimed when he saw the young Commander. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your monthly shower?” he teased, eyeing Ace’s still wet hair.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Ace said, rolling his eyes. Ace started talking like an excited child about everything that happened thus far. It was a far cry from the cool and collected man of a few minutes ago.

“Y/N let me shower upstairs after I woke up here! I woke up in a pile of wood but she just laughed and wasn't mad at all. She was so nice, she made me this terrible drink that helped and I ate all the food in her apartment - literally, why don’t you have more food? Do you need more? All you had was that bread and I ate it. I feel kinda bad about that but now I feel great after you helped me fix my headache. And just wait until you see her Devil fruit powers! They could really help she can fix anything she fixed this shithole from everything we did last night in like two seconds….”

The longer Ace babbled the more anxious you were becoming. You started shifting your weight on your feet and trying to gently free your arm from Ace’s grasp again. You didn’t like being the center of conversation, you didn’t like strange men near you, and you most certainly didn’t like people discussing your fruit power like you weren’t even there. You wanted to run away and hide until they all left. You did eventually free your arm and you started to back away little by little from the group of men. You knew Marco saw you since he gave you an assessing look while saying “is that so?” and “interesting” at points in Ace’s story.

You heard the back door to the bar open and you breathed a sigh of relief. That had to be one of the Brothers coming in for the day. You still hadn’t finished everything but you just wanted to get away and come back when it was empty again. Oldest Brother came in, went behind the bar, filled a shot glass, tossed it back and grunted at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, and didn’t wish you a good morning. You hadn’t seen him for a few days since he had the weekend off. You felt better as things were going back to how they usually were. After his drink, he looked up to see the Whitebeard Commanders in the bar. He lifted the corners of his mouth until they weren’t locked into a frown and said “Vista. Long time no see, Brother.” 

Your day was not going to be getting any less weird it seemed.

[galaxygirl-katie27]

Vector Redesign

Tap for better quality

Notes under the cut!

-Okay so first of all, I had to finally figure out his nationality, so that it would make sense with the story. Which led me to my headcanon of Vector being Turkish-Persian mixed, with his father being Turkish and his mother being Persian. But ultimately he would be the prince, later king, of Persia. I‘d like to make a full post about this topic specifically later, but in short: His father was the second Turkish prince, so in order to be king himself, he married into the persian royal family, who had no male heir, so he could have his own kingdom. So that later, Vector could jut walk through Türkiye with his army to attack Nasch in Greece, because of his blood-relation to their royal family without any problems.

-To the design. I gave him a ponytail, just to try it out, but I just liked it so much, that I had to stick with it.

-He has big eye bags from Insomnia, because of many nightmares almost every night. He has major PTSD from his past, that sill haunts him.

-He has a tooth gap (where he actually lost a tooth) and many scars and bandaids, because this boy is just always hurt (most of it because of the Ray-Way). I once read a headcanon, that all of Ray`s clumsiness wasn’t even acted, Vector is just like that. He still bumps into all kinds of furniture post-series.

-Also he ruined all his pants at one point because of his clumsiness and because the others (Nasch) don’t want to buy him new ones, he just patched them up himself, and yes he did poke himself with the needle multiple times.

-FRECKLES. No elaboration needed.

-Big father issues. Also no elaboration needed.

-This boy never ties his shoes, which also doesn’t help his clumsiness. Also he wears mismatched shoes, but they match enough for him and he just doesn’t think anyone notices. Everyone notices.

-He is one of the people with the most Trauma. If you ask him how he‘s doing he‘d say: „I take antidepressants.“ And he does! He got them perscribed, after an… incident. I wont go into detail, but I think you can guess what happened. And while most of the barians still don’t exactly like him, they don’t want him to die. He also refuses to go to proper therapy. Yuma is his therapy.

-He also has ADHD, which I think he always had, even in his past life. He got it diagnosed post series, when Yuma talked to him about his ADHD (another headcanon of mine) and Vector just heavily related to many things Yuma said and so he proposed that maybe he should get a diagnose. Which tuned out positive.

-Also he‘s a cat owner. I read so many fics, where he just adopts a cat. It’s mostly to spite Rio, when he came across a little kitten box on the side of the road one day. But he got so attached to it, it‘s his family now. It’s a little white female kitten, who is also deaf and her name is Pestilence, Pesty for short. He is also so good at hiding her. The barians only found out about her like 6 months after Vector got her. There was a massive discussion, but in the end Vector got to keep her. She is now his emotional support cat.

-He also reads a bit, but it only consists of the most cliche, sappy, stereotypical romance stories you can find, to make fun of them.

-His past life redesign is like the biggest redesign up until now, since I researched ancient Persian an Turkish royal robes, because even when he‘s the prince/king of Persia, I think his father would still bring some of his Turkish background into the family.

-And since I made him older again (and tanner, because he was more in the sun in Persia than in Japan) I gave him a little goatee

-Also his robes are red to resemble his father, and how he is slowly turning into him (plus the goatee), but he still has blue in his clothes to resemble and respect his mother. I refuse to believe that he stopped loving her after her death. I think he always continued to love her deep inside and actually still misses her post series. He just doesn’t show it.

[wosoluver]

Four times she didn't notice and the one time she did.

Andrea Medina x reader

tw: none

Andrea Medina Masterlist

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

"Hey are you coming to the game today?" she had called you up in the morning, excited as she always was on gamedays.

"Yes. Is that why you woke me up? You know I always come to home games."

"Yeah, but I just wanted to make sure. Good morning! See you later!"

"Good mornin..." - You barely had time to finish the sentence before she hung up.

Maybe others would find this rude. But you didn't mind at all. You knew she was just hyper, but most of all you knew she was anxious, and that she had called to ease up her anxiety before she needed to get ready for the day ahead, and hung up just as quick because she knew you loved sleeping in whenever you could.

And that's exactly what you did, not even a minute later you were sound asleep once again.

You took a ride with Cris to the game. You always stayed on the seats reserved for family and friends, so they knew where to look for you guys.

The game had taken a turn and was more competitive than they had expected. They had to fight hard 'til the end.

But she had to admit, seeing you on the stands wearing her jersey, cheering on definitely helped her stay greedy until the last minute.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

"Andrea?" you knocking on the bathroom door. You had taken her home after a tough game, that she had gotten injured. Unfortunately Wifi wasn't home. So you would have to sort this one out by yourself. Although you never considered yourself good at giving others support.

"Andrea! I can hear you crying, you've been in there for too long. Let me in, please." with every word you said, your voice became softer.

She only unlocked the door and went back in the shower. You opened the door as soon as you heard the lock turn.

"Hey," you sat next to her, but outside the shower. "I don't really know what to say or do, but I'll stay here until you tell me to leave."

And you two stayed there for another 20 minutes, before she got up to turn the shower off. And when she turned to get out, you held her towel ready.

"Thank you." - Thats the only thing she said for the next hour or so. But that was enough for you. You knew your friend and you knew how hard it was for her to accept being vulnerable.

Sitting on the couch, you were soothing her, rubbing her back as she calmed down.

"You'll be back before you know it. I promise."

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

You had gotten home from a celebration and it was almost four in the morning. You were fighting to stay awake, opposite to her of course.

You had made her carry you to bed, you were hugged on her like a bear. She had slowly put you down. And she could tell you were not going anywhere else. So like you had done many times for her, she helped you.

She started by putting you in a comfortable T-shirt you could sleep in. Next she walked into your bathroom to get your make up remover. And she gently patted the cotton pads all over your face, making sure nothing stayed behind. That had taken her sometime, especially as she took her time to take in your facial features. The freckles on your cheeks, the beauty mark on your temple, your rosy lips and tinted skin from the alcohol you had consumed.

Then she tried her best to put your hair up and out off your face. And before getting herself ready to sleep, she went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some pain killers, placing on your bedside table, making sure to get you covered for the hungover in the morning.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

When you were all back at Lola and Cris' apartment watching the Spanish national team, and she couldn't take her eyes off of you.

It started out as a classic game watching afternoon. You had ordered lunch, and then prepared the snacks you had stopped to get before driving there.

Everyone wearing their respective jerseys. And by that it meant, Cris was wearing one of Lola's old national team kit.

Lola was wearing a Putellas' number 11.

Wifi wore her own national kit, Marta was wearing a Misa jersey to no one's surprise. Andrea was wearing Ornella's number 7 she had wore on the final game of the U20 world cup they had won together.

And you were wearing her blue away kit. One of many she had in her closet, and one of many you had stolen. You thought you were being sly, but in truth she only pretended not to notice.

They would always look better on you anyway.

She'd observe you closely but it was once the game started she had completely taken a front seat to watch your reactions.

"Hijo de la puta madre! That's for a yellow card, she can't go at her like that!"

It was funny because they clearly knew the rules and they protested just like you, but the way you passionately argued with the TV screen, always made everything 10x better.

"Thats a penalty no?" waiting for the referee's decision. "YES, YES, YES." you said jumping up.

And as Mario scored you screamed in celebration with the girls. "VAMOOOS!"

On the last ball before the end of the game Alexia managed to score with a assist by Patri. "LA REINA, BABY" you yelled as you all cheered their win.

She could watch you watching a game, forever.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

When you went on a date with a girl you really liked, and couldn't shut up about it for the rest of the day.

"She's just so interesting, also she plays for the Uni's volleyball team." Your were telling Lola as she was driving. You in the backseat and Andrea in the passenger."

"Does she study physio too?" She said, interested in your sudden crush. She had known you for a while and she had never heard you talk about someone like that.

"Yep, although she's graduating this year. She's a rojiblanca by the way."

"Don't you have anything else to talk about?" - Andrea questioned rudely but you decided to take it in a light note.

"Seems like someone woke up in the wrong side of the bed." - giving it a light laugh at the end.

"No seriously, have you wondered that maybe she's just trying to get free tickets?" - But that one hurt. And you just stayed quiet.

Lola had just pulled up to your apartment complex too, so you just decided to walk away, clearly upset.

"Thanks Lo, talk to you later." and they watched as you walked in.

"Andrea!"

"What?"

"Don't treat her like that! She's one of your best friends! That was so uncalled for!"

Lola knew and so did she. As a matter of fact, everyone close to you two knew. It was obvious. But it seemed like Andrea had just realized, in the worst way possible.

She felt so stupid, it took her an argument over her jealousy, to realize what she had been feeling for some time.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

If you have any requests for her, please send them in! 🙏🩷

[ssseashell]

little stupid Newtmas WIP i was working on in July but then just gave up, here’s the first scene anyways (college AU, what a surprise)

When Newt heard that voice — that annoying, croaky, but loud voice — he felt like he was about to go insane.

It was always the same voice. Everytime he came to the campus’ library, he heard it just around the bookshelf from the table he usually sat on. It felt as if someone had to be mocking him, because why did that boy have to be in the library everytime Newt felt like studying there?

“Yeah, Min, don’t worry. I’ll- Oh, please, you really think I’m not capable of finding a specific book?”

Newt had never seen the boy's face, always hidden behind the bookshelf. But he knew the voice belonged to a boy and, oh, he couldn’t forget it even if he tried to.

“Alright, give me five minutes and I’ll go… Wait, what were you saying about Winston?”

He couldn’t believe it. How could someone be so rude to speak on the phone in the middle of a library? Newt looked around. Okay, there was no one sitting on the other tables, but still, that boy was disturbing him. It was enough to be rude.

And it wasn’t as if that was the first time he did that, Newt added to himself. Maybe someone should say something about it.

But there wasn’t anyone else there, no one else to feel annoyed by it.

Newt sighed, accepting that maybe he could live with it. He looked down at the open book in front of him and continued to read it.

When he heard it again. This time, it was extra loud.

“No way, dude!”

He snapped.

“Can you please get off your phone or get the fuck out?” He tried to show his annoyance with every word, and asked it as loud as possible so anyone behind the bookshelf would hear it.

Then, the voice was quiet again, but in its place, a head popped out from behind the shelves.

The face of a confused brunet boy appeared from nowhere, and Newt looked at him like he could light the boy on fire just with his mind.

“Oops, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.” The boy said, and Newt tried hard not to roll his eyes when he lifted the phone to his ear once more. “Minho, I’ll call you back.”

After the head, a body appeared from the shelves, and Newt looked at him.

The guy was maybe a bit shorter than him, Newt couldn’t tell very much by his position on the chair, but he noticed how well-built he was even with a hoodie on. He also wore a pair of light blue jeans and black sneakers.

He spent more time taking a look at the boy’s face. He had coffee almond eyes, a thin nose with some freckles here and there, and red tinted lips. His dark hair was short but clearly messy in its own way, like the boy had an urge to run his hands on it every so often. Newt didn’t know why he noticed that.

“Even if you didn’t, this is a library.” He said, crossing his arms on his chest. “You shouldn't be on your phone here.” It was as if he was teaching a little kid some basic good manners.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The other said, fidgeting with his phone between his hands.

Then, he stared at Newt, as if waiting for something else. Newt sighed.

“So?”

“What are you studying over there?” Asked the stranger, looking from Newt’s face to his book on the table.

Newt held down his laugh. What did this boy want with him? He shrugged, lifting an eyebrow. “It’s none of your business.”

The grin on the boy’s lips revealed he didn’t get offended by that, even if he murmured an “ouch”. The impatience inside Newt was starting to grow stronger. Couldn’t a lad just study in peace?!

Newt leaned on the chair, looking directly into the boy’s playful eyes. “Look, if you don’t have anything to do here, please leave me alone.”

The grin on the redish lips just grew wider, and Newt had to admit he wasn’t expecting the next thing he heard: “Will you at least give me your name?”

His chin could’ve touched the table. But it didn’t. Newt wouldn’t give that slinthead of a guy the satisfaction of knowing he let Newt out of words.

Whoever was mocking Newt, they could stop it now, because they did it. Because Newt really wanted to get up and strangle that boy until no smirk was left on his lips. He felt his cheeks burn.

“What? No!” Was all he managed to say, brows furrowed, lips snapped into a thin line.

And the boy chuckled. He chuckled and turned around, but not before saying “See you around” and disappearing again behind the books.

[mickittotheman]

hii 🤗 for the kiss trope: Gallavich and 11 or 49

Hi!!! 🤗🤗🤗

49. ...out of necessity

Ian sighs, drumming his fingers against sun bleached red plastic. Debbie pops out of the water for the millionth time, shoving her soaked hair out of her face and turning to beam at Ian excitedly. He gives her a stained smile and a halfhearted thumbs up.

Okay, yeah, he could probably be more enthusiastic. That had been a pretty impressive flip. 

But he’s tired, and he’s bored, and he feels like he’s cooking in the sun, the shade of the ripped umbrella above him not nearly enough. By the end of the summer, he’ll be nothing but one big freckle. 

It's a good gig. They need the money. He’s been trying to avoid the Kash and Grab, trying to avoid Kash. The pay is decent, and his siblings get free admission. He’d been excited about the prospect of maybe helping someone, maybe saving someone, maybe being the hero for once.

So far, he’s only had to save the occasional bee, and, on one notable occasion, a rat.

He sighs again. Gazes at the water longingly. He wishes he could jump in. He wishes something exciting would happen.

He scans the surface again, scans the perimeter, looking for trouble. It’s busy today. Crowded. Probably because it’s hot as fuck.

There’s a few people from school he recognizes, but there's one group in particular he’s been eyeing, one person in particular.

Mickey Milkovich.

Ian’s never actually talked to him before. But he’s seen him. 

He leaning his back against the fence, smoke wafting up from his lips to the “No Smoking” sign posted just above his head. He’s hot as fuck– in every sense of the word. He’s wearing all black. Black tee with the sleeves cut off, black ripped jeans, black heavy boots. He’s in the shade, but Ian can see the sweat glistening on his skin from all the way over here, and it’s kinda making his mouth water.

He swallows. Looks away. Inevitably looks back.

Mickey’s sister is sunbathing face down on a lounge chair, a skimpy black two piece on her steadily reddening skin, a handful of boys drooling over her, only kept at bay by Mickey’s glare. One of the other Milkovich brothers is there– Iggy? Colin? Ian can never tell them apart– but he’s preoccupied, having ditched guard dog duty in favor of rubbing sunscreen onto some college girl’s back.

He forces himself to focus on the water again. If a kid dies because he was too busy thinking with his dick he’d never live it down.

He’s trying so hard not to look. He blames that on why he misses the initial commotion. When he finally glances over at the sound of raised voices Mandy is standing up, a red mark the shape of a handprint on her ass and a murderous expression on her face. Mickey is already decking the one Ian assumes is the culprit.

Shit.

Ian fumbles for the little whistle around his neck.

Mickey whips around at the shrill noise with a glare, and the other guy seizes the opportunity to shove Mickey into the pool and run.

There’s gasping. Some yelling. A few people scatter, not wanting to be around for when Mickey clambers out and goes fucking ballistic.

But Mickey doesn’t clamber out. He sinks to the bottom in a mess of flailing limbs. 

Shit. 

Ian is in the water in a heartbeat. The shock of cold against his flushed skin is jarring, but he barely pays it any mind. Mandy had jumped in too, and together they manage to haul Mickey up and out and onto the searing hot pavement.

“Shit, Mickey, come on you stupid shithead,” Mandy mutters, smacking at his face.

“I need you to move,” Ian says, and he’s distantly shocked by how calm he sounds.

She doesn’t put up a fight like he was expecting, just scrambles back to give Ian room.

He’s only ever had to do this on crusty foam dummies, but miraculously, muscle memory takes over. He starts compressions. Quick, quicker than you think they should be but not too quick, deep but not too deep. He reaches thirty. Moves his hands up, tips Mickey’s head back, ducks down.

He barely has his lips sealed over Mickey’s when Mickey gasps.

It’s not as romantic as it is in the movies. 

The first thing Mickey does is turn his head and cough up a mixture of chlorinated water and bile. The second thing he does is start biting out curses and kicking.

“Shit,” Ian hisses, scrambling out of range of Mickey’s heavy boots.

“Mickey, Mick, stop,” Mandy scolds, slapping at Mickey again. 

Mickey’s gaze darts around, taking in the situation, the way Mandy is pale and wide eyed, the fact that his clothes are soaked through, the people standing around gawking. 

His skin goes pink. He scowls mutinously. “What the fuck are you people looking at?”

People look away so fast, Ian wouldn’t be surprised if they had whiplash.

Ian laughs, nearly giddy with adrenaline and relief. “Come on. I can get you a towel.” 

And some privacy, goes unsaid, but Mickey picks up on it anyways. He drags himself up, unsuccessfully trying to bat away Mandy’s and Ian's arms as they hook under his shoulders. 

They find the second lifeguard in the locker room with a fresh hickey on his neck and a giggling blonde clinging to him. He goes wide eyed when he sees them, shoves the girl away unceremoniously. “Holy fuck. What happened?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’ve got it covered. Will you please just go do your fucking job while I handle this?”

“Don’t need your fucking help,” Mickey grouses. Ian and Mandy ignore him and wrangle him into sitting on one of the benches. “Where the fuck is Iggy?”

“He went to chase after that guy. I’m gonna go grab our bag before someone steals it.” Mandy pats Mickey on the shoulder once. Turns to the door. Pauses with just one foot out to look back.

She bites her lip. Drags her gaze up and down Ian’s form, lingering on his lips, on his still heaving chest, on where his wet swim trunks are clinging to him. “Thank you. For saving my brother. I owe you one.”

“Oh. Oh.” Ian feels his ears go red. He occupies himself with fumbling around in his locker for his towel. “Uh, thank you, but it was nothing, I–”

The door slams shut, Mandy already gone.

“Shit.” Ian sighs. Closes his eyes for a moment. Rubs at his forehead.

Mickey eyes him skeptically and snatches the towel Ian holds out to him. “You know by ‘owe you one’, she means a blowie, right?”

Ian burns even redder. Doesn’t quite manage to keep the grimace off his face. “Yeah.”

“What? You think you're too good for her?” Mickey sneers, bristling like a porcupine.

“No, no! She’s just. Uh. Not my type.”

Mickey glowers at him. Scowls. “What are you, a fucking fag or something?”

Fuck. Mickey wouldn't kill the guy who just saved his life, right? 

Right?

Mickey scowls even harder when Ian flounders. Brings his tattooed fingers up to rub at his mouth. “I oughtta cut your fucking tongue out for putting your goddamn lips on me like that.”

“Trust me, I didn’t exactly enjoy it,” Ian snarks, and he swears, he swears, he sees something like disappointment flash through Mickey’s eyes. Something like hurt. 

His breath stutters. He swallows hard.

“I mean. I didn't exactly get the chance to.”

Mickey freezes.

Ian holds his breath.

Mickey stands abruptly. Tosses the towel towards Ian's chest. Stomps towards the door. 

Oh.

Ian deflates a bit.

Well. Could be worse. Mickey could have straight up murdered him.

Mickey pauses just inside the doorway, one foot out. Looks back. Shoves his tongue out to lick at the corner of his mouth. Looks Ian up and down with a cocked brow. “I owe you one.”

Ian’s eyes widen, but Mickey’s already gone.

send me a number~

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 self-indulgent chronic pain solavellan enjoy 🌙

"Can't you take it away?" It is reminiscent of past fall's fever, only that now, it does not affect her mind so. Then, she could barely follow his words; today, she struggles to follow him into their bathing chambers.

"I could draw you another herbal bath, gather some jasmine for you to smoke." A groan. Her feet twist under the thin blanket.

"No charm to dull the pain?" Ah.

"Healing magic speeds up the healing process. It will not let you skip it entirely. And you said it is chronic, so there would not be anything to heal in the first place."

"Nothing to heal?" Under the blanket, Solas slides his legs under her knees and props her legs up, just a little.

"Not in the way I can will a cut to close up faster, no. Magic can only support what the body is capable of by itself. If it were different, people would grow hands again after losing them." She rolls her eyes under his hand when he moves to rub the frown from her forehead; he does not need to see the motion to feel her lashes flutter against his palm.

"How does my ass hurt from standing?"

"I don't know, my heart." He really doesn't, and it pains him. He knows it's the shoe wear, the too-narrow, too-tightly strapped sandals on the too-high, too-thin heel, and her standing in them on the uneven ground of the courtyard to prove a point to - somebody Solas does not even remember. Some noble with ruffled feathers, most likely. She stood there for hours, three days in a row, and if she moved more than fifty steps in the courtyard, she walked a lot that day.

But why it is that these factors combined to leave her unable to relieve herself without leaning on Solas as he walks her to the chamberbot, he hasn't the slightest idea. The machinations of anatomy never interested him beyond how to close cuts with mana.

He suddenly wishes he'd listened when his father told him time and again to sit down and study.

Though he supposed the explanation wouldn't remove the ache from Lavellan's joints, either.

"It is chronic pain. I do not know how to fix it."

"Wish it was just a fever. You can sweat out those."

"Have you forgotten your last fever?" She pinches at his elbow, the crooked smile on her lips only betraying her weariness to him because he knows her.

"That's how I know. I also knew I would regret the shoes as soon as I stepped into them." He does not ask why she still wore them, if she knew they would cause her pain. Resilience, she would say. Stubbornness. They make me taller. They're kind of pretty. Take your pick.

He had never really understood the appeal of legs, but watching her winding the straps around her calves, it suddenly made sense, just a little. Or maybe it was the knowledge that she wouldn't let anyone but him watch her get dressed.

She reaches under the blanket and pats blindly at his thigh, then slowly, agonizing to even watch, shuffles to lie down flat. "I'll try to get some rest. Lie down with me?"

As though she had to ask.

"As long as you like." He lies down to face her, and when he moves his hand to rest over her belly, she slides her own over his and holds him by his wrist. Her left arm extends next to her after she ruffled up her hairline, and he places his neck over it just enough that she thinks it's her supporting his head, and not him strategically balancing the weight of his skull on the shell of his ear against the satin pillowcase.

It's not a stasis spell, he convinces himself, even as the magic flows out of his fingertips and into the soft skin of her belly, not really. He merely puts a charm on her, one that lets her sleep deeper and move less. The stillness might help with the pain. It absolutely does not restrain her. He would never do that to her.

Once she stopped moving but for the rise and fall of her belly under his hand and the rapid movement of her eyes underneath her lids, he slips out of bed to pick up charcoal and parchment.

He endeavors to sketch out every individual freckle over the expanse of her chest, the way her fluorite amulet rests against the skin, the strands of hair over her shoulder, the dark red satin of her nightgown wrinkling differently from the velveteen in her blanket.

She never lets him draw her when she is awake, so he will seize the opportunity.

Even if she is not awake to consent.

🌙

the moon is now my most used emoji lol

not beta'ed we die like redshirts in star trek

hella self indulgent bc its national holiday tomorrow in Germany and for the past 3 days I've been manning the deli at work by myself and for the past 3 days ppl've been at work like they're starving tomorrow i am barely alive at this point 🫠

also english isn't my first language and I've given up on differentiating between lie and lay when talking about the rest slab so if its wrong its wrong 🤷‍♀️