#perhaps there are things he really cares about

[rosenclaws]

Checkmate || Professor Logan x Reader Smut

summary: Your history professor is hot and you know that going after him is a mistake. He's double your age and also your professor. But you can't help yourself. You want him and he wants you. So now what do you two do.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY, Taboo relationship (Professor x Student), the reader is meant to be 21-22 years old. Power imbalance, fem!reader, oral (f!recieving), rough sex, breast play, hickeys, spanking, unprotected sex, degradation, dirty talk, bondage, missionary, bent over a desk, skirt kink low key, glasses kink, mean during sex Logan, complicated feelings.

wc: 5.3k (OOPS LMAO)

a/n: Hello! So this is my first smut fic in a while so please be kind lmao. I really hope it lives up to what I wanted it to be. Obviously, don't do this in real life. It is NOT a good idea ever. This kind of relationship is not healthy. With that out of the way I really hope you guys like it and I might. make a part 2. I have an idea cooking but idk so lmk if you want one! Please enjoy! Also I'm not going to be going back to smut writing full time this is just a one off so plz don't ask ty.

"You're playing a very dangerous game darling." Logan leans back in his chair, his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose as he stares at you with his intense green eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about Professor." You tilt your head, innocent eyes as you play that clueless college girl.

A hint of a smirk on your lips as you tighten the grip on your books. They rest just below your chest where your low cut top was leaving very little to Logan's imagination. You could see his eyes flick down just for a moment. A little win for you as you continue to play this incredibly dangerous game with your history professor.

You knew you had to have him the moment you stepped into his classroom. Everything about him was intoxicating. The smell of his cologne that would waft into your senses when he passed around papers and the slight bulging of his muscles when he crossed his arms.

The tight shirts he wore, the deep gravely voice as he gave his lectures, the fucking beard, and those delicious glasses that he wore. His stupid hair that was always styled to have these little tuffs that you just wanted to grab onto. He was just so fucking handsome.

You sat front and center, legs crossed and a smile on your face as you shamelessly eye fucked him every class. Of course he noticed, how could he not.

Not to sound egotistical but you're not the first pretty young thing to look at him that way and you won't be the last. It's textbook really.

The short skirts, the low cut tops. The innocent act, faking cluelessness just to come to his office hours. The dumb questions, the over exaggerated nods of understanding.

"Thanks Professor Logan, I really needed your help." They'd always say with their eyes begging to be fucked.

Some men might have even taken their offer. Caved at the first sight of bare skin and an eager face. But Logan was not some men. He had no interest in entertaining his desperate students. Was it harsh? Perhaps. But Logan didn't really care.

He's not interested in being some girls college fling. The story she tells when she's had one too many shots, giggling to her friends as she recounts the best night of her life with her professor. And yes, it would be the best night she's ever had. Logan would make sure of that.

But then you walked in.

Logan clocked you the moment you walked into his classroom. A subtle smirk on his lips when you came up to personally introduce yourself, leaning just a little too far over his desk so he could get a clear view down your shirt. The same song and dance. He almost laughed. But there was something about you that was different.

A fire in your eyes that he had never seen. You seem smart, smart enough to know not to sleep with your professor. Yet you don't seem to care as your attempts at grabbing his attention are relentless. He would call it pathetic but there's something different. You weren't desperate like the others.

You were hungry.

It was impressive really and he couldn't deny that you were certainly attractive. So he decided to play along. Logan...has had a complicated relationship past. One that has involved too much stress and relegated him a single man at 45.

Dating apps are utter trash and it's hard to meet someone naturally with his work schedule. It's not hard for him to get his fix when he really needs it. All he needs to do is go down to that dingy bar by his apartment and sit at the bar. It doesn't take long until someone comes to talk to him. Maybe that's why his ego is so big. But he can back it up which is more than most men can say.

Though he was never truly satisfied. Deep down he wants more than a one night stand. He craves true intimacy but he's given up on ever finding it. He misses the fun flirty parts of finding love. So what's the harm in indulging you just a little.

A double entendre here or there, calling on you more than he should, and when no one's looking...sending you a wink that makes your legs cross tighter. The harm? Costing him his job and disgracing everything he's ever worked for.

But isn't that what makes it exciting?

"You get A's on all my assignments. You have a 4.0, deans list every semester. Yet I find you in my office more than anyone else." Logan takes his glasses off and tosses them onto his desk.

He takes notice of the way your mouth practically waters as he stretches his arms above his head. His untucked shirt lifting just a little to see his bare abs. The game in action. When you fire he fires back. Predator and Prey, but you can't tell who's who quiet yet.

You shrug your shoulders. He watches you carefully as you walk around from the other side of his mahogany desk. Your skirt rides up just enough for him to see the hint of your black lace panties. Another classic move.

"Going to your office hours just really helped me retain the information." Logan clenches his jaw.

"Let me guess..." Logan leans back in his chair, his legs spreading as he shifts.

"You were top of your class at whatever shitty high school with overbearing parents and this college is your first real taste of freedom and you think, what better way to stick it to your parents than to sleep with your professor. How does that sound?" He sounds so condescending as he slowly gets up from his seat and place his hands on his desk.

Leaning closer and closer to you with every word until his lips are mere inches away. You can smell a hint of cigar smoke. Of course he smokes.

"Close. I was valedictorian, I do have overbearing parents, but I'm not the ditzy naive college girl you think I am. " You reach up and grab onto his tie. Your nails play with it as you debate on untying it or using it to pull him forward.

You decide on the latter.

"But if that's what you're into, I can certainly play the part." You pull him close so that your lips were at his ear. Your voice makes him shiver. His eyes closing as a low groan escapes his throat.

"Is that what you like? Having a young, innocent girl throw herself at you?" You push, enjoying how much it's getting to him.

"I'm certainly not innocent but I can pretend." You let go of his tie and he stands back up. His eyes are wide as it seems his cocky attitude has slipped just a little bit.

"Oh professor I'm so clueless about this essay." You pitch your voice higher than normal as you stick your lip out in a pout.

"Will you please help me?" Logan rolls his eyes at your dramatics. You're enjoying this but you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.

"You think you're mature? A big girl who can make her own fucking choices huh?" He growls.

He grabs your books and tosses them to the floor. They clatter with a loud bang. Suddenly the mask slips just a bit, fear shoots through your eyes as you wonder if someone heard. It's well past office hours and most everyone has gone home but there could be a janitor or another professor staying late to work. Logan sees that and bares his teeth, ready to sink them into you. An upper hand, an weak point he can use to his advantage.

"What's wrong darling? Scared someone might walk in and see you spreading your legs for your professor?" He taunts as his hands grab your thighs.

"Not at all, because they'll just see the old, lonely professor between his poor students legs." You bite back. Logan raises an eyebrow as his thumbs slowly caress your skin.

"Feisty." He hums.

For a moment the two of you just stare at each other. The reality of the situation weighing on you. You could get into so much trouble for this. This could ruin everything. But you don't care. You've worked too hard to walk away now.

You want him, more than you should. Waking up a extra early so that you look just right for him. Asking questions you already know the answer to. He's been on to you for a while but you knew that. You've been waiting for this. Both of you think you've been playing the other but right now all the cards are down and it's just a matter of who strikes first.

"If we cross this line, we can never go back. Do you understand me?" Logan says lowly.

One of his hands reaches to grab your chin. His thumb pulling at your bottom lip as he studies your face. Anything that could convince him you didn't want this. That he had taken things too far. But there was none of that. Nothing but pure and utter desire was in your eyes.

You reach over and grab his glasses that were discarded on the table. Silently you slip them back on his face. You always though he was hotter with them on. Logan lets you, finding it quite amusing.

"I understand. I don't want to go back." You say breathlessly.

Your hands reach for your blouse. Logan freezes as you unbutton your shirt painfully slow. Teasing him until he can finally see what you've been dying to show him. You're bare skin. No bra. How did he not notice before? He can feel his jeans get tighter as he stares unabashedly at your bare boobs.

"What? Never seen a pair of boobs before Professor?" You purr, really stretching out his title. You know it turns him on. It's taboo but so much fun. Your hands gently coming to cup them, push them up and play with them. They're partly covered by your blouse but it still drives him completely mad.

"Dirty fucking girl." He growls.

You gasp as he wraps one hand around your waist. Sliding you close enough to feel his bulge press against your panties. With his other hand he slides whatever books and pens were sitting so neatly on his desk to the ground with a loud clatter. You look towards the door once again and Logan smirks.

"Just you and me here sweetheart. Promise." Logan knows the schedule of every professor here. No one bothers to stay any later than they have to and the janitors are practically none existent. Not that he blames them. The school doesn't pay them enough anyways. He lays you down so your back is on his desk.

Your legs hang around his waist as he grabs your blouse and rips it apart.

"Fuck, aren't you just perfect." His hands are cold as he grabs your breasts in his hands. It makes you shiver. He squeezes them softly, almost hesitantly.

But it doesn't last long as he bends down and takes one of your breasts in his mouth. His tongue teasing your nipple as his hands grope and play roughly. Your back arches up, pushing them closer into his face. His glasses smashing against his face but he doesn't fucking care. A quiet whimper is music to his ears as he continues his pleasurable assault on your boobs.

"Always showing these off." Logan mumbles as he finally lets you catch a breath. His lips now trailing up to your neck.

"You show your other professors your tits or am I the only lucky one?" He asks tauntingly.

He already knows the answer but man does it stroke his ego to hear you say it. You bite your lip as you reach for his tie. Needing him to take off his damn shirt. He grabs your hands and pins them to your side. His mouth biting harshly into your shoulder before his tongue soothes the now painful spot.

"When I ask you a question I expect an answer." He clicks his tongue in a disappointed manner.

"Just you." You whine as you try and grind your hips, craving any kind of friction against your aching cunt. But once again Logan stops you. His hips pining you down.

"Almost there..." He purrs. You flex your hands as your brain starts to malfunction. How does he expect you to focus? Prick.

"Just you Professor." You pant and he lets go of your wrists.

Your nails dig into his shirt as he pulls at his tie. You messily unbutton his shirt to reveal his ridiculously toned chest. Your mouth waters as he shrugs his shirt off and places his tie on his desk. A devilish smile on his face as he does so.

"You're smart but I bet I could turn that brain dumb real fucking quick." He says. It's not a guess, it's a promise.

"Get up." He commands and you scramble to your feet.

He cups your face, its almost sweet as he smirks. He leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek before turning you around and bending you over his desk. Talk about whiplash. He lifts your skirt up to get a good view of your ass in that black lace he saw earlier. You shakes your ass teasingly and Logan isn't having it.

His hand slaps against your ass harshly making you jolt. Your eyes widening in shock at the pain. Though the pain doesn't last long as he drags his fingers along your cunt. Fuck they're so big.

You rest your elbows on his desk as you try and control your breathing. He's barely touched you and you're already going insane.

It's torture.

Pure torture.

His fingers stop and you let out an angry huff. Logan chuckles at your impatience. His hand reaching up and pulling the crotch of your panties back, letting them go and grinning at the loud snap against your skin.

"Can you hurry up?" You snap.

"Oh I'm sorry darling, is the teasing a too much?" He asks mockingly. He presses his crotch against your ass as he bends over so he could whisper in your ear.

"I agree, how terrible it would be to tease someone over and over." His false sympathy is really starting to piss you off.

"It would be like dressing in slutty skirts and shaking your ass in front of your professor after every class." You close your eyes as you realize this is payback.

"Didn't think you were one to hold grudges." You look back to glare at him and he just laughs.

"I don't. Think of this more as a learning opportunity." He falls to his knees his hands kneading your ass roughly. You just know he's got that stupidly handsome cocky look on his face.

"Yeah? What lesson are you trying to teach professor?" You try to gain some control back but Logan isn't having it. He slaps your ass again and you bite your lip. The pain dissolving into pleasure in an instant.

"Teaching you how to show some fucking respect." He growls as he leans in shoves his face into your clothed cunt. His tongue moving much to slow for your liking.

"You're fucking soaked right through darling." He hums as he pulls your panties to the side.

Your face falls onto the desk as he buries his tongue deep in your cunt. Soft whimpers fall from your lips as Logan absolutely devours you. His moans are pure filth and you start to wonder if he'll even come up for air. The sounds that fill the room are completely obscene. His nose presses against your ass as he continues his assault on your pussy. Tongue moving with expert skill. His hands have a firm grip on your ass and he isn't letting go any time soon.

You moan as his tongue plays with your clit. Teasing it every now and then when you least expect it. You're pussy is practically dripping onto his tongue. Begging for him. It needs him. You gasp when he finally pulls away. You sneak a look back and somehow he's gotten even hotter.

His eyes are dark with lust, his completely breathless. His glasses are fogged up and crooked but he doesn't even bother to fix them. His eyes meet yours and you shiver at how intense his gaze is.

"Fuck. Tastes so fucking sweet." Any reasonable thoughts and words fail him as he grabs your hips and pulls you right back onto his face. Your hips move involuntarily, chasing the sweet, sweet pleasure he offers with that dirty tongue of is.

Logan wanted to give you a proper punishment. Tease you a little until you're begging him to touch you. But the moment he got his first taste of you, all those ideas went out the window. He needed you, he craved you. The pleasure is intense and he's not letting up.

Without thinking you buck your hips trying to move away. You don't want him to stop but you just need to breathe and Logan was sucking the air out of your fucking lungs. Logan growls, actually growls. You whine when he stands up, abandoning your cunt to pin you down onto the desk.

"You're moving around too fucking much."

He grabs your hands and puts them behind your back.

"Is it too much hm? You bite off more than you can chew?" He ask. It's like he wants you to tap out. To prove he was right and you were in over your head. But you won't give in.

"No. Just want you to hurry up and fuck me. Or are you still trying to get it up old man?" You taunt.

His jaw clenches as he grabs his previously discarded tie and wraps it around your wrists tightly. Even tying a bow that he smirks at, a present just for him.

"You want my cock darling? Fine. I'll give it to you." The metal clinks of his belt make your heart skip.

Excitement surging through your body as you're finally getting what you want. You bite your lip as he tears your panties off your body. He very loudly sniffs them, groaning at the smell and tossing them behind him. Fucking perv.

He gives you no time to think as he rubs the head of his cock along your cunt. Using your own wetness to slick up his cock. Before you can utter another word he slips his tip in. A loud cry fills the room as you get your first raw feeling of Logan. He's massive.

You always hoped he'd be but fuck. He's stretching you beyond belief. Heavy, girthy, and bigger than any normal man should be. He nudges the deepest parts of you and he still hasn't bottomed out.

"Aw am I too big for you?" He thrusts his hips to shove himself in a little more. You don't even recognize the noises that fall from your own lips as he slowly takes you apart just by sliding in.

"N-No." You wish you had your hands free but there was something incredibly sexy about being tied up. At being at his mercy.

Logan wraps one of his hands around your neck. Not tight but firm enough so that you're well aware he's there. He's everywhere. He's all consuming. He leans down to kiss your bare back, his beard scratching your skin as he travels up to your shoulder.

"No? So this isn't too much for you?" He hums in your ear.

Your eyes squeeze shut as he finally bottoms out. His balls slapping against your ass he bullies his cock in. You shake your head. Refusing to waver. Though it was getting hard to even focus. You're completely overwhelmed and he can tell.

"Hey, breathe darling." Logan presses a kiss to your temple. He can feel how erratic your heartbeat has gotten. A soft moment breaking through the tension. You want to hold him. You want to kiss him and bury your face into his chest. You want all of him.

"I'm okay, just please. Fuck me Professor I need it so bad." You wail. Logan lets his forehead fall onto the back of your head.

He pulls his hips back slightly and slides back in. Easing you into himself into your cunt over and over until you start to open up for him. Your cunt is begging to be fucked and it doesn't want to let him go. Now what kind of man would he be to say no to her? Logan rests his hands next to your head, letting go of your throat.

"I'll take care of you honey, all you need to do is take it alright." He coos as he pulls all the way out until just the tip was still nestled inside of you.

With one harsh thrust he fucks his way back in. You barely recognized the cry that left your throat. His pace is ruthless. His glasses are falling off his face from the force so he just takes them and tosses them to the ground. Nothing is going to get in his way.

"Fucking shit." He hisses he slows down his movement.

He's not ready for this to be over. Slowly he fucks himself in and out. Watching in awe as you just suck his cock right up. Clenching around it. So warm and wet and fucking tight. You can't think straight anymore. Words have long left your brain as you can only manage a few incoherent mumbles and noises.

"Where'd my smart girl go? Did I finally fuck you dumb?" He asks, resting all his weight on one hand as he brushes some of your hair out of your face. His hands pushing your head to the side so he can see you better. You open your mouth but nothing comes out but a whimper.

"Hm? Come on you can do better than that." He leans down and brushes his lips against your cheek.

"Just one word?" You take a deep breath and clench your fists tightly. His dick is so far inside of you that you can feel him in your lungs.

"More." Your voice is shaky as you glance up at him, a pleading look in your eyes. Logan scoffs in disbelief.

"You really are a wanton little whore." He pulls out roughly making you whimper.

His movements are uncharacteristically wild as he unties your hands. Tugging and pulling fiercely until your wrists are finally free. You don't have time to even rub your wrists before he's got you standing and facing him.

You glance down and see his cock standing up, hard and leaking. This is the first time you get to see it in all its glory. If it was up to you you'd drop to your knees and suck him off right here.

But Logan has other plans. He grabs your ass and hoists you onto his desk. Pulling your legs until they're around his waist and the tip of his cock slips in.

"You want more? I'll give you more. I just want to watch your tits bounce while I fuck you and then see what kind of face you make when you come on my cock." He slams his hips forward and you claw at his arms.

You tilt your head back as Logan places his hand on your back. He pulls you closer and you use your hands to keep you upright. His lips latches onto your chest. Sucking hickeys that you'll for sure have to hide tomorrow.

"Professor..." You groan as this new positions sends him deeper. He's pounding into you relentlessly. Using gravity against you as he's practically pushing you up and letting you fall right back onto his cock. His other hand presses onto your stomach and you whimper.

"Feel that? I'm in your fucking guts honey." He purrs. Your head falls down and you see his hand on your stomach. Your voice is raw as he rails into you. Wailing and moaning from just how good you feel.

Your head feels faint and you can only hold onto Logan as your only anchor. His rough hands feel so nice on your burning hot skin. Though you can't focus for long as your eyes drift to his cock going in an out of you. It's hypnotic. Just him pushing his cock in over and over.

"I'm so close honey, just need you to come. Think you can do that for me?" Desperation slips into his voice as he rests you back onto the desk. One hand on your breasts while the other plays with your clit with tight circles. It's utter devastation as you convulse under his touch. The pleasure nears pain as you become completely overstimulated.

"Shh...It's okay. I got you." Logan coos.

His eyes squeeze shut as you come hard. Your cunt clenching him so tight he swears he's going to burst right then and there. Fuck he wants to. He wants to fill your pussy with his hot cum and watch it drip out. Stain his desk so that every time he looks down he can see the remnants of this night.

"Too much Logan please." You cry as you feel him pounding into you through your orgasm.

"You're okay, just take it honey. You said you could just let me fuck you a little longer." He begs.

He wraps both arms around your waist and picks you up, falling back into his chair and planting his legs onto the ground. You mewl loudly as your forehead falls onto his shoulder. You're nothing but a toy at this point. A plaything he can use to wet his cock.

With the extra leverage he repeatedly thrusts his hips up into you. Bouncing you on his cock until he can't take it anymore. With an animalistic roar he pulls you off him as his cock spurts cum all over his stomach. You watch in awe as he makes a complete mess of himself.

Logan falls back into his chair, his chest heaving as he brushes a hand through his hair. The other hand making slow soothing circles on your back. You can't help but notice he kept you in your skirt and blouse while he's completely naked. Not that you're complaining though.

Logan reaches up and brushes his fingers along your jaw. He's got this look in his eyes that makes you nervous. Not because he's angry or regretful. But he's content. The line has been crossed and you both know it. This was a game to the two of you, that's all it was supposed to be. So now what?

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, your breasts are littered with hickeys and he can't help but admire his masterpiece.

"Yeah, I am." You sigh as a pleasurable ache starts to set in.

You haven't been fucked like this in a long time. Logan sets you back onto his desk as he starts to gather the clothes that were discarded onto the floor. He cleans himself up as best with some spare papers. Not the most ideal but he uses what he can.

You slowly button your blouse, some of the buttons are now missing and you huff at the thought of having to buy a new one. It's quiet as you both get redressed.

You pick up Logan's tie and try your best to smooth it out for him. He watches in amusement as you rub it against the edge of the desk. He slips your panties into his back pocket after finishing dressing.

"I think those are mine Professor." He stiffens at the sound of you calling him that but he just shrugs.

"A souvenir of sorts." He hums as he rests his jacket along your shoulders.

"Do I get a souvenir?" You ask semi jokingly. He reaches for his tie and wraps it around your hand.

"If you want one darling." He presses the tie into your hands and you realize he's letting you keep it. You smile as you hold it to your chest in an almost protective manor.

"We can never do this again." He says seriously, the reality of what had just occurred slowly setting in for the both of you.

"I know." You say as you pull his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

He tilts your chin up as he studies your face. He's seen a lot of students come and go through his class. Some of them he remembers, the star students, the annoying ones. But you, well he'll remember you for a long time.

"You'll come to class and sit where you always do, raise your hand and answer questions and I'll answer them. But no more office hours. No more short clothes." He says and you listen. If anyone were to find out about this. It would mean the end of both your careers and yours hadn't even started.

"The semester is almost over and you'll be out of here soon. A college graduate." He gathers his things and packs them into his brief case. Handing you your books that he had thrown on the floor earlier.

"Will you miss me?" You ask hesitantly. It's a dangerous question.

"You know I can't." He says as he helps you off his desk. Your legs are a little wobbly but you can still walk.

"I know, but will you?" He thinks for a moment, refusing to meet your eyes as he shuts off the lights. He can't answer it because he knows he will. Of course he will.

So he just gives you a somber look and you nod in understanding. You follow him out of the building, worried someone might question why you're both here so late but there's no one in sight.

"Let me call you an uber before I go. I don't want you walking home this late." He says as he pulls out his phone.

"Oh it's okay I don't live far." You tell him but he insists.

"I shouldn't be here when they pick you up but my car is close by. I won't leave until I see you get in." He says. That still gives him some anxiety but he can't drive you home. It's too risky.

"I understand, I'll see you in class tomorrow Professor." The word feels odd coming from your lips. The meaning has been tainted for ever.

"See you tomorrow." He doesn't know what to do now. He can't hug you, kiss you. But turning and leaving just feels wrong. So he waves. You laugh as you wave back.

As he walks back to his car when he hears you call out his name making him stop. You're running to catch up, stopping before him and blurting out the question you need the answer to before you walk away forever.

"Do you regret it?" You ask him. He should. You both should regret this. It's shameful and completely inappropriate. In fact you should never speak again if you know what's good for you. Logan sighs and turns to face you.

"No. Not at all." He says firmly.

"Neither do I." You tell him. You smile softly and turn away, running back to the spot where you're supposed to meet your uber.

Logan rubs his jaw as he unlocks his car. Getting in and waiting until the car comes to pick you up. He stays in the parking lot for a while. Watching on his phone until you it says you've been dropped off. A part of him wants to check just to make sure but he know he can't.

The next day he shows up to class and you're right there front and center. Gone are the risky clothes and it seems your real taste in clothes make you look even cuter. He shakes the thought away as he starts to pulls up the lecture.

"When most people think about war they think of the big moments. The bloody battles, the famous figures." He walks around the room as he talks. His students typing away at their laptops as he changes the slide.

"But when everything's said and done. The aftermath is what really affects the people. How war can change a nation." He stops right in front of your desk but he doesn't dare sneak a glance.

You look up at him, nerves settling under your skin as you wonder where he's going with this. There's no possible way anyone could know what happened between you two but you still shift in your seat as he utters his next sentence.

"What happens...when the game is over?"

[ihaznoclue]

Ken x Baker! Reader but more of a rivals to lovers sort of thing since he feels she's taking his business and perhaps his kids (because all kids love sweets lol.)

Pairings -> Ken the Butcher x Reader

Warnings -> Violent language, rivals to lovers

Note -> Reader is a baker and Ken feels like she is trying to take his business as his kids loves sweet but later realizes that you weren't

Genre -> Angst to Fluff

KEN THE BUTCHER

Ken, the gruff and anger issued butcher of the whale belly butcher shop that has ruled for over 5 thousand years

He is well respected and slightly feared on cementing rotlings that underestimate him or his family, his shops is what he was proud of besides taking care of his children

He's proud and protective of his reputation and then there's you

A warm but very stubborn baker with a charming shop full of pastries that has just opened up near his butcher shop, suddenly the line of customers who used to visit his shop now lingers to yours

Roltings wondering and lurking around, seeing what new things they might see on their way to your bakery shop, your thought that the gaslight district needed some sweetness in it

But Ken wasn't happy at all, he feels likes he was losing his place and his earning of his butcher shop on how much roltings are seeking your shop instead of his

And it pisses him off... a lot

One day Mel wanted to check out your store with Breadhead and they loved it, seeing new things in their life's as they tried nearly every single bit of pastry they could find

Ken thought that his kids were betraying him for going to his rivals shops, but the very next day Mel came into the shops with

YOU

You could smell meat as you stepped in through the door, Mel mentioning you over to meet her dad which was Ken of course but you didn't know him but he knew you

You seemed sweet and generous as you greeted him with a sickening smile towards him which he returned in a small smirk

Mel then decided to leave you two to it as you and Ken standed awkwardly in silence

"I've heard that your new shop has became big.." He gruffs

"Oh you heard, Well thank you but I've been hearing about yours for a while now and wanted to come check it out, your daughter seems nice to let me see your shop for the very first time" You said

He didn't think you were this NICE, I mean it's a place where rotling can do whatever they want to each other as the kill and kill and kill

It's hell, but a sweet and pure soul like yours makes him feel a bit selfish for thinking you were a terrible person

But now it thinks you are just a simple person that just wanted to start her very own business

Now over the days of meeting him in his shop after your work has been done, as one morning you decided to give him a little treat to taste

Even giving Mel and breadhead some treats to try as they always seemed to come into your shop for a while now

In return Ken gave you a dish of his favourite meal every rotlings likes to have, like a trade

Looks like Kens starting to like ya

I couldn't really think of much stuff in here but I hope I did good :))

-A<3

[existence-is-a-pain87]

Do you have any self aware Rodger as yet? Plz ? 🥺

I did have a piece that Tumblr deleted by accident, but I can definitely make a new one!

Also, just a quick note: To ANYONE who wants to make fanart or fanpieces based off the things I make, DO IT. DO IT AND SEND ME WHATEVER YOU MAKE!

I WANNA SEE THE ART AND THINGS YOU MAKE!! ESPECIALLY IF I INSPIRED YOU!

PLEASE I BEG OF YOU ALL!!!

Detective's Work

Yandere!Self-Aware!Rodger x Reader

Warnings: Obsession and other general yandere behaviors, swearing

--☆☆☆☆☆--

Rodger was interested in you.

A player they can hear? My, how interesting!

Did that mean he liked you? No.

You were not necessarily someone he veiwed himself as liking. You were just... too excited, strangely loving, and...

Rash. Far too rash.

You blurted out whatever came to mind, endlessly spoke to those you played with in the chat, would ignore Twisteds charging at you in order to grab items.

He was interested in you, yes, but he wasn't like Goob.

He didn't like you immediately.

He actually believed you could be a danger. Perhaps you'd be cruel and only put upon a façade of gentleness. Perhaps this was you in an especially good mood.

He didn't think he would ever 'like you', per say. He would look into you, view you with hesitation and skepticism, but not like.

He swore to himself he'd never truely liked you.

He didn't realize he was lying to himself.

--☆☆☆--

He didn't like that you swore.

It didn't happen constantly, but occasionally, a cuss would fly from your mouth in fits of frustration. Especially when a Twisted came out of seemingly nowhere for you and damaged you.

Once you did that to Toodles.

For a moment, he hated you.

Then, almost instantly, you talked about how you couldn't swear to a child and immediately apologized.

Rodger liked that you took ownership of your actions and apologized when you realized you did wrong.

He started to believe perhaps you were no threat.

Perhaps you were someone he could like, if even slightly.

He kept his eye closely trained on you, which he found much easier when you played him far more than any other Toon.

You adored research as much as he did and would run around collecting it, thrilled to get more research for Toons.

He didn't admit that he liked how much you played him.

--☆☆☆--

He was the first to tweak the game.

He was the first Toon to realize they were in a game and to find the code, so is it hard to figure he was the first to learn how to tweak the game?

It was simple anyways, something no one would notice.

He made it exponentially more likely for Main Twisteds to spawn when you played him, or for Twisteds who research you wanted.

It was simple work, something barely anyone noticed.

In fact, when someone did notice, they weren't even angry, just happy to see you more.

He even went as far as forcing a Twisted Dandy to spawn when you desperately wanted to fufill the Astro requirement.

Dandy was pissed, but Rodger didn't care much.

It was simple detectives work, after all.

Anyways, Toodles really liked you. She thought you were really cool and really wanted to meet your cat.

He told himself him warming up to you was only because Toodles liked you.

He was lying to himself.

--☆☆☆--

Rodger was filling notebooks with information he gathered about you.

He's filled twelve to the brim with tiny words, and drained a number of pens.

All to contain information about you, every single piece of information unique or expanding upon pieces of information he already gathered.

He's constantly writing more based off all the information he's been able to gather about you from what you said to them or people around you when you were playing.

A while ago, Rodger learnt of Vee seeming to know significantly more about you than he did.

She didn't crack when he kept trying to interview her and learn what she knew of you that he didn't.

It frustrated him, but he didn't dare share this with everyone.

He just resumed gathering whatever information about you he could.

Then he found the microphone.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps had to stop lending Rodger pens with the amount of them he drained empty.

He wasn't too fazed. He just used your note app and transferred all his notes about you to there and hid it from you.

Rodger had stopped lying to himself about liking you at this point.

No, he loved you. Loved you to the point of obsession.

He knew it was wrong. That he was setting a bad example for Toodles. He didn't care.

To their creators and their gods, he fucking LOVED you.

Wow, now you even had him swearing when Toodles wasn't around.

To him, you were the other parent Toodles needed in her life. Supportive, gentle, and able to be much more excited and playful than he could.

He didn't even need to think long over if you'd like to play with Toodles or not.

You were not the perfect person for children, and several times you had stated you didn't want children.

But he knew he could change your mind.

Oh, even with all he knew of you, he desperately wanted to sit you down and interview you for hours. Desperately wanted to learn how you ticked, to see your little quirks face to face.

He wanted to tie you up and never let you free.

He wanted to resent you for this obsession. For you making him obsessed.

But he knew better. He knew you never meant to do this to him, you never meant for anyone to be obsessed with you.

He couldn't resent you.

He never could.

He wasn't even frustrated he never learnt why it was you they heard, and only you.

No, he was pleased.

You frustrated him occasionally, yes.

But god, he wanted to do so many things to you.

He could now admit to himself he adored you utterly and completely.

It was merely an effect of his detectives' work, after all. And he couldn't be more pleased by the mystery of you being solved.

[lostinlovingrevery]

hihihihihi hello im a friend of cas' and i love your work :3333 could i perhaps maybe possibly request some cowboy!logan drabbles... it doesn't have to be smut or anything i just wanna kiss that man on the mouth with tongue :333 okay thanks i hope you have a really great day peace love and little donuts 💜

HELLO!!! Dear friend of Cas!!!! Thank you so much <3<3<3

I know you sent this the other night HOWEVER I DID have donuts before work this morning so!!!!!! your blessing worked!!!!

This is cowboy logan and i tend to be really horny about him HOWEVER I am including drabbles both fluffy and smutty below so enjoy. I probs should just make an individual post for each one oh well cash cash money smth smth free will

COWBOY LOGAN DRABBLES!!!!

(smut and fluff below)

Fluff

No More- angst/fluff

warnings: angst, some tension, it all works out <3

You hated every time he left.

The way he give you a kiss on the back of your hand and bid you farewell,

till next time, love.

How he could turn his back to you and walk away, climb on his horse and not even look back at you as he snaps the reins and ride away from your home.

You then spend your time alone, passing time doing your typical chores, and committing to new hobbies you didn't really enjoy all that much. You'd do everything you can to take your mind off him and when you finally realize that you won't stop thinking about him- you put your energy into what you'll tell him the next time you see him.

You were going to put a stop to his visits. No more showing up in the dead of night, no more giving your body to him every time he kisses you, no more letting him plague your every thought.

Then you'd hear his heavy footsteps on your wooden porch, the familiar sound of his spurs, the rustle of the layers he always wears. You'd forget every spiteful hateful thing you wanted to spew at him and run right into his arms, sharing a passionate kiss.

Then he'd pull out something from his pocket. It was different every time. A little gift, a token for you from his travels. It's ranged from everything to jewelry, to knick-knacks. He's given you a small, delicate yet beautiful sea shell. An old, restored compass. A small frame of your favorite flowers, pressed. He brought you books that you keep neatly stacked on your shelves, alongside your gifts that you treasure- even if you're angry with him.

You often wonder why he leaves. Aren't you good enough? He say he loves you, yet refuses to stay. Does he have others, that he says the same things to? Does he bring them gifts from your town?

Your mind would run wild with every possible situation, burning yourself with anger and jealously.

Yet, you still run into his arms. Every. Single. Time.

"Hello darling." He hums happily, pecking your lips again. A hand slipped around your waist to pull you close. You brought your hand to his cheek, examining a small scar. "It's nothing, don't worry."

"What did you do?"

"Just another little scrap, but it's fine." He says. "It's late, why don't we go inside. We can catch up in the morning."

You began to nod- only to remember your decision, how you won't going to let the charming cowboy into your life anymore. He noticed quickly the way your expression soured.

"What is it?"

"I don't think we should do this anymore Logan." You stepped back. Your hands came together, your fingers intertwining as you straighten your shoulders. and hold your chin up high.

He looked at you with a bit of confusion, raising a brow. His eyes trailed down you. "Why?" He stepped forward. "Why the sudden change in attitude sweetheart?"

"It just can't work like this anymore."

A heartbeat passed and a flash of anger came across his face. "There someone else?" He took a step forward, brows creasing together. "Another man?"

You squinted at him, your hands went to your hips. "Why would you care? It's not like you're here most of the time anyway."

A flash of guilt, before it returned to anger. "Is he here?"

You sighed. "No one is here Logan. There's no man. I'm sick of...this. I can't be sitting around my entire life, waiting for you to show up. I don't know what you're doing- where you are. I have nightmares of you ending up dead out there and I'll never know. Because I would just wait for you."

Silence filled the air, as you stared at each other. Logan's rage and jealousy melted away. Relief and concern filling him at the same time.

"Hey" His hand came up to your face and you shoved it away- refusing to let him charm his way back into your good graces. "Hey!" Both hands came to your face, pulling you closer to him. His touch firm, but gentle. "I've been doing it for you."

"What?"

"Been wanting to make sure I could take care of you properly. My girl only deserves the best." He purrs. "Been taking whatever job I could find. Saving up all the money possible so we- could live comfortable. However we want."

A soft gasp escaped you.

"Believe me darling I never wanted to leave you. You're all I can think about when I'm gone. I find things that remind me of you..." A faint smile grew on his face and he leaned his forehead against yours.

"Why didn't you just tell me that?" You whispered. A heartbeat passed.

"You'd convince me. To stay." He answers. "I know you would. Say you wouldn't need anything-"

"I don't-"

"I gotta take care of you darling." He says. "our future, whatever it'll be."

"You still should have told me. All this time I thought you were...just...." You sighed. You met his eyes, the hardness in your heart finally softening again. You considered his words- he could be feeding you a bunch of lies- but one more look into his eyes told you he was telling the truth. "You'd bring me a gift?" You smile.

"I did." He smirked. "Me."

"You-..." You trailed off. "You're not going to..."

"That's right darling. No more leaving. This cowboys heart is all yours."

A Small Crush - fluff

warnings: Violence, drinking, references to unwanted touch, logan being cute

He was a regular

Another patron in the saloon you worked in, tending to drunks, cranky and perverted old men, and the men and woman who worked their asses off and came by to relax.

He never chat much with anyone. Usually asked for a whiskey and sat alone at a table or at the counter. Waved off most who tried to pay him company- even the beautiful girls, and the escorts.

Occasionally he join a card game, sometimes get into a fight with someone who picked the wrong man.

He was a cowboy, and a loner. James Logan Howlett.

However he never passed the chance to talk to you.

He always paid you a compliment, a nice tip, and a pretty smile. Your friends teased you about him.

"Someones got a crush."

"He's just a nice man, that's all." You argued, hoping they don't notice the way you get flustered- how you face began to turn hot as you think about the handsome cowboy who's eyes sparkled when they looked at you.

It was random whenever he showed up, any day, any time. Sometimes will just take a quick drink, and sometimes he'd settle himself in the corner of the bar sipping on the large bottle of whiskey you left for him, and eating the meals you'd bring "on the house" to make sure he was fed, especially when he looked a bit peaky.

When you had the time, you'd sit and talked to him- ask him about his adventures. You loved hearing them- always wanting to leave the small desert town you lived in but never able to set foot out of it. He'd tell you about the trouble he'd get into- the ones that weren't so bad. He may omit a few details here and there- and you could always tell. You didn't care.

Whenever he was there- you always felt safe. Regular patrons began to recognize his intimidating presence and gave you less slack when he was around. One time one of the mine workers decided to smack your butt when you turned around to get the orders of a customer. Before you could even react the lone cowboy was across the room- tackled the miner over the table pining him to the floor and punching the living daylights out of him. It caused a chain reaction of course- and you managed to grab him and pull him out with you until the law came to break things up.

Despite the obvious tension between you both, the lingering glances, how your hand brushed over each his when you'd hand him something- sending a spark of electricity through both of you. Nothing ever happened. You waited for him- waited for him to ask you to dinner, lunch, breakfast- even a midday snack?

It was a late evening when something finally did.

Earlier in the day, the bar broke into a huge fight- Logan was the center of it. Some customer whistled at you- made a crude comment. Like before- Logan flew off the handle. Things got smashed, the authorities came- and you're left to clean the mess.

Your fixing tables and chairs, sweeping up the glass and various other messes when you heard the door creek open and heavy footsteps.

"We're closed!" You called out over your shoulder.

"That's too bad, was hoping for a glass."

You looked up, glancing to the door where Logan stood. He looked a bit sheepish, thumb tucked into his belt. He reached up and removed his hat. You smirked.

"If you can find one that's not shattered on the floor." You remarked, turning to sweeping up the shattered glass. You'll have to tell your boss- who was already fuming and told you to never let Logan back into the bar again- that he needs to order new glasses.

His footsteps approached you and you felt a hand on your back. You turned to look at him- and he held up a single flower to you.

A desert sunflower.

You smiled, taking it from him.

"It's not the best apology but..." A faint smile stretched across his face. "It's a start of one."

You looked at him. "It's promising." You grinned. He looked down, a bit bashful as you noticed the pink of his cheeks. He looked up at you, and reached for the broom.

You gave it to him, stepping away from the mess and allowing him to take over. You turned to the bar, ignoring the crunching of glass you hadn't swept up yet under your feet and began searching for something to pour whiskey into.

"So how did you get away?"

"Well..." Logan looked up, then looked at you, tilting his head towards the broken window. "After Roger threw Jim through it, I climbed out."

You blinked, and began to laugh shaking your head as you recall the chaos. "Y'know, Logan, you don't have to start a fight every time a man acts like a pervert." You crossed your arms, setting a bottle of Jack on the counter and leaning forward" I'm used to it- I can protect myself."

"I know." He smiles, dropping the broom to join you at the counter. "But....beautiful girl like you- man like me can't help it." He says leaning onto the counter, inches away from you.

You hummed, a pregnant silence filling the air around you. You took in the details of his face- like you have a million times before, noticing a deep cut on his cheek.

"Are you okay?" You asks in concern, your hand reaching out to touch his cheek- careful not to touch the cut, but tracing his skin underneath it.

"I've had worse." He smiles, his hand reaching up to curl around your hand, and he turned his head to kiss the palm of your hand, and then each finger.

Your heart started beating faster, butterflies raged in your stomach, each press of his lips sent a new tingle through your body.

"I don't like that you took a hit for me." You say softly.

He looked at you, a faint smirk across his face as his hand came up to take you chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I'd take a lot worse for you sweetheart."

Before you could respond, he leaned forward, catching you in a gentle kiss- giving you space to pull away, but you leaned in further. It turned heated, he tilted his head to lean further into you, licking your bottom lip, and slipping it between your lips as you parted them.

When you finally parted, breathless, your eyes met- and a small laugh escaped you both. You looked away, becoming flustered by your shared kiss. He brushed some hair behind your ear.

"Was that apart of your apology?" You smiled, looking up at him again.

"No, that was something new." He hums. You beamed, tilting your head to the side.

"Good, because you're not getting out of helping me clean all this up."

SMUT

Just a Maid - Smut

warnings: smut (obv), unprotected piv, creampie, logan is such a strange man

He thrusts into you, a breathy gasp escaping as you tipped your head back.

"Gotta be quiet sweetheart-" He purrs in your ear, "Don't want anyone hearing do ya? Or maybe ya do. You want them all to see me fucking you don't you?"

You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his hips. He pressed against you, his body supporting you while his hands slammed into the wall on either side of your head.

It all happened so fast. You were up late- finishing the chores. One of the other farmhands was sick, so you did both hers and yours for the day so she could rest.

Logan, another hired help for the folks you work for - a rich family that your father owed a debt to, passed down to you when he died from sickness, had just walked in.

Logan tended to the cattle and sheep on the farm- And was often a topic amongst the women who worked here due to his rugged good looks, and bad attitude to anyone and everyone that interacted with him- including the bosses.

You never really interacted with him, the both of you too busy with your own work. The most you’ve done is bring food and water to the men, especially when it’s hot. The others went out of their way to talk with you- never Logan.

 But you've watched him. How he herded the animals out in the field- he was the best out of all of them. It embarrassed you to admit that you had a crush on him when he barely spoke a word to you- who wouldn't with a fine creature such as him?

Out of everyone that lived and worked on this land though- you definitely didn't have a chance.

He came in, expecting an empty barn to drink and smoke in- but you were there.

Not a word was spoken when he first came in. You both looked at each other. Logan had a look of irritation cross him, a small scoff escaping him as he continued into the barn- towards his hidden stash of jack. You rolled your eyes- annoyed that he was actively acting as if you were inconvinence him for being there when you were just working your ass off.

Time passed and you could feel his eyes on your back and the stench of cigars. Ignoring the feeling, you continued brushing the sheets along the scrubbing board. Soap came up to your elbows, and your skin was beginning to dry out.

"How long are you gonna keep doing that?" His voice finally interrupted the silence. You stopped, turning your head to speak over your shoulder.

"When I'm done." You reply, your tone was snappy. You were exhausted, knowing of the cowboys attitude and your little schoolgirl crush be damned- you weren't in the mood.

The wife of your boss had been around earlier- a real grade A bitch to everyone. She teased you about your dress- a simple milkmaid dress, as if you could afford anything fancy, about how you didn't have makeup, about your background, and even taunted your late father. All the while, you're washing her clothes, her sheets.

He was silent and you were glad he took the message until your heard footsteps approaching you.

"Take a break." You heard him as he stood behind you. His tone was a bit softer, but still demanding. You scoffed.

"I have to finish this first."

"They ain't gonna care-"

"Yes, they will." You respond with a firm tone. You scrubbed harder as frustration built up in you. Silence filled the room again. He said your name and asked if that was correct. A sigh, and you nodded. Didn’t even really know your name.

"I see you around."

"Me?" You laugh.

"You're a busy bee." He says, coming around to sit in front of you, a small groan as he settles down onto a haybale and leaning back, stretching his legs until his boot tapped against the washbasin you were using. "Always running back and forth, ordering the others around. They respect you."

"I've been here long enough for them to."

"Your old man worked here? Right?"

"Yeah." You nodded. "Died before you came around."

More silence, you saw him taking a sip from a bottle in his hand from the corner of your eye.

"You ever take a break?"

"I would if I could." You remark. "Mr and Mrs. Everglot keep me busy."

"That's for damn sure." He mutters. "They're a bunch of assholes."

You glanced up at him. "You think so?"

He quirked a brow, and nodded.

"Mm." You returned back to washing the sheets, the water splashed to the flower. The soap was beginning to disappear during the conversation.

"What?"

"Mrs. Everglot seems to like you." You say. "I see her talking to you every chance she has. Bats her eyelashes at you. Figured you liked her at least."

"That make you jealous?"

Your head shot up. He was across from you, leaning against a hay bale, a smirk growing across his face. You scoffed, shaking your head.

"No?" You say. "Why would I be? We don't know each other."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

You sighed, "It's just an observation. I figured you one of the men who sneak into her room at night when Mr. Everglot is gone on his trips."

He smirked, eyes watching your every movement. How you seemed to become increasingly flustered as the conversation carries on. He knows exactly what you're talking about- however he has no interest in a woman like Everglot. She was annoying, a rich priss, flashing herself around him and the other men as if she had anything worth looking at.

"I heard her ripping into you earlier." He says.

You froze, not looking at him. Embarrassment filled you to the brim. As if you haven't been humiliated enough today.

He set his bottle down, standing up to walk over to your side, he squatted down to the floor, elbows resting on his knees. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear making you tense up.

"Take it easy darling." He says softly. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

He cupped your chin, making you look at him. "You shouldn't take that shit from her."

"You think I want to?" You frowned. "I don't have a choice."

"Yeah you do-"

"No, I don't." You say firmly. You reached up to remove his hand. You stood up, squeezing the excess water out of the sheet, before draping it along the wall of a stall. "I have to finish the chores."

"Do you believe her?" He asks.

Your face felt on fire. "Logan- could you just leave me alone? Why are you even asking all this- you don't know me."

"Yeah I do. I've been watching you the entire time I've been here. " He says, stepping closer to you. That took you aback, your brows creasing as you looked up at him, "You're the only one worth her salt around here."

You shook your head and looked down at the floor crossing your arms, a tilt of your hip. "Why are you- I'm just a maid." You don't understand his sudden interest, why he suddenly insists on giving you a pep talk when before today neither of you barely said a word to each other.

"That's what you think you are? Just a maid?"

You looked up at him- startled by how close he was. You looked into his green eyes. The corner of his lip quirk upwards. He reached out and cupped your face again. Within seconds, it felt like your heart was beating out of your chest, and your legs were turning into jelly.

"I don't think so." His voice turns low, as he smirks and tilts his head. 

Before you knew it, you were pressed up against the wall with him between your legs, buried deeper inside you than anyone ever has been. 

You felt his heavy breaths with each thrust on your neck- before he began pressing kisses against your skin again, finding the crook, he bit down hard. You cried out from the pain, hands climbing into his hair and tugging at his messy, sweat covered hair. 

His hands came back down from the wall, tucking underneath your skirt to grab ahold of your ass, as he began pounding into your faster. Chuckling at the sounds of your whines and hiccups. 

“Haven’t gotten fucked like this before haven’t you?” He purred. “I can tell- a damn shame sweetheart, you deserve someone taking good care of you- You take care of everyone else around here.” His head fell to your shoulder, as he groans at the way you tighten around him. “Guess I’ll have to pick up the slack-” 

“Logan-” You whined,

“I know gorgeous- “ He lifted his head up, pressing his lips to your cheek. “What do you need?” 

“You-” You breathed out. He chuckled. 

“You already have me and you want more already huh?” He taunts with a cheeky grin. You jumped from a hard thrust and whine with a pout, “C’mere, I got you-” 

He captured you in a messy kiss, all tongue and spit and teeth clashing together. He spread his feet, angling himself against you as he thrusts in a steady yet rough pace that makes your eyes roll back and your thighs press into his hips harder. 

Your peak came, rolling through you in sharp waves that shook your body, sobs escaping you as you clung to Logan- listening to him while he talked you through it into your ear. His own demeanor became sloppy, voice becoming rough as he fucked your through your orgasm, before stopping and spilling inside you. You listened to his rough moans as he buried his face into your neck. 

After a few minutes, you dropped your shaky legs to the ground. He kept his arms around you, making sure you still had your balance. 

“You alright?” 

“A little dizzy…But yeah.” 

“Mm.” He brought his hand to your chin, tipping it up so you would look at him. “Right here, same time tomorrow. Got it?” 

“Um…” Your mouth hung open, unsure how to respond as you looked up at his face. “Okay…”

He smirked, letting go of you as he tucked himself back in his pants, redoing his belt buckle. He leaned down, grabbing your panties that were discarded to the floor. You reached out to take them- but he snatched them away from you. 

“Think I’m gonna keep this, alright darling?” He stuffs it into his pocket. He reached for your hand, taking it in his and bowing, kissing the back of it. “Make sure to get some rest. Don’t let Everglot talk to you like that again. We both know your ten times worth more than her and her husband.”

He winked out at you, before grabbing his beer and leaving you alone in the barn with the laundry you had washed. Unsure what just happened, as you felt his cum slowly leak out and down your thigh. 

Taste of Cigars- smut

Warnings: smut (obv) unprotected piv, smoking, F! receiving oral

“Hold this, don’t drop it.” 

He stuck the cigar between your lips, and you clamp down to hold onto it.

“Don’t bite through the damn thing darling.” He mumbles, watching you fidget with it. “There- like that. See?” 

You nodded, puffing on it a bit- only to go into a coughing fit and nearly dropping it. 

“How bout you skip doing that, we’ll give it a taste later.” He mumbles. He hiked your skirt up, spreading your legs open for him. “Look at that pretty lil thing- all ready for me ain’t she?” 

“Mhm…” You nodded, heat blooming in your cheeks. You sat back, your elbows supporting you as you kept your thighs spread for him. His hands brushed over your panties- watching the fabric become soaked with your arousal. 

He pressed against your clit, watching your body tense from his touch and smirked, finally kneeling down, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, and then against your clothed cunt. He peaked his tongue, tasting your wetness through your panties and groaning. 

“Taste so damn good sweetheart.” He hums, pushing your panties to the side. “Mhm. Like I said- Such a pretty pussy you got.” 

You whined, stretching your legs open further, desperate for his touch. 

“Hey- don’t drop that cigar-” He orders, his voice becoming demanding, changing from the rough sensual tone he was holding before. You rolled your eyes, your tongue pressing against the butt of the cigar, attempting to get a taste of Logan left behind. “No attitude-” He brought a hand down on your cunt- and you yelped. How’d he know?

A heartbeat passed, his fingers began brushing through your folds, inspecting them carefully. You exhale deeply through your nose, eyes falling shut as you tipped your head back. You let the smoke fall through your lips, careful not to inhale again. The taste warm, more pleasant than you thought it would be- but still carried a bitterness you weren’t used too. 

His calloused fingers before swirling over your clit, sending a new relief through you as you lazily leaned back onto the table, arms stretching over your head. You felt his tongue dip into your hole, a small moan escaping you as you grabbed the edge of the table.

His tongue and fingers switched places, as he placed it against your clit, and he entered a single digit inside you, curling it to hit the sweet spot he knows will send you into a crying mess- he loved doing it to you. 

“Mlogan…” You hummed through his cigar. A hand came down to curl into his hair, tugging him closer. He looped his arms around your legs, his tongue now the sole reason for your pleasure. He ate you out like a man starved- your arousal soaked his face and beard- but he didn’t stop until your body tensed up, lapping at your cum until you fell laxed against the table.

He stood up, pulling the cigar that was hanging off your lips and brought it between his teeth as he puffed on it. 

“Mm.” He nodded savoring the taste of the cigar- noting your own spit that cover the end, his hands coming down to undo his belt and pulling his cock out. “Thanks for holding onto it doll.” He says, his arms once again looping around your legs and tugging you to the edge of the table. 

His cock rested against your belly, and he angled himself to push through your folds- watching your twitch with each rubbing motion. He finally angled himself against your hole, and pushed himself.

“Oh!” You gasped.

“Relax-” He mutters through his cigar, as he pushed deeper into you. You pushed yourself up on your elbows again. Lips parted as your eyes became hazy- full of him. 

He smirked, hand came up to take his hat that sat on the table next to you, setting it on your head. “Why dont ya hold onto that one too sweetness?” 

You smiled up at him, your face dropping as he thrusts into you hard- pulling out to the tip, and back in. 

Immediately losing all strength in your body as he takes you, you fall back onto the table, moans escaping you as your body bounced with each of his thrusts. 

His jaw tensed, teeth gritting as he puffed on the cigar- billows of smoke escaping through his lips. He creased his brows as his hands moved to hold onto you hips, pounding into you at a messy pace. Watching his cock pushing in- as if your pussy was sucking him inside, clenching around him everytime he pulls out. 

His hand came up to pull the cigar from his lips, bringing it down to his hip as he brought his other hand to press against your belly. 

“Doing such a good job darling-” He purred. “Taking this cowboys cock real good.”

“Lo-” You whined. “C’mere-” 

He brought the cigar to his lips, leaning down over you- not ceasing in his endless thrusts. His chest pressed against yours, he rutted into you deep. 

“I want you close-” You whined. 

“I’m pretty damn close from where I’m standing sweetheart.” He chuckled through his cigar. He took a deep puff, removing the cigar from his lips and held it between his fingers- with the same hand, he grabbed your face- squishing your cheeks together. “Open up.” 

His lips touched yours as he blew smoke into your mouth, watching your eyes become glazy- a faint smile appearing across your lips. He licked into your mouth, before pressing open mouth kisses all along your neck, and down your chest. “Fucking perfect.” He hissed, feeling you squeeze around him tight. He sat up, cigar between his lips again as he tugged your skirt further up, exposing your belly. His hands slid over your skin- feeling every soft inch of you, groaning at just how perfect you are.

A few more deep thrusts, and you were creaming around his cock, thighs trembling as tears poured down your cheek. He watched you come undone, fucking you through your second orgasm until he reached his own. He pulled out quick, stroking himself to completion all over your belly, streaks of white painting your skin. 

Once he’s done, he admired the art he made on you- as you laid on the table, spread up, ruined- panting and sweaty. A smirk on his face as he blew out another puff of smoke. 

He stepped forward, stubbing the cigar against the table next to your hip. “So, how’d you like the taste of that sweetheart?” 

You sat up, your hair mussed and ruined, your lips puffy, your eyes heavy and glazed still. You nodded. “That one wasn’t so bad.” You muttered. He smirked. 

“Yeah? Well I got these other flavors,” He reached into his vest, pulling out a small tin. “Figured you could try those out with me too.”

BONUS!!!

a peek into a future chapter of Love and Bounties!!!!!

an absolute menace <3gan

[undercoveravenger]

Gale's Barbarian (Headcanons)

Pairing: Gale x Barbarian!Male!Reader

Requested: Yes

Request: “Gale dekarios x himbo barbarian male reader who is well meaning and caring but dumb as rock head cannons”

A/N: Okay, but I love smart-as-hell + dumb-as-a-brick duos. Hope you enjoy!

-----

Gale’s not sure what he was expecting when a hand clasps his to pull him back through the portal. Someone demanding repayment for their good deed, perhaps? He was not anticipating you.

He’s knocked off balance as his feet hit solid ground again and he has to remind himself that the sudden wave of dizziness is just a result of the magic (it’s definitely not attraction, that would be preposterous, wouldn’t it?)

He continues telling himself that each day when he joins you on your quest to rid your little adventuring party of the illithid tadpoles infecting you, despite the perpetual distraction posed by your flexing muscles and towering physique and the memory of how nice it felt to have you holding his hand.

Despite how undeniably kind you seem, Gale is naturally hesitant to tell you about his… condition. Eventually though, the time comes and he broaches the subject with you. Explains that he needs magic to keep himself from coming apart at the seams and that he understands that it’s inconvenient to sacrifice a magical item in order to - oh? You’re just giving that to him? Just like that?

It’s like you don’t even need to think about it. He needs a magic item? Sure, will this work? He’s never had someone be so… eager to help him. Gale almost wonders if you’ve got some ulterior motive.

Soon enough he learns that that’s just who you are, eager to help those who need it. Volunteering to find the druid Halsin to help the tieflings and to find a girl whose brothers think she was taken by a hag. It’s… heartwarming, to say the least.

He’s a scholar though, simply being kind isn’t enough to win his heart. He needs to be challenged! But well, when you agree to let him show you the Weave - the look in your eyes as you see the magic of the universe stitching together around you - well, there are other things than studiousness.

Okay, so maybe he admires you as more than a comrade, but he’ll be hells-damned before he says anything about it! At least, that’s what he resolves to until he sees Astarion of all people cozying up to you at camp a few days out from reaching Baldur’s Gate. Then he has to take action.

He sends a projection to disturb your moment with the vampire, to call you away to the spot he’d picked out in a meadow nearby. The sky is big and bright and colorful stretched out above the both of you and it feels like a good night for taking chances.

He finds it surprisingly difficult to find the words to do this - to tell you what he’s feeling- with you sitting there beside him. But that’s okay because you’re patient. You sit there beside him, watching the aurora above you.

Eventually he manages “I like you, rather a lot, really.” And you smile at him and he can feel his hopes lifting. 

He gets an “I like you too, Gale. You’re a great friend!” for his trouble.

Okay, so it’s back to the drawing board. He tries bringing you flowers and you ask him if he wants you to try to make a flower crown out of them for him, because why else would he be bringing you a bouquet? He tries to make your favorite food for dinner (and did not burn it, thank you very much!) and you just attribute it to coincidence!

From there he decides he must forsake the classic cliches because clearly they are not working. Eventually he manages to persuade you into a walk, just the two of you, and decides he needs to just come out with it. 

“I like you,” he has to be quick before you can dismiss it as friendship again, “I really quite like you. And I’m not sure if I wasn’t clear enough before, but I like you in a romantic fashion and I would rather like the opportunity to be your partner if you find that amenable.”

It takes you a second to parse through the big words (he rambles when he’s nervous, okay?) but then there’s “oh? Oh! That’s- you were trying to ask me out before?” and Gale wants to slap himself but then you smile and lean in to kiss him and Gale thinks that everything may be alright after all.

[elodieunderglass]

I've started watching Ed Pratt's series From Source to Sea Down the Thames (he's the guy you once said was like a younger, posher Dr. Glass) and oh my goodness, I see what you mean about the West Country Adventure Boy. in the first couple installments especially, he really is just crashing around getting into situations he should have no right to emerge unscathed from, and then the next thing you know some lovely people have invited him into their back gardens for tea. (he also encounters many conditions that prompt him to say, "this is awful!" in a cheerful sort of way, and I fully expected him to pull out some Kendal Mint Cake for the occasion, but in this I was disappointed.) anyway, I hope Dr. Glass is doing well and continuing to Perservere Bafflingly

(West Country Adventure Boys)

They’ve got that SOMETHING in them!

I am actually full-on dying of a cold so am viewing him coldly as That Bastard Who Isn’t.

Dr Glass is cross and bored and frustrated at the moment, signed off work for an ME relapse and incredibly annoyed about being commanded to “not do anything” except light Regency lady activities such as embroidering and writing to his penpals. He has just come in to tell me about how a letter to him from his penpal in Japan costs the equivalent of 47p to send, and she gets to put in heavy things and ephemera, but his costs ten times as much for less weight; we can make of that what we will.

He then asked why I’d filled the snack box with KMC and I was like “I ordered it as research for the genius recipe in my comic.” He then perked up and bimbled off to see if it does anything for, presumably, ME relapses, or perhaps energy with which to take Mouse(2) to the postbox to post the letter. Is Mouse eating the mint cake? I think so… I no longer care. Mouse has just made me watch about 90 straight minutes of trains arriving and departing on YouTube and wave bye-bye to all of them. I was too tired to do literally anything else and Dr Glass rotates childcare with me and that was My Contribution.

The other day Dr Glass dropped a sharp knife and then caught it by the handle in midair. I was disgusted

[leviruthan]

they find out your yaoi

characters : idia shroud, kalim al asim, malleus draconia, riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, lilia vanrogue

note : I've never played the game (unfortunately) feel free to point out mistakes, also first post

IDIA SHROUD

idia hacked into your computer to help you fix a technical issue and accidentally opened a folder labeled with a vague name, or obvious name

you can imagine his hair turns pink as soon as he processes the contents

what is wrong with you?! he can't believe you're into...that kind of stuff! it's so...lewd!

if he told you that you'd say "yeah like you haven't watched any hent-" don't say anymore he's dying

he needs to cleanse his eyeballs with holy water

he'd be mortified and probably avoid eye contact with you for weeks

KALIM AL ASIM

in his usual boundless enthusiasm, kalim was helping you decorate your room for a party

he accidentally pulled down a shelf, and several of your books tumbled out, revealing their covers

kalim would blink, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity

"woah! [Name], these stories look amazing! all these guys are so close! are they, like, best friends? is this a story about really strong friendships? can we read them together sometime? it looks super fun!"

he'd be completely oblivious to the romantic/erotic subtext and just see it as a tale of close camaraderie

he might not immediately grasp the romantic implications, seeing it more as a story about close bonds

he's too innocent for this please be careful and keep the 18+ ones away

MALLEUS DRACONIA

malleus found a volume of your manga that had fallen out of your bag while you were walking in the gardens

he picked it up, curious about the artwork

malleus would tilt his head, his expression unreadable

"...fascinating. these...bonds between individuals are quite...intense. is this a common form of...human connection? it seems to inspire great passion. i must admit, i find myself...intrigued. perhaps you could enlighten me further on the nuances of this...genre, y/n?"

he'd be genuinely curious and surprisingly open-minded, though maybe a little clueless

I fear you'll have to teach him about something lilia didn't either

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

he was tidying your desk because you weren't doing it properly, of course

and a manga slipped out from under a textbook. the cover had two rather handsome gentlemen looking… quite close

he picked it up, brow furrowed, and flipped through a few pages before his cheeks flushed crimson like his hair

a very quiet and scandalized "good heavens" can be heard

he'd quickly place the manga back exactly where he found it, pretending he never saw it

later he might subtly inquire about your reading preferences, perhaps suggesting some "proper" literature

he'd be internally conflicted – on one hand, it's probably against the rules for a student to be reading.... such things

but on the other, it's your personal interest, if it brings you happiness then...

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

he was napping in his usual spot, happened to lean against your backpack and a book with suspicious cover slipped out

a low chuckle would escape him, he'd raise an eyebrow, a smirk spreading across his face

"herbivore's got some interesting tastes"

he wouldn't be particularly surprised or bothered. in fact, he might find it slightly amusing

will definitely tease you about it later though

LILIA VANROUGE

he was simply being his usual mischievous self, scaring you with his presence out of the blue

and well you were reading, you would try to hide it

being the curious creature (and nosy) he is, of course he wouldn't let you!

after taking it from you, he decided to take a closer look. the content made his eyes twinkle with amusement

a soft, delighted chuckle

"oh my"

a wide, knowing smile would be gracing his lips

he'd find it rather endearing and perhaps even a little bit funny

he'd see it as another interesting facet of your personality

might share some real stories too who knows

[itsnesss]

𝐧𝐨 𝐢'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | franco colapinto × fem!reader

summary | you and franco share a kiss, but you quickly convince yourself, "no, I'm not in love." still, his presence lingers, and despite the denial, the connection feels real

warnings | emotional tension, internal conflict, denial of feelings, kissing, mention of vulnerability

word count | 3.7 k

🖇️ sctw album 🖇️ more fc43

The city lights glowed outside your apartment window, creating a reflection that danced softly on the glass. It was a cool night, but inside the room, the warmth was palpable. Everything was in place: the TV off, coffee cups still on the table, the clutter of daily life. Next to you, Franco Colapinto was lounging on the couch, as carefree as always, but his eyes never stopped following you.

You, on your part, tried to avoid the penetrating gaze he was throwing from where he sat. He was silent, but you felt as if he was observing every gesture, every sigh that escaped your lips. Was it possible that he had already figured you out?

Franco was one of those guys who didn’t need to say much for his presence to be felt. He took his time, relaxed, but at the same time, there was something about him that always kept you on edge. Perhaps it was that strange connection between you, the one that defied any simple label, but one that was impossible for you to accept.

You turned towards the window, watching the lights flicker in the distance. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, didn’t want to see that expression he always wore when he felt you knew something but weren’t brave enough to say it. And the worst part was, he was right. He knew there was more between you two. And even though you kept telling yourself you weren’t in love, the knot in your stomach said otherwise.

“Everything okay?” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts. It was soft, but with that curiosity that sent shivers down your spine. He had the ability to ask questions without seeming too direct, but you knew that, in the end, he always got the answer he wanted.

“Yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile, trying to make the insecurity in your eyes less obvious. “Just tired. You know, all this being here all the time…”

Franco raised an eyebrow, watching how you ran your hand through your hair. You weren’t convinced, not one bit.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, with a slight playful tone. But you knew he was looking beyond the obvious. Franco knew you too well, enough to catch every tiny crack in your facade. “Tired of what?”

Of you, you thought, but didn’t say. Instead, you did the only thing you could: divert attention.

“Of everything. Of the same routines. Of the same nights, of…” you let the sentence fade into the air. You didn’t want to explain what “everything” really meant. You didn’t want to talk about him, not in that way.

Franco let out a low chuckle, but not in a cruel way. It was soft, as if he knew something you didn’t want to admit, but he had no intention of pressing you for it.

“Mmm, sure,” he murmured, stretching his arms as he made himself more comfortable on the couch, lighting a cigarette calmly, letting the smoke dissipate slowly into the air.

The atmosphere between the two of you began to grow more uncomfortable. You knew he wasn’t stupid. You could feel the tension growing in the air. It wasn’t as simple as you were making it out to be.

“And your exes?” you asked casually, trying to distract him, change the subject. But, really, it wasn’t so casual. It wasn’t just curiosity.

Franco didn’t flinch. He kept staring at the tip of the lit cigarette, the glow of the fire illuminating his face in the dimness.

“My exes?” he repeated, as if it was the least important thing in the world. “I don’t care, you know. I don’t think about them much.”

But something in his tone made you doubt. That answer sounded too rehearsed. As if he were responding just to avoid digging into something that, in reality, he did care about. As if he had his own fears, though he didn’t want to share them.

In that moment, you realized he was acting just like you. Avoiding the truth behind a facade of indifference, just like you. You both knew what was between you, but neither of you dared to say it. You weren’t in love, but Franco… he could read between the lines.

Suddenly, without thinking, you said what you knew you shouldn’t:

“I’m not in love, Franco. It’s just… convenient, you know?” your voice sounded forced, almost as if you were talking to yourself to believe it. “I only come here because… you know, I don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s easier being here.”

Franco was silent for a moment, his expression turning more serious. He sat up straight, putting the cigarette in the ashtray as he stared at you intently.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, his tone now soft but filled with something more, something you couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps understanding, or maybe… disappointment?

You didn’t know. You didn’t know what he wanted from you. You didn’t know why you hadn’t walked away if everything was so simple. If everything was just… comfortable.

“Yeah,” you answered, unable to stop the doubt from creeping into your voice. “It’s all. Don’t get any ideas, Franco. I’m not falling in love with you, no… I’m not.”

He stayed silent, as if processing your words, looking for something in your expression that matched what you had said. But you knew, and you knew it very well. You had said what was expected, but you had realized yourself that it wasn’t true.

No, you weren’t in love.

But just like the sun always sets, something inside you told you that you were just hiding the inevitable.

Franco sighed slowly, a small smile appearing on his lips, as if he had decided not to push further, but also not let go of what you had just said. He didn’t say anything, but stood up from the couch, walked over to you, and without warning, gave you a hug. Something that was normal between you two, but this time you felt that there was more. It was a warm embrace, wrapping you in a bubble of security.

“You don’t have to lie, you know?” he whispered, his voice close to your ear. “I don’t care if you’re in love or not. I just know I want you here.”

Franco’s hug wrapped around you, but it didn’t give you the comfort you expected. Instead of reassurance, what you felt was a knot even tighter in your stomach. It was like the hug had a strange power over you, undoing all the walls you had built. It was so easy to be there, in his arms, as if a part of you really belonged to him, but that feeling only made you more aware of what you were denying.

He didn’t say anything else after those words. He simply held you close, silently, and it was that silence that made you the most uncomfortable. He held you like it was the most natural thing in the world, but you knew it wasn’t. You knew that if something changed between you two, it wouldn’t be as simple as going back to normal. Things were never that simple.

You pulled away slightly from him, but not enough to break contact completely. He looked up, meeting your eyes, and for a moment, he remained silent, as if waiting for an answer. The truth, the one you were trying to hide beneath a mask of empty words, was floating in the air between you two.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked suddenly, without thinking. The question slipped from your lips like an arrow launched aimlessly, but pointing directly at something deep. “Why are you still here? Why do you keep looking for me? You know this doesn’t make sense.”

Franco furrowed his brow, but not in a confused way. It was as if he already knew that sooner or later, you’d have to ask that. As if he knew you so well that he expected that doubt to come to the surface.

“Because I like having you close, and you?” His answer was simple, direct, and at the same time, it left you speechless.

You didn’t know what to say. Why did you like having him close? Was it really just for convenience, like you had been repeating, or was there something more? What would happen if you accepted that there was something more?

“I…” you began, but the words got stuck in your throat. You didn’t know how to continue. You knew that if you said what you really thought, you would be crossing a line you didn’t want to cross. But there he was, in front of you, as if it was so easy for him to say what he felt, while you could only hide behind a mask of empty words.

Franco observed your inner struggle and, instead of pushing, did something you didn’t expect. He slowly approached and, with a gentle movement, stroked your hair. It was such a simple gesture, but so full of meaning. And that’s when you realized that words no longer served. The silence between the two of you spoke more than anything you could say.

“You don’t have to say anything, okay?” he whispered, as if he understood everything you hadn’t said. “You don’t need to justify it.”

At first, you didn’t understand what he meant. You didn’t need to justify it? Really? Your whole life, you had tried to justify every move, every decision, so you wouldn’t be vulnerable. But now, Franco was offering you something entirely different: acceptance without judgment, a truth without the need for explanations.

But that momentary peace disappeared as quickly as it arrived when his next words made you snap back to reality.

"But, do you really think I don't notice what's going on?" his tone was more serious, his eyes deep, almost piercing. "I'm not blind, I know this goes beyond what you're saying."

The temperature in the room rose a few degrees. You felt trapped.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, as usual, even though it hurt to say it.

Franco didn't flinch. Instead of getting upset or frustrated, he simply smiled faintly, that smile that bewildered you because you couldn't tell if it was a sign of triumph or an invitation to vulnerability.

"I know, and you do too." He took a step toward you, getting even closer. "What we're doing isn't just for convenience. It isn't, and you know it."

At that moment, the pressure on your chest increased. The truth was crushing you, and all you wanted was to escape from it. But how could you run from something you already knew was real? Franco was still there, so close, so present, and his gaze left no room for more lies.

In a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation, you took a step back, breathing deeply to calm yourself.

"I'm not in love, Franco," you repeated, though now your words sounded emptier than ever. "I'm just here because I need something. Something I don't know how to get anywhere else."

He studied your face, the way you avoided his eyes, the way you kept your distance despite everything overflowing inside you. He knew what was happening. He knew your words didn't match your gaze.

Then, unexpectedly, Franco took another step toward you. His closeness made you feel vulnerable, but at the same time, you were drawn to him like a magnet. You couldn't resist that attraction, that pull that made you want more, even though you denied it.

"I don't care if you don't want to admit it," he whispered, now so close to you that you could feel his warm breath on your skin. "The only thing that matters is that this is real, even if you don't recognize it."

Franco lifted a hand, gently touching your cheek, and his touch sent an electric shock through your whole body. You felt so confused, trapped in this game neither of you seemed willing to lose.

Before you could react, he leaned in toward you, with that intensity that always characterized him. You knew what was about to happen would change the rules of the game, but you couldn't turn back.

When his lips brushed yours, it was like a spark igniting a fire you couldn't put out.

The kiss was brief, but intense enough to make your heart race uncontrollably. The contact, the heat of his body so close to yours, was too much to process in a single moment. You stood there, frozen, your lips still trembling from the touch, as Franco slowly pulled away, watching you with that expression you knew so well. As if he was waiting for something more, but didn't say anything.

The air felt dense, heavy, as if time had stopped moving while you found yourself trapped in that instant. What had that been? Your mind was spinning, but your lips were still burning from the warmth of his kiss. Could it really mean something?

"That..." you murmured finally, but your voice cracked. You didn't know how to continue. You didn't have the words to describe what had just happened.

Franco didn't say anything at first. He simply looked at you with a calmness that disarmed you. It seemed as if he was waiting for you to break the silence. But how could you break it when everything inside you was breaking too?

"It wasn't an accident, was it?" Franco said suddenly, his words full of a sincerity that hurt more than anything else. "You know it wasn't just an impulsive kiss. You know there's more."

Your gaze shifted to the floor, as if you could find answers in the cold floor of the room. But there were none. The chaos kept growing inside you, stronger and stronger, and you didn't know if you wanted to let it out or keep hiding it under layers of lies.

"I don't know what I want," you admitted, and even though it wasn't what you had planned to say, those words fell from your lips without you being able to stop them. "I don't know if I want this."

Franco approached you again, this time more slowly, as if he were taking your emotional pulse, making sure not to cross the line you still weren't willing to cross.

"It's not about what you want or don't want," he said, his voice soft, yet firm. "It's about what you really feel. And even if you keep denying it, I know what you feel."

Your eyes looked at him, and for a moment, you realized what was happening. You were so terrified of feeling, of admitting that something had changed between you, that you had closed your eyes to the truth. Fear kept you prisoner in your own thoughts, in the idea that maybe it wasn't right, that maybe it wasn't okay to feel so vulnerable, so exposed.

But Franco seemed to see it clearly. He didn't need to hide anything, and that made you feel even smaller. It made you feel like maybe everything you had believed about relationships, about love, about desire, was a lie you had told yourself to avoid facing what you really wanted.

"What if you're right?" you said quietly, as if the words were poison, but you needed them to free yourself from that pressure. "What if what I want is this? What if all of this, everything we've done, everything we've said... isn't just confusion?"

Franco didn't say anything at that moment. His face remained calm, but his eyes shone with a mixture of understanding and something else, something that made you feel even more lost. He didn't expect you to have all the answers. He knew you couldn't solve it immediately, that there were still many pieces of the puzzle you needed to fit together.

And that was the worst part. The uncertainty you felt wasn't just because of what Franco might represent, but also because of what you represented to yourself.

Suddenly, the space between you two became unbearably large. A million thoughts flooded your mind, each more confusing than the last. You felt trapped between who you had been and who you could become, between what you thought you wanted and what you really needed.

Franco seemed to read your thoughts, or maybe he just knew what it felt like to be lost in the same darkness you were.

"You know you don't have to hide," he whispered, getting even closer. "You don't have to pretend that you don't feel what you feel."

His words sank deep, like a cruel reminder of what you already knew: that you could keep denying it, keep saying that you didn't want it, that you didn't need it, but deep down, you knew you couldn't go back.

And it was in that moment, with the distance between you closing, that you finally understood that the real fear wasn't what Franco might say or do. The real fear was what would happen if you gave in completely, if you allowed something as pure and as confusing as what you felt to envelop you.

But before you could process it, he was already too close. His hand, so firm and warm, rested on your cheek, and with a slight movement, he pulled you toward him. This time, there were no doubts in his eyes, nor in yours. There was only desire, and a truth neither of you could deny any longer.

The kiss was deeper this time, as if you both knew there was no turning back, that there was no room left to keep playing the "I don't want, I don't need" game. Because, in the end, there was something that bound you both more than any lie you could tell yourselves.

The room was now filled with a dense, almost unbearable silence. The kiss had left a deep mark on both of you, as if it were a seal that couldn't be undone. But the world kept turning around you, and even though you were both trapped in that moment, you knew it couldn't last forever. Nothing is eternal, you thought. Not even what you feel in such a frantic instant.

Franco pulled away slightly, but not enough to make the air feel light again. Somehow, the closeness between you hadn't diminished. What did this mean now? Were you finally facing what you felt, or was it just a temporary distraction, an easy way out of the chaos you both felt in your hearts?

"I don't have all the answers," Franco whispered, his voice low. "But I know this, whatever it is that's happening between us, it's real."

Your eyes searched for him, looking for something in his expression, something that would give you certainty, something that would tell you that you weren't the only one trapped in that emotional whirlwind. But his face was as impenetrable as always, though there was a softness in his eyes that you hadn't noticed before.

"What if this is just another lie?" your words came out before you could control them. Doubts began to invade you again, bringing with them that feeling of insecurity you had always feared. What if you were wrong? What if what you felt wasn’t what you thought?

Franco took a step closer, just a small one, but enough for you to feel his breath against your skin.

"I'm not playing with you. And I'm not asking you to change how you feel. I just... want you to see that this could be something real. Something you don't have to hide."

Those words, filled with sincerity, hit you in the stomach like a wave. Real? That word you had always avoided, that you had feared. Because if something was real, then it couldn’t be ignored, it couldn’t be kept a secret.

You couldn’t keep ignoring what you felt. It was getting harder to be honest with yourself. But the truth, the truth had always been scarier than any lie you could tell yourself.

"And what happens after this?" you asked, your voice barely audible, afraid to hear what he had to say. You didn’t want everything to end in a simple kiss, in a fleeting illusion that would only leave you emptier than before.

Franco sighed, as if he too were trying to find the right answer, something that wasn’t just a temporary comfort for both of you. And even though he didn’t say it with words, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, made you understand that there was something more than just physical between you.

"I don’t know," he said finally, a touch of brutal honesty in his voice. "But whatever happens, I don’t want it to be a lie."

The truth was on the table, so clear and so hard to accept. You both knew you couldn’t keep living in uncertainty, you couldn’t keep up the facade that everything was fine when your hearts had already taken the first step toward what you wanted.

"Maybe it’s not the perfect moment," you said, looking into his eyes with a mix of fear and courage. "But, I don’t want to keep running from this."

Franco nodded, the tension between you easing at last, as if all the weight in the world had fallen on his shoulders and, at some point, had begun to lighten.

"Then don’t run. Don’t let fear control what you feel."

A longer, more comfortable silence settled between you, as if the whole world had decided to give you both a break to process everything that had just happened. You didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, you both agreed on something: uncertainty wouldn’t separate you anymore.

The distance between you, that invisible wall you had both built for so long, disappeared. And even though the future was still uncertain, there was something you both now knew for sure. You didn’t need immediate answers, just the courage to move forward, together or apart.

And with one last glance filled with everything that hadn’t been said, but that both of you understood perfectly, he gave you a smile that, for the first time, didn’t seem so distant.

"It doesn’t matter what happens after," he murmured. "What matters is that this is real."

[zuko-always-lies]

@zuko-always-lies Really? azula called ty lee a tease, ignorant, she threatened her life to join her, she called her and mai by fools and told the guards to throw them away to rot in jail and she also said she doesn't want to see their faces again, in the (azula in the spirit temple) azula calls the illusion of ty lee (you were a nobody circus freak perorming for peasants), so zuko is not the only one who called her a circus freak, al though zuko was in stress and trauma and it annoyed him when ty lee assumed things she did not know about his family, everyone were fighting in the beach episode, ty lee did not want t capture zuko, azula forced her to do it, because she views her as her inferior underling, in the flashback azula literally pushes ty lee to the ground and laughs at her out of jealousy, because she can't resist mot being best at everything,

Moments ago when ty lee says she is freezing, zuko smiles at her and decides to make a fire based on her request, which implies he cares about ty lee, and its clear ty lee sees zuko as a better person than azula, and Iam pretty sure if ty lee tried to interfere with azula's business too(like her mother issues), by telling her that she thinks azula cares about her mother, azula would lash out at her too and would even do worse, +zuko didn't try to pick a fight between mai and ty lee, mai suddenly stepped in complaining ty lee about her attention issues @aronset

Azula being a bad friend doesn't excuse Zuko treating Ty Lee like dirt. The series is pretty clear he does not think of her as a friend. Perhaps not being Zuko's friend is a good thing for her, since we see from the series finale and Zuko's little stunt with Aang that Zuko is willing to violently attack his friends to terrify them into submission.

Ty Lee demonstrated zero opposition to the idea of trying to capture Zuko. She didn't want to leave her life at the circus, but it had nothing to do with Zuko. In fact Azula doesn't even mention that they'll be hunting Zuko before Ty Lee refuses, and at the end of the episode:

Mai: So, we're tracking down your brother and Uncle, huh? Ty Lee: [Turning to Mai.] It'll be interesting seeing Zuko again, [Teasing.] won't it, Mai?

In Boiling Rock, Ty Lee basically volunteers herself to try to capture Zuko & Co., without Azula having to speak a single word.

Also, Mai and Ty Lee committed high treason in front of dozens of witnesses. It was a very "foolish" thing to do, and what was Azula supposed to do about it? Let them run free so that they could link up with the people trying to kill her father?

Also, Zuko having a sad life doesn't mean he gets to be a jerk.

Mai: [Close-up; sarcastically.] Oh, well, I'm sorry I can't be as high-strung and crazy as the rest of you. Zuko: [Aerial view of campsite. Walking up to the campfire.] I'm sorry, too. I wish you would be high-strung and crazy for once instead of keeping all your feelings bottled up inside. [Frontal view.] [Ty Lee] just called your aura dingy. Are you gonna take that?

He did encourage Mai to go off on Ty Lee.

its clear ty lee sees zuko as a better person than azula, and

Based on what? Why would she think that? When has Zuko ever shown moral fiber in front of her? She's not a particular moral person, but Zuko has never really done anything that

Iam pretty sure if ty lee tried to interfere with azula's business too(like her mother issues), by telling her that she thinks azula cares about her mother, azula would lash out at her too and would even do worse,

You're assuming Ty Lee thinks Ursa cared about Azula, which is a huge assumption. In any case, you're coming up with a hypothetical situation which we have no way of knowing how Azula would react to justify hating on Azula. Guess how we do know spent the entire campfire scene eager to jump down Ty Lee's throat at the slightest excuse? Zuko. You're projecting Zuko's behavior, onto Azula.

I can't overstate how bad this bio of Ty Lee (from Wan Shi Tongs Adventure guide for the RPG) is. The "sisters loved each other dearly"? "Ty Lee's loyalty to Azula was tested many times"? (Like when?) "Azula callously put her and Mai in harm's way" with zero mention that Azula was always sharing the risks and that might effect how Ty Lee feels about things? Ty Lee betrayed Azula to defend Zuko? Zero mention of Ty Lee being mean and amoral?

[zoro-sremedy]

a/n: it's been a really long ass time since I've written and posted something, but sharing is caring, aight?

Brief summary:

A merger puts them on opposite sides of the table… and then all over each other. Sex, secrets, and sabotage—falling wasn’t part of the plan, but some deals are made in whispers and signed between the sheets.

Word count: 4.2k

In the fine print - One. Meetings.

You’ve sat in boardrooms before — slick tables, colder coffee, sharper smiles — but today, something feels different the moment you step inside. There’s a certain air of power that makes your confidence flicker for a second.

The first thing in your line of vision is the blond man you spoke with before to set up the date—Vinsmoke Sanji, if you remember correctly. He stands in his navy blue pinstripe suit, and you can definitely see why the girls at the office said he was all that.

He turns just as your heels click against the marble floor, and his smile is instant—too easy, too practiced.

“Ah, mademoiselle, I was hoping we’d meet in person again,” he says, stepping forward with that effortless charm. “You clean up beautifully.”

Sanji is all smiles and heart eyes as you shake his hand, polite, perhaps a little flirty as you size him up and return the gesture. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen me messy.”

He laughs. It feels honest and practiced at the same time, making you wonder just how good he really is.

“Not yet, mon chérie.” Ah, there it was—the flirting everyone warned you to be careful of.

He’s not my type anyway. Before you can reply—or shut it down—another voice cuts through the room, low and rougher than you expect.

“Sanji.”

 Your gaze shifts to the man leaning casually near the window—how didn’t you see him there? Green short hair, black shirt, all black suit and tie. Broad shoulders. Expression unreadable.

So, he is Roronoa Zoro, you muse, impressed—but obviously not showing it.

You recognize him from the company profile. Chief Operating Officer. Second-in-command at One Piece Co. Quiet. Precise. Hot.

He’s watching Sanji like he’s heard this flirt routine a hundred times before and isn’t impressed.

Then—he looks at you.

And—oh. Those dark eyes. You can feel it—the silent, small, deadly spark.

You don’t break eye contact. Not immediately. That’d be too obvious.

So you hold it—just long enough to send a message—before turning back to Sanji with a light smile, like your pulse hadn’t just tripped in your throat.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” you offer, finally acknowledging Zoro with a polite bow and a smile.

He doesn’t nod back. Just analizes you a second longer.

“You’re Whitebeard’s rep?” he asks—low, blunt, borderline disinterested.

“Head of External Affairs. I’m _____,” you confirm, slipping into business mode before your head can wander wherever that man might take it. “I handle our major negotiations.”

“_____, huh.”

No approval, no dismissal. Just… observation.

But why did your name roll off his mouth like that?

You sit, smoothing your skirt, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck. It’s going to be a long meeting.

Sanji is still spewing compliments left and right—his version of professionalism, maybe—but your focus keeps shifting. Even when Zoro isn’t staring, there’s something about him that makes you want to just… melt. Into him. On top of him. Whatever works best.

Okay. Stop.

Then the door swings open with a loud bang, and in comes Luffy—barefoot, in joggers and a hoodie, grinning like he owns the place.

Well. Technically, he does.

Everyone rises instinctively, and you catch yourself smiling before you can stop it.

“This is the infamous CEO?” you murmur under your breath. You’ve heard stories, but seeing him like this? It's... kind of charming.

Luffy's entry seems to reset everyone into business mode and is not long before everything takes the route you were hoping for.

"We're not here to step on anyone's toes", you say, clicking your pen once, then setting it down beside your neatly organized notes. "But the eastern docks have been running under-capacity for months. We have the infrastructure to scale up, and both sides would profit."

Sanji leans forward, flashing a diplomatic smile. "And what does Whitebeard Co. want in exchange? Besides our sweet little corner of the coastline?"

"A shared access clause. We use the docks, you get a cut of all outgoing freight. And we handle maintenance, security, and international custom compliance." You answer coolly, giving him a smile back in return.

Sanji whistles. "Sounds generous."

Zoro doesn't say a word. Just watches you, arms crossed.

"You've already done the numbers," you say, meeting his gaze. "So you know it's fair."

Luffy pipes up suddenly, sprawled across the chair like it's his living room. "As long as no one's sneaking weird shit through the cargo, I don't care."

"No weird shit," you assure him, fighting a smirk.

Zoro didn’t say much unless he had to. But when he did, the room went still.

His voice—low, calm, calculated—cut through the air like it didn’t need to fight for attention. The kind of voice that didn’t ask to be listened to. It simply was.

You kept your expression unreadable, though it took effort the first time he looked directly at you. His gaze was sharp. Not aggressive, not even cold. Just… measured. Calculating. The way someone might study a blueprint—or a blade.

“And what makes your model sustainable five years from now?”

The question wasn’t antagonistic. If anything, it was surgical.

You flipped a page in your folder, met his gaze without flinching, and laid out the numbers. Not too fast. Not too eager. Just enough bite to show you weren’t here to roll over for a legacy name like his.

When you glanced back up, his eyes were still on you. And for just half a second, something flickered. Interest? Respect? Something else entirely? Then it was gone, like it had never been there. "She's right, the math checks out." Your eyes flicker to him—just for a second—but you can feel the heat creeping to your cheeks at his support.

"Well," Sanji says, sitting back. "That's the first time Mosshead agreed with anyone this quarter."

Zoro ignores him completely. "One condition," he says, directing it at you. "You send your own inspectors. No third-party ones."

"Done", you say without hesitation. For a second, just a flicker, something akin to a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Sanji made some quip, Luffy laughed too loud, and the moment passed. But you felt it—like a string pulled taut beneath the blade.

The meeting winds down after another 45 minutes of fine-tuning logistics and territory percentages. Pens click, contracts are skimmed, and the energy in the room shifts from  tense to… satisfied.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a deal," Sanji says, sliding a signed document across the table. "And no one had to bleed for it. Miracles do happen."

Luffy leans back with both arms behind his head. "Told ya’ this one was gonna be chill. Especially when Ace said she was cool".

Your eyes flicker to the CEO—and just like that, it clicks.

"Your Ace's little brother."

“Yeah!” he beams. “Kinda' hard to miss, right?”

You don’t answer that. The resemblance is there, sure—but the energy is wildly different. As everyone begins standing, you gather your things, organizing the papers with practiced ease—until a quiet voice cuts through the low conversation.

“Good work with Sanji.”

You look up. Zoro. Still standing across from you, arms relaxed now. His gaze is heavier than before—measured, almost… deliberate. “Not everyone handles Sanji's shit talk that calmly.” It’s not a compliment in the traditional sense. But from him? It’s enough to make something warm uncomfortably in your chest.

“Thanks,” you say, lips quirking. “You weren’t too bad yourself. For someone who barely talks.” A beat. His lips twitch—maybe a smirk, maybe not. But he’s still looking. Really looking.

Then Sanji steps in, his tone light as he claps Zoro on the shoulder.

“Careful, mosshead. You’re staring again. She might start charging by the second.”

Zoro doesn’t even look at him. Just turns to leave with a low grunt, hands shoved in his pockets.

But you catch it.

That last look over his shoulder—just before he disappears down the hall.

You’re definitely in trouble. As you waited for the elevator, you heard footsteps behind you—unhurried, solid.

You didn’t have to turn around. You already knew.

“You handled them well,” came a voice behind you—calm, low, familiar.

You turned, and there he was. Zoro.

His tie was slightly loosened now, jacket slung over his arm. He looked less like the unshakeable executive you’d faced across the boardroom table and more like a man who hasn't taken his eyes off you all meeting. Maybe he hadn’t.

“You mean your charming co-workers or your chaos gremlin of a CEO?” you said, arching a brow.

“Both,” he said, something flickering behind his gaze. “Didn’t think you’d keep up. Guess I was wrong.”

It wasn’t quite a compliment. Not outright. But the way he said it—the weight behind it—made it feel like one.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped inside, and just as he moved to follow—

“Oi, you’re not letting her leave without saying goodbye, are you?”

Sanji’s voice cut in, smooth and a little too loud. He appeared like he always did, unbothered and golden, and shot Zoro with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tsk. Don’t go soft on us now, marimo.”

Zoro didn’t respond. But you saw the way his jaw clenched, the subtle shift in his posture, the flicker of something sharp in his expression. The doors began to close, and for second, you just looked at him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he glared at Sanji.

And you thought, smugly—Ah. So it’s not just me, huh? 

God, he looked hot when he was pissed.

-

Sanji lounges beside you near the front entrance, lighting a cigarette with an easy flick of his wrist. "You know, for someone working with Whitebeard, you're not nearly as terrifying as I expected."

You arch a brow. "Disappointed? Expected someone more like Marco?"

Sanji visibly shudders at the thought of that frightful man who brokered the olive branch that led to this. "On the contrary, love," he exhales a stream of smoke, eyes narrowing slightly. "Pleasantly surprised. You're a vision."

You hum, amused. "You're quite the smooth talker." He places a hand over his chest like you've wounded him. "Mon dieu, you don't believe in such words of which you are worthy in every possible way?" You smirk, glancing toward the curb where your vehicle is pulling up. "Careful, Vinsmoke. I might start to think you're flirting with me."

"Oh sweetheart," he says as he opens the door for you with a little flourish, "I'm always flirting. But I wouldn't want to get in the mosshead's way".

Your breath catches for a moment as Sanji's smile sharpens—just slightly. "I noticed," he murmurs as he holds your hand to help you in. He gives it a kiss and closes the door.

The car hums quietly beneath you as the city blurs past the window. Your phone buzzes in your lap, but you ignore it for a moment, eyes fixed on your own reflection in the glass.

But I wouldn't want to get in the mosshead's way.

Sanji's words echo in your head.

You didn't mean to. It's not like you walked into that meeting hoping to lock eyes with someone who looked like he'd sooner bench press a yacht than smile at a joke. But here you are—pulse still out of rhythm, trying not to replay every second of Zoro's stare.

You scroll absently through emails, trying to focus, but instead you're wondering what he was thinking.

What he saw when he looked at you like that.

If he'll be at the dinner party.

God.

You hope he's at the dinner party.

Your heels click against the polished floors of Whitebeard Co.'s private building. You're halfway to your office when you noticed your door cracked open and the scent of expensive cologne and… is that—

"Ace," you sigh, pushing the door and closing it behind you. He's kicked back in your chair, boots up on your desk, flipping through one of your neatly filed reports like it's takeout time.

"Heyyyy, there's my favorite heartbreaker," he grins, head lolling lazily to the side. "Miss me?"

"Like a root canal." You snatch the file from his hand, kick his shoes off your desk and drop your bag on top, "what are you doing here?"

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Ruthless! That's how I like you best." He grins, still annoyingly charming. "You're going to Luffy's party, right? The olive branch thing?"

"I haven't decided", you say, ushering him out of your spot so you can work. "You're going," he says, smug and certain. "Because you know I throw the best parties. And you're dying to see me again. Don't lie"

You pause, eying him warily, "you're not the reason I'm considering it."

He tilts his head, watching you with a look that's half smirk, half something curious. "No? Then who is?"

You don't answer. Mostly because you're not sure yet. But the silence is enough to make Ace's grin turn thoughtful.

"Don't tell me you forgot about me and what I can do," he turns to stand behind your chair. His hands settle lightly on your clavicles —warm, familiar— and start to creep down. You roll your eyes and swat them away. "Ace," you say, voice dry as a sandpaper, "unless you're offering a neck massage and a nondisclosure agreement, I'd best suggest you keep it to yourself."

He retracts, laughing—full-bellied and shameless. "Come on, don't act like you don't miss these hands."

"Oh, I remember those hands, you say, twisting in your chair to meet his grin with a raised brow. "They broke my very expensive French press, reset my WiFi with a punch, and once tried to microwave soup in a foil container."

"You didn't complain when they were—"

"—unbuttoning my shirt with all the grace of a drunk racoon?" you cut in smoothly. "Yeah. Real fond memories."

Ace clutches his chest like you stabbed him in the heart. "Cold. Brutal. Just how I like'em."

"Besides," you say, spinning back towards your screen, "you're not my type anymore."

He snorts. "What, quiet and brooding with a six pack and pierced now?"

You don't reply—at least not with words. The silence is just long enough to say: maybe.

Ace whistles low. "No way. Mosshead? That dude's got the emotional range of a brick wall, baby." You recoil at the baby, "maybe I'm just looking for a sturdier foundation," you reply sweetly, typing away and clearly done with the conversation.

There's a bit of silence behind you. Then: "Well, damn. No wonder the old man likes you best". He laughs shamelessly as ever, "He'll be there and wants you there too, so I'll see you —fashionably late".

Ace kisses the top of your head like he owns this place and whistles his way out of your office.

It's not long before you're at home, your room smelling like vanilla and high-end setting spray. Half your closet is on the bed, the other half in a pile on the floor and you're standing in front of the mirror with one earring in when the doors swing open without a knock.

"You've got exactly ten seconds to be decent," Izo calls, breezing in like he owns the place—and in fairness, he's probably contributed enough wardrobe pieces to claim partial ownership.

"You ever consider texting first?" you ask, not turning around.

"I did. You ignored me. I took it as a cry for help."

You roll your eyes, but smile. Izo kicks off his heels with a practiced wiggle and steps into your closet like it's a war zone. "You're a mess. And we've got mosshead to impress. Girl, you need to be dicked down, respectfully."

You freeze mid-touch-up. "Ace told you?"

"Darling," he calls, holding a sleek black dress against himself for effect, "Ace facetimed me the minute he got out of your office. Said there was tension and you didn't love him no more? Mosshead stealing you over, something like that. I had to find out for myself."

You groan, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He's clinically ill".

"Girl, stop playing and look at this mess, that man made you shake in your boots," Izo quipped back with a smirk.

"I just want to look nice, Pops is gonna be there."

"mmmmhmmmm," Izo tosses a gold pair of earrings to you and sits beside you, curling a leg underneath himself. "So. Zoro."

You say nothing. Just fiddle with the clasp.

"Heard he went semi-pro back in college. Fencing, right? Or kendo? Something with swords and no personality."

You glance up. "He didn't talk much."

"But he looked, huh?"

That gets you. Your lips pressed together, betraying nothing. Izo, of course, grins like a fox "I know that look. That's the 'I'm trying not to think about his forearms but also if he smiled at me I'd die face."

You snort. "I don't have that face."

“You absolutely do.”

There's a moment of quiet as you finally clasp the earring.

“I’m not looking to complicate things,” you say, softer. “This dinner is important. For the company.” You get into the dress Izo was looking at, a black cocktail dress just perfect. “I know,” Izo replies, just as soft. “But if it gets complicated, you’ve handled worse. With better hair, too.”

You turn and look at him. “Izo.”

“Yes, darling?”

“…Zip me up?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The car ride is quiet, a smooth glide through the city's night drenched streets. The skyline blurs by in streaks of gold and silver, the occasional flash of red brake lights reflected in the tinted windows. You sit back, legs crossed, one hand resting delicately on your thigh, the other trailing along the curve of your clutch.

Your phone buzzes. Then again. Then again. Ace, of course. Probably sending memes. Or selfies. Or memes of his selfies.

You don't check.

Instead, you glance at your own reflection in the window. Resolved eyes. Gold earrings. That black cocktail dress Izo practically wept over. Hair perfect. Lipstick holding steady.

You look good. No, you look dangerous.

Exactly the way you planned it.

You adjust your neckline slightly, and tell yourself it's just for symmetry. But deep down, you know what it is.

You want to be seen. By him. The man who said exactly eleven words to you, but looked at you like he saw all your layers and wanted to peel them back slowly. Zoro. Quiet. Heavy-lidded gaze. Jawline sharp as a sword. He could probably lift you like a doll with those arms. And that low, impossible voice—

God, you're doing it again.

You close your eyes and breathe. In through the nose. Out through ambition.

This dinner is for the company, you remind yourself.

It's a celebration of professionalism. Partnership. Strategy.

And if he just happens to look at you tonight like he did in the boardroom… if his eyes flicker, just once?

Well.

That's just good diplomacy, isn't it?

The car pulls to a stop. 

You step out, heels clicking against the pavement like a declaration. Head held high. Shoulders back.

Whatever happens inside that party— you're walking like you own the building.

The scent of grilled yakitori and expensive sake hits you the moment you step through the sliding doors. The restaurant is warm with laughter, clatter, and chaos—exactly what you'd expect from a party thrown by Luffy's and Whitebeard's brood.

Your heels sink just slightly into the tatami mat as you step inside, all black silk and golden glint. Heads turn—some out of surprise, some out of respect. Some just to ogle. But your eyes scan the room with calm precision.

Ace sees you first. Of course he does.

"Holy hell," he breathes, abandoning a giggling cluster of accountants like they've suddenly evaporated. "That dress should be illegal in seven prefectures."

He meets you halfway, flashing that reckless grin, already reaching for your hand like he’s about to twirl you around just for the show. “You’re early,” he says, eyes flicking down, then up again with appreciation. “Or just fashionably dramatic?”

“Don’t worry,” you reply, tone cool as your earrings swing with calculated poise, “I’ll let you pretend it was for your benefit.” Ace whistles low. “Cold. But I’ll take it.”

The clamor behind him continues. Luffy’s in the corner arm-wrestling Whitebeard himself—both of them cackling like pirates. Sanji’s fighting a losing battle with the servers trying to organize appetizers. And Zoro—

Zoro is quiet in a sea of noise.

He’s seated near the middle of the banquet table, sake cup in one hand, the other absently picking at sushi. Eyes half-lidded. Calm. Observing. He’s the only one who hasn’t moved since you walked in.

But you feel it.

The way his gaze hooks into yours and holds as soon as you look at him. Like he's not seeing you—he's clocking you. Measuring. Marking.

You glance away first, pulse ticking in your throat. Ace says something else, but you barely hear it. You move deeper into the room, all smiles and subtle nods, exchanging greetings.

At some point you need to sit, and of course everything is occupied.

Except—of course—near him.

You hover for a second. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just calculating.

Then Zoro shifts.

Without a word, he slides to the side. Enough space for one person. No invitation spoken, but the message is clear.

You sit.

Close enough to feel the warm from his sleeve brushing yours when you reach out for a cup to drink. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks, low and even like a blade drawn slowly.

"Didn't think you'd show."

You look at him, letting a small smile curve. "And let you miss all of this?" you gesture to yourself, "God forbid."

Zoro's mouth curves, barely. Not quite a smile—more like sharpened acknowledgement. "You clean up nice," he says, voice low enough that no one else would catch it over the laughter echoing off the wooden beams. You lift your cup; sake cool against your fingertips. "That sounds dangerously close to a compliment."

"It is." He doesn't blink. "Dangerous."

Your heart flips once, traitorous. But you meet his gaze evenly. "And here I thought you didn't talk much."

"I don't." He tilts his head, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours again— this time intentional. Deliberate. "Only when I've got something worth saying."

You sip, slow. "So, what are you saying now?"

Zoro turns slightly toward you, still composed, still unreadable—except for his eyes. They're a little darker than they were before. Focused. "That if you keep looking at me like that, I won't be responsible for what happens after dessert."

You choke—quietly—but manage to recover with a small chuckle. "Wow. That was… direct."

"I said I don't talk much," he murmurs, leaning in a fraction more, his breath grazing your cheek. "Didn't say I don't know what I want."

Somewhere across the room, Izo—mid-sip of his sake—straight up chokes.

He's seated with Sanji and a few Whitebeard VP's, but he's watching you like you won an Oscar and punched someone on stage at the same time.

Izo leans to Sanji, eyes wide. "Did you see that? Did you see that? That was smoldering. That was 'we're about to test the structural integrity of a luxury penthouse energy."

Sanji's eyes the two of you with a slight frown. "He's such a brute. No finesse." Izo hisses, slapping his arm, "Oh, shut up."

Back at your side of the table, Zoro hasn't looked away, loving the way you were trying to not get flustered and mildly succeeding. You lean in slightly, letting your shoulder stay against his now. "Then what do you want?" you ask, soft and silk-smooth.

His gaze drops—quick flick from your eyes to your lips, then back again. "I want you to finish your drink," he says, barely audible over the clamor.

"Then what?"

He takes his own cup, knocks it back in one smooth motion, and sets it down with quiet finality.

"Then we talk," he says, "somewhere quieter, with less interfering eyes."

You don’t answer right away—but the smile that curves your lips is pure heat. You turn back toward the table like nothing just happened, sipping your drink, while Izo fans himself with a napkin like he’s watching a telenovela climax live.

You set your glass on the low table and glance up just as Zoro rises. He offers you his hand—no tie, now wearing a deep green shirt with the top 2 buttons teasingly undone.

When his fingers close around yours, a current shoots from your palm straight to your core. He guides your arm through the nook of his, firm but careful, and for a heartbeat you catch Izo in the crowd—wide eyed, panicked—but you don't look twice.

All that matters is how Zoro makes you feel: disarmed and electrified at once, like you're both hunter and prey. Yet you're neither. "Shall we?" he murmurs, voice low enough that only reaches your ears once you can hear it. He leads you off the banquet floor and toward the night air waiting just beyond the sliding doors.

[qierxing]

Memento Mori

Sequel to To be or Not To Be Commissioned by the lovely @achromaticbibliophile A/N: oh my god the halloween series was 3 years old??? insaneee

TW/CW: Manipulation, Implied Mutilation, Slight suicidal ideation, Human experimentation, slight religion text tones

Log - XX/XX/XX, 5:00

I’m not sure how humans do these things, but Azul insisted upon it. Something about ‘posterity’ and ‘how humans do so’. Floyd never particularly cared for it but I do find it quite fascinating. Perhaps I shall enjoy this a lot more than I thought.

The operation was, in my opinion, quite a success. It took a lot of sedatives, but the subject did manage to calm down once it began registering in their bloodstream. The cut was clean, barely any bleeding. Azul’s precision is exactly how I remember in the past.  

The subject’s organ has been stored in a safe place. Remarkably, the subject did not pass away, as presumed. I have read in a textbook that ‘without a functional heart, a human cannot live for long’. Of course, I’m sure this is dependent on several factors. After all, we are undead, and yet, by the sheer power of human will, we are once again able to walk and talk. Humans are really fascinating creatures. They lack the hardiness of us seafolk, yet they are resilient in many other ways.

I suspect Azul has something deliciously delightful planned. I do so look forward to it.

—

Your fingers had lost any feeling it may have had. The numbness wasn’t really a problem. You didn’t feel cold or hot, nor did you feel any pain. 

And Azul made sure you weren’t uncomfortable.

He had been very sweet from the moment you opened your eyes to the quaint bedroom you had been resting in. He didn’t frown or scowl when you couldn’t answer any questions about yourself, even when you couldn’t remember your own name. When he started crying, you weren’t sure of what to do besides to awkwardly offer him a tissue from your bedside table. (Are tears supposed to be black?)

When you roamed the hallways, lost and disoriented, his fellow ‘acquaintances’ (his exact words) would always manage to find you and redirect you. They were a little more jarring than Azul. Floyd's smiles always bared sharp teeth, and Jade’s polite smile only did enough to hide the very ends of his own. The medicine you had to take daily from Jade went down as well as a terrible whiskey shot.

Still, it wasn’t bad.

You once questioned their roles in all this. Who would bother taking care of a disheveled amnesiac? Azul only smiled and tucked you in your bed to rest. 

“It’s only right to take care of someone who is ailing,” he said with a kind smile. “How could we leave you alone like that?”

You open your mouth, but he interrupts you with, “Now, go to sleep. You need the rest.”

And that’s that. He shuts the light off before you can even say that he’s doing way more than needed for hired help. 

—

Lab Test Results - Blood

Color has started to become a dull, grayish red. Clotting seems to happen more frequently, causing blockage in veins. May need to adjust drug dosage.

-A

—

He can’t relax. 

Thump.

The undead cannot sleep as there was no need to, but Azul’s muscles remain taut with nerves as he lays on the bed next to you, staring up at the ceiling. 

He flinches when you speak up.

“I can’t sleep.” 

The sentence is spoken so matter of factly that it takes a moment for Azul to realize there’s an undercurrent of unease within. 

“Why not try counting sheep?” 

“Counting sheep?”

“I heard it is what people do to fall asleep.” Actually, he read it in a book somewhere in your vast collection, but the details didn’t really matter. “The repetition will make you feel sleepy.”

It makes sense. With repetition comes boredom, and with boredom, the brain will eventually lack the stimulation to keep the body awake. 

“Azul, did you help me sleep before?”

Thump. Thump.

“Of course,” he lies, because it’s all he can do at this point. “And I always will.”

Finally it’s quiet enough that Azul feels himself relaxing, his teeth unclenching, back muscles losing their tension. He thinks you’ve fallen asleep and just as he’s about to get up–

“Why did you fall in love with me?”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His throat dries as he tries to find the words to answer. Through the darkness, he can still feel your glazed eyes watching him, waiting. 

“I…”

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He’s left staring at you, his eyes wide with barely held back terror. Why did he love you? He just didn’t want to be alone again, left in the cold, cold sea–

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Just go to bed,” he finally says brusquely. Azul turns his back to both conversation and you as he tries to muffle the sound ringing in his head. No, not even his head: it’s like his whole body was subject to each vibration and thud.

He closes his eyes and wills his body to shut it out. 

It’s a very long, long time, before it stops beating.

—

The Collector seems to enjoy a variety of interests.

Colorful butterflies are painstaking pinned down in ornate cases upon the wall–each tiny specimen labeled with careful detail underneath. Danaus plexippus. Papilio dardanus. The names blur by as you glance over to the bookshelves underneath. The wooden oak shelves groan with the weight of knowledge; every single inch crammed with textbooks ranging from biology to chemistry. Next to those are glass domes containing elaborate displays of taxidermied animals–a dire wolf head yawns wide with frightfully sharp teeth in one, while a falcon is roosting on a fake perch in another. 

The sight brings a sense of sadness, though you’re not sure why. Perhaps it’s because these belongings will never be properly cherished again now that their owner is gone. 

“Enjoying the sights?”

Your eyes meet mismatched gray and gold. For identical twins, Jade and Floyd couldn’t be further apart in terms of personality. The quirks do make it easier to differentiate them, at least.

“Just curious.” 

Jade’s smile widens, barely hiding his amusement. 

“Is that so? About what, exactly?” You’re not sure what answer he’s looking for. If anything, there are many things to be curious about in your situation, but not many are enough to make someone laugh, unless they were purposefully malicious.

“Just in general. There’s just a lot to see.” You truthfully say. This room could pass for a museum exhibit just from how many items and books are held here alone. But that’s not entirely why you’re so drawn to it. The well loved items in this room must mean that it’s a room you favored.

And yet, you just cannot conjure up any kind of memory to mind. And so, all you can do is see yourself through another’s eyes, even if they must have a different name.

“The only cool thing about this dusty place is that,” a bored voice pitches in, and you both turn to see Floyd pointing at the taxidermied dire wolf and its open maw. Your stomach feels unsettled at the gleam in Floyd’s eyes as it slides over the sharp teeth of the animal in genuine admiration.

“Oh my, Floyd,” is Jade’s only reply, but you can tell he’s having fun at your unease.

“Azul’s calling you, by the way, Jade,” Floyd adds nonchalantly, with a lazy thumb pointing behind him. “I’ll watch shrimpy here.”

“I resent that name,” you say with a sigh as Jade’s chuckles follow him out the door. 

“You’re short, small, and cute,” Floyd’s grin stretches wide with no shame, unlike his twin. He leans over, practically swallowing you up in his height. “I could eat you whole.”

You narrow your eyes and hold your stance, refusing to be cowed into shrinking further into yourself. After a couple seconds, Floyd is already bored of trying to shake you up, sauntering over to an empty chair and slouching in it ungracefully.

“What’s Azul doing?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“Dunno. Somethin’ about an experiment or other.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you process the information. Was there a lab in this house you weren’t aware of?

—

Log - XXX/XX/XX, 20:36

Can’t find the skeleton key. Azul’s gonna be mad, but I don’t really give a damn. I’ll ask Jade if he has an idea where it is.

—

The attacks just won’t stop. 

You wipe furiously at your nose and mouth. Thankfully, most of it started to clot and dry, but the damage has been done. Deep brown red stains the front of your shirt and skin, making it all sticky and uncomfortable to touch. For a moment you only stand and look at yourself, dazed eyes barely processing your shaky hands.

Thump. Thump.

Slowly, you look up. Azul is standing in front of you, mouth aghast and face twisted in shock. A ringing in your ears prevents you from hearing most of the words he’s saying as your limp body staggers into his sturdy arms. Something is injected in your arm, a sharp clean pain that has you looking down at the needle stuck into your veins, pumping unknown liquid into your body. 

Bit by bit, your vision stabilizes and the strange vibrating starts to fade away. Azul’s voice, flooded with worry, begins to process in your ear drums.

Thump. Thump.

“--ame]!” His hands are shaking on your arms. “Are you okay?!”

You only nod unsteadily. “Yeah…”

Azul bites his lip, worrying his teeth over the bottom lip. “T-This isn’t right, you shouldn’t be already suffering from more attacks, something isn’t right–”

This is enough to jar you from your dizziness. Furrowing your eyebrows, you turn and ask, “What do you mean?”

His face goes even paler. His eyes quickly dart away as he squeezes your hands, hard. A peek of something catches your eye.

Stitches. 

Black and metallic, winding around the joint of his wrist. Azul sees where you’re looking before he quickly covers it up with his sleeve, but it’s too late. 

When he tucks you back into bed, you’re already wondering what kind of injury could warrant such obvious needlework. So obvious, it almost rendered him…

doll-like.

—

Log - XXX/XX/XX, 3:23

I’ve looked through every textbook and gone through all their notes. Is there really no other way? I thought it was a chance that the operation went astounding well–how can the aftereffects be like this? 

I can’t give up now.

-A

—

The Collector’s house was not large, but it was roomy enough.

The wooden panes and foundation didn’t creak with old age quite yet, but the oaken color is beginning to fade in the time that’s passed, and the glossy sheen of polish is beginning to chip away.

A door stood before you, quite ordinary looking, despite the fact it was the only locked door in this house. You didn’t miss how Azul and others had tried to herd you away from it, even if they were quite subtle. But if you were to recover some semblance of your memories, it would be best to rip off the bandaid, no matter how painful.

The lock relents with the iron black key, turning with a heavy click. When you open the door, it doesn’t creak open dramatically, but swings out normally. It’s almost disappointing, really.

Inside is just as ordinary. It seems to be a study, well furnished just like the exhibition room. An oak desk is placed near the large window, alongside several bookshelves and monitors. The desk’s surface can barely be seen under the copious amounts of strewn and stacked books and papers, all looking like they’ve been rifled through recently. A section of the study seems to have some dedicated desks for alchemy, with various ingredients scattered over the surface. There’s several hanging artworks and posters, although most of them are shadowed by the large poster board covered in pins and notes. 

You glance at the posterboard, trying to make heads or tails of the scrawling notes. There’s yellowed parchment paper that looks to be real old, and you strain your eyes to try to decipher the aged text.

Guidelines for XXXXX

Thou shall NOT befriend the undead. We are the light, and they’re the dark. Our worlds can never join and the boundaries for them must be maintained.

Your skin prickles at the ominous scripture. Underneath the aged manuscript, a post-it is scribbled with hurried hand writing.

*This will cause the subject to grow attachments that may linger on even if they are exorcised. Take special care to not show extra emotion.

The detailed annotations continue on. 

Thou shall NOT incur the undead’s memories. 

*This will only confuse the subjects in the long run, but also send them on a frenzied hunt for ‘missing’ memories-which as listed above, will make them cling tighter to trying to stay alive. (MAKE SURE FRANK UNDERSTANDS)

Your skin prickles with dread. Why would someone need to take such detailed analysis of such an outdated and religious text? It sounds all too fantastical. Pushing back the feelings of unease, your eyes dart to a clipboard hanging to the side and reach out to it.

Subject #003

Cause of Death: Unknown

Description: Medium-length silver hair, blue eyes, and lanky medium small build. Mole near mouth.

Notes: Subject does not exude much hostility. Capable of utilizing core body functions including the brain. 

What? Subject? Cold sweat begins to form at your back. Does that mean…the Collector was a necromancer? But these descriptions sound so much like…you clasp a hand over your mouth in horror.  

No. No, no, it can’t be. Maybe you misunderstood something. Was the reason why Azul and others like that because…

Your mind flashes back to the black metallic thread winding through flesh and bone and nearly retch. Oh Seven…

Something trembles underneath your feet and you look down to see the floorboards shaking. 

Thump. 

Your chest aches. You begin to kneel, as if drawn to something that calls for you. 

Thump. Thump.

Your nails scrabble at the floorboards, trying to find the grooves to pull. 

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Finally your nail catches the gap and tug a stray board up, sweat running down your back and forehead. You’re practically gasping for breath now, physical and mental exertion taking a toll on you.

Your hand finds the glass jar, covered in dust and grime. When you wipe away the soot, your eyes widen in horror. 

—

Log - XX/XX/XX, 6:45

Subject has been acting rather suspicious lately. It’s rather funny how they think they’re being so sneaky. Azul would not enjoy me playing with my prey like this, but I can’t help it, they’re quite cute. Besides, Floyd has also been slacking in keeping tabs.

However, this game is soon coming to an end, I feel. Subject has been coughing up more and more blood from the internal bleeding, most likely due to that organ being removed. Azul is dead set on finding a different way to solve this but…

Well, who knows?

—

THUMP. THUMP. 

“Shut up, shut up–” The vibrations have skyrocketed into pounding on the walls, the floorboards, and the very foundation of the house. Black tears start blotting his vision from the sheer agony of hearing the noise, like grating nails on chalkboard, but worse, because there has been no end to it, not since the past few days.

Papers and books are scattered around him and he knows he must look crazy, kneeling amongst the mess and desperately trying to find anything to make sense.

Report #XX

Frank, that bastard. He raised the dead, but if we get caught by the Association, we’re gonna be in hot water.

Reversing the process of necromancy is not easy, but it’ll be somewhat easier than reviving them. Just have to take precautions. Those modern tool assholes back at school laughed at me, but look at what traditional magicks became relevant. 

He scrabbles at the papers again, shuffling through it at high speed. 

He’s already read this so many times, but there’s nothing else. No more hidden trails or clues, just your practical notes.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

His scream of anguish rings out in the room, hollow and ringing. 

“Azul?”

He stops, blot dribbling down his chin. When he turns around, his eyes widen at you standing behind him, clutching a very familiar jar. 

“It isn’t what it looks like,” he tries to explain, mind rapid fire thinking of excuses to throw you off the truth. Even if everything is already falling to pieces. What was Jade and Floyd doing? They should’ve been preventing-

“Don’t.” Your voice is soft, but it silences Azul immediately. 

The two of you stare at each other, unsure of what to say. 

“They’re gone.” 

Azul thinks he’s hearing things, at first. Your voice is so hushed that it could scarcely be heard over the pumping of the organ. 

“What?” he laughs, blot trickling to a slow drip.

Your face doesn’t change. 

“They told me everything. What you’ve done. What I’ve done.” You look down at the jar, conflicted. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about, my sweet-”

“Floyd said he’s tired,” you interrupt, not letting him finish. “And Jade said he’s bored. So…I released them.”

“...what?”

You look at him with sorrowful eyes that both mourn and pity. 

“They’re gone, Azul.”

No. No, no. No no no, that’s not true. He just talked to Jade this morning. Floyd mumbled something about checking out the exhibition. They couldn’t, they wouldn’t do such a thing-

“I spared you,” his voice comes out in a breathless whisper. “I could’ve thrown away your heart for what you’ve done to me and my kin, but I didn’t. And now you’re going to betray me too?”

Your expression hardens. 

“Azul, the dead do not belong here,” you look at the beating heart in your hands again. “We do not belong here.”

“What are you doing?” His voice rises with panic at you examining the jar with an unreadable expression. You ignore him and in a flash of movement, you raise the jar above your head. 

“NO!” 

But it’s too late. The jar meets the fireplace near him with a thunderous CRASH and glass is flying everywhere, and he’s lunging forward despite the pain digging into his skin-

In seconds, there’s a flame roaring in the hearth and he screams again, as if it is his heart in there, burning alive. 

Blood trickles down your face as he whips towards you, but you show no sign of defeat or pain, but smile widely at him. 

He’s left clutching a cold body by the time the embers blow out in the hearth, leaving only ash and charcoal in its depths. Dark blot dribbles down his cheeks once more, but this time, he doesn’t bother wiping it away, letting the darkness pool around him and swell. 

In the dark void, he whispers an ardent promise to a soul that’s long departed. 

“No matter how long it takes, I will bring you back.”

[i-am-countess-olivia]

And here's a weird thing from a Discord prompt where Francis, instead of drying out, turns into a baby. A milk shortage quickly becomes a problem. Enter James.

2k, rated T. Not really freaky, just angst and James questioning the nature of his womanhood

-----

Anything that isn't blue of Thomas Jopson's eyes is tinged red from exhaustion and the sting of fresh tears. James has just informed him an attempt to locate the Esquimaux woman, their one flimsy hope to procure what they so desperately require, has come to naught.

"He still keeps nothing down?" James asks. "What of the soups Mr Diggle has been concocting?"

"He refuses them entirely." Jopson swallows wetly and clears his throat. "He's so weak now, sir. Doctor McDonald says two days, three perhaps. Then—"

James gestures he need not, will not hear more.

He returns his brow onto the steeple of his fingers. His chest aches, has for the last two days, as if someone clamped a vice made of despair about his ribs. The vice tightens at the thin, raspy mewling which has for hours haunted Terror's decks, a wail that grows fainter yet more desperate by the hour. Its sound is hunger itself. Some men have wept to hear it.

"You were with him when this happened before. Surely you found ways to sustain him then?"

"That was at our Hobart anchorage. We had all we needed at our fingertips. Sir—" Jopson hesitates. James glares at him, at the man’s skittish half-smile and his blazing cheeks. "If such strange happenings are manifest in this world, I thought perhaps—"

"What, man?"

"Forgive me, sir. Only— I have heard a woman's body will sometimes rise to the occasion in the presence of a motherless child. I thought we, especially those of us in the employment of caring, might perhaps, with Heaven's blessing—"

Jopson can only indicate the rest, forearms folded and lifted up to his breast, to James' open-mouthed stare.

"You have tried this?" James asks, quite hoarse, as his mind vividly paints the scene being implied.

Eyes downcast, the steward nods, too weary and stricken to muster any shame. "To no avail. But maybe others would have better luck. I can think of nothing else to suggest, sir. Nothing at all."

James turns to gaze for a lingering while into the red glow of the brazier. In the end, his mind resolved, he asks to be taken to the Captain — as they all, without exception and despite all that has transpired, continue to address him.

--

Little, his features fixed in an expression of haunted bewilderment, snaps to his feet at their arrival and makes an awkward gesture of welcome. McDonald, stirred from a doze, also makes to stand. James silently bids them both to stay at rest.

The wailing has stopped. An anxious hush pervades the great cabin, broken only by the hull's creak, the rustle of bodies in uncertain motion and the softly crooned ditty drifting from the captain's sleeping place.

James steps quietly into the doorway of the berth to watch Thomas Blanky at his song. His back to James, the ice master leans over the bed upon which sits the blanket-lined drawer, recently removed and emptied of Francis' possessions to make room for the man — the child — himself.

The novelty and horror have passed. Though he cannot see him from where he's standing, James knows and understands that inside the makeshift cot, transformed by some unseen and unknowable hand, lies the small, hungry body of the infant Francis Crozier.

"Mr Blanky," James says quietly.

Blanky gives a startled turn. He hauls himself to standing with the aid of the bedrail. "Captain."

"How is he?"

Blanky turns a heavy look back towards the cot.

James takes a hesitant step forward and is met with a pair of enormous eyes of hazy blue set into a moon-shaped face, blotchy in places, sickly pale and waxy in others, like a half-spoiled vegetable. Though the eyes cannot seem to focus on any object or person, at James' approach the infant's tiny mouth twists open and emits a single ragged snivel.

James wants to clutch his heart. He wants to run out onto the ice and keep running until he falls and gets up no more.

"Still fussy but I think he'll settle now," Blanky says. "Wore himself out with all the crying. Didn't you, sir?" He reaches into the drawer to brush back a few damp strands of wispy hair, like frayed threads of yellow silk. The babe grimaces and jerks. Blanky smiles. "He'd have my finger for that, if he was himself."

James sways on the spot with words choking up his throat, hands flexing at his sides.

"Thank you, Mr Blanky. I'd like a moment alone with the Captain now."

Blanky stares at him for an instant, something cunning and sour about his slightly narrowed eyes. He then glances over James' shoulder at Jopson, Little and the doctor, who huddle a few steps behind.

"Stay close, gentlemen," James adds. "I will call you should you be required."

One by one, without a word, they nod. Each casts a final look at the cot, then they move to make their exit.

--

Hands tightly wrung, James sits on the bed. He has made room for himself by gently nudging the drawer-cot up the mattress and now slings a cautious side glance in its direction.

"Hello, Francis."

In the nest of blankets, Francis lies still awake. He lolls out the tip of his tongue and jerks his head fitfully from side to side, the only part of him Jopson hadn't swathed in strips of cut-up bedsheet.

James puts out an outstretched palm to hover above the drawer. He measures: one, two. All of Francis, barely twice the length of James' hand.

"Yo know, I wish you'd eat something," he says. "I wish you'd spare us all this trouble."

In reply, Francis croaks up a pitiful clipped grizzle, his eyes scrunching up like two small buttons too tightly sewn on. A bubble of spit emerges from the corner of his mouth and a troubling gurgle interrupts his cries.

"Oh Christ in Heaven," James mutters. He snatches up a square scrap of linen left by the basin near the bed and dabs hurriedly at Francis' face, to obvious protestations. Although the grizzling and gurgling soon cease, rapid and wet little breaths continue to issue forth from Francis' sorrowfully downturned mouth.

James can barely stand to look. "I know you're hungry. But see how we're trying," he whispers miserably, his voice threatening to collapse into tears. "If only you knew, Francis— if only you knew how very lonely you have made us with this whole business."

It's hardly the truth. It is only he, James, who has been lonely. He has stood back, barking orders that accomplish nothing, as helpless and without purpose as he was at Stanley's table whilst the Esquimaux man lay dying, as useless as when he fell to his knees at the bloody abyss of the fire hole.

Meanwhile the men about Francis sprung to their bustle and toil in unison, each one having mined from deep within himself an instinct James finds more alien than his commander's queer predicament.

Yesterday, he stepped into the great cabin to find Little in a chair, rocking a red-faced bundle in his arms. At James' arrival, the lieutenant looked painfully abashed yet could not bring himself to stand and surrender his occupation lest Francis wake again. James hovered, paced, fussed over some papers, made inane conversation, all while seeking about for the name of the emotion which had thoroughly deluged his breast.

When has the employment of caring, as Jopson described it, ever fallen to James? Despite the misfortune of his parentage, he has always been cared for, even coddled. Yet he himself has never nursed a comrade through the perils of an infested wound, as he had been nursed, or changed the soiled bedclothes of a dying relation.

It is true that he has, in his most private thoughts, dwelled much on what of woman was to be found in his own nature. Yet when it came to the expression of such secret wonderings, he has only indulged them in the context of pleasure and pageantry. In other words: artifice. At masques and entertainments, his only shared burden with the fairer sex was a bustle too tightly cinched about his waist whilst James laughed and swished his skirts on stage, thinking of the furtive, heated gropings and murmurs of such a pretty lass which would follow later in dank and darkened corridors.

By now he is resigned to the fact that the feminine traits within him are very much like the rest of him: all surface. His mothering of the men has never budged beyond tutting over ill kept fingernails.

There is no well of miracles within James from which he might draw up what Jopson has so desperately attempted.

He drops his chin to his chest and shutters his eyes. Behind them, in violent relief, he sees the abject look of humiliated misery on Francis' face as he begged that night for the thing he must have thought himself unworthy of, for that which only James has thusfar failed him in—

"You must care for me, James."

The shock straightens James' spine and breaks his reverie. He shudders. There is damp on his cheeks. There is damp, too, at his fingertip. The voice he heard — no. Cannot be. Only his mind's recollection.

He turns sharply towards the cot and makes an involuntary noise of revulsion. After he'd dabbed at Francis' face he must have left, without thinking, his hand to lay near the child and now, now Francis—

Francis' eyes, wide again, have latched firmly onto James. James bares his gritted teeth and watches the tiny toothless mouth's pitiful attempts to draw sustenance from his fingertip. It is a repulsive thing to witness and yet — yet his chest burns with the same feeling that welled at Blanky's song, at Little's rocking arms, at the image of Jopson trying to will himself to release that which Nature had not equipped him to release.

"All right," he whispers shakily. "All right, Francis, if you bloody insist."

What has he to lose? What do any of them? To the infant's vocal displeasure, he withdraws his finger and he is moving, compelled by necessity and utterly without thought, as a man might move to quench his thirst or save his fellow from drowning.

His cravat is tossed aside, then his coat. His waistcoat and gansey unbuttoned to loosen open the ties of his shirt. When there is skin enough, a bare triangle of it, he resettles on the bed.

"Oh," he gasps with awe when his reaching arms slip beneath the small body to raise it from the cot. "Oh, you're such a warm little thing."

Impossibly little and yet wiggling fiercely, with a solidity and heft that makes James, despite himself, grin with giddiness. "Look at you," he mutters. "Don't you listen to them, Francis. There's life in you yet."

He is settling back, cupping the silken orb of Francis' head, quivering all over as he marvels at the ease with which his arms have transformed into a perfectly formed cradle. Francis' vast blue eyes blink up at him as if James were world entire, his mouth gaping helplessly to show the small needy petal of his tongue.

"Try," James urges quietly, his heart hammering. "You must try me, Francis."

He gathers closer the tiny body, shuts his eyes and waits.

There is warm damp again on his cheeks.

"Try," he whispers again. "For God's sake, man, if you leave me now—"

There is warm damp on his breast.

When he hears it at last, the soft rhythmic smack of suckling is animal and obscene. Warmth overwhelms him, he's weeping openly. He thinks of Francis' fist striking his cheek. The flood of feeling in him swells, thickens, has a name: ordinary loneliness. Its oppression over his heart breaks like a dam, released from his body through that tiny channel, coaxed out into Francis and become life itself.

[cami040405]

Headcanons of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Carrie White with their s/o telling, or rather asking them for a baby. They have been married for a while, and their s/o have thought about it for a really long time, but it wasn't until one day out of nowhere that they asked them for it. Perhaps even begged for it since not only has baby fever gotten to them, but they always wanted children. Their own little family.

Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby

Summary: Imagine the reaction of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White reacting to you asking them for a baby.

Includes: Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White

A/N: I was really excited about this request, I loved writing it and I thought it was really cute too, thank you for sending the request and supporting me in writing!

Jason Voorhees

It wasn’t something you planned to say out loud. Not yet. The idea had lived quietly in your heart for a long time, tucked away like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You and Jason had been married for years. You had a rhythm, a quiet life in the heart of the woods. Safety. Love. Peace.

But lately, you’d felt it stronger than ever—that aching, cloying pull in your chest every time you saw a baby blanket in town, or watched birds build a nest. A deep-rooted longing. A need for something more. For someone that was both you and Jason. A new life. Your family.

You’d tried to ignore it.

Until tonight.

The moon hung low over the lake, casting soft light over the clearing where Jason was stacking firewood. You watched him for a moment—his massive frame moving with slow care, the same man who once was seen only as a monster. But to you? He was gentleness. Loyalty. Home.

You approached slowly, heart pounding: “Jason… can we talk?”

He turned immediately, his attention fully on you like it always was. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the tension in your voice. He dropped the wood from his arms and walked over, towering over you, but never imposing.

You took his hand. His gloved fingers curled instinctively around yours.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. And I—I didn’t know when the right time would be to say it. But I… I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Jason stilled.

“I want… I want a baby.”

Your voice cracked at the end, but you pushed through, your fingers clutching at his vest. “With you. I want our child. Someone we made together. I want to raise them here. I want to build a family with you, Jason.”

The clearing fell silent.

Jason didn’t move. Not at first.

Then—very slowly—he sank to his knees in front of you. The giant, the boogeyman of Crystal Lake, on his knees like a man who just had his soul cracked open. His head pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you like you might float away if he didn’t. You felt the tremor in his chest. Silent, invisible sobs. His body shaking.

Your fingers slid into the curls behind his mask.

“I know it’s scary. I know the world never gave you anything but pain. But this… this would be ours. No one can take this from us.”

He pulled back slightly and looked up at you.

Then, very slowly, Jason took your hand and pressed it against his chest—where his heart would be, beating strong. The masked gaze locked with yours, full of emotion even behind the scratched old hockey mask.

Yes.

It was silent, but loud in his language. That simple gesture said everything. Yes. I want that too.

Yes, I want a child with you. Yes, I want a family.

From that night on, Jason changed.

He started building things. Cribs. Tiny carved animals from wood. He began clearing out the spare room in the cabin. Every time you showed a sign of fatigue or discomfort, he’d lift you without hesitation and carry you somewhere to rest. He became your silent guardian all over again—but now, for something he couldn't even see yet.

He watched your body with awe, almost reverence, when you began trying. You could feel it in the way he held you afterward—strong but delicate, like you were glass and fire all at once.

When he thought you were asleep one night, you felt his hand on your belly. Not lustful. Just… hopeful. Like he was already saying hello to a future he never dared dream of.

And if that child ever comes to be?

Jason will protect them like he protects you—with everything he is. Because they’ll be a part of you. And to Jason, you’re the whole world.

.

You’d known for a few days now. Maybe longer.

The nausea. The strange flutter in your lower belly. The deep fatigue that no nap could fix. You knew your body better than anyone, and this time—something was different. Real. You took one of the few pregnancy tests you’d stored in the cabin’s small bathroom, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped it.

When the positive line appeared, bold and undeniable, you stared at it like it was a dream. You sat on the edge of the tub for what felt like hours, cradling your stomach, whispering, “You’re real…”

Tears slid down your cheeks. But this time, they were from joy.

Now came the hardest part—telling him.

Not because Jason wouldn’t want it. You knew he did. But because Jason Voorhees, this mountain of strength and silence, had never truly believed he could have something like this. Not really. It would be your child, and his, and his heart—already so wounded—might not know how to hold something that sacred.

You found him outside by the lake, sitting near the dock with his feet in the water. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. You stepped carefully down the slope, heart racing, the test hidden in your palm.

He heard you coming—he always did—and turned slightly. You saw that tilt of the head again, his version of a question.

You sat beside him, pressing your shoulder to his.

“Jason… I have something to tell you. Something… important.”

He immediately gave you his full attention. Still. Waiting.

Your hands shook. You took his larger hand and placed it on your lower stomach, covering it with both of yours.

You stared into the lake for a long second, then whispered:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The air seemed to stop moving. Jason didn’t move. His breath stilled. The hand under yours began to tremble faintly.

You turned to look at him, eyes already glassy with tears. “I’m pregnant. With your baby. It’s really happening.”

He jerked back just slightly—not away from you, but like he’d been struck by lightning. His hand lifted and hovered uncertainly over your belly, before he gently pressed his palm against you again, slower this time. Reverently.

You nodded, voice cracking. “You did this. We did. You made a life, Jason…”

And then, for the first time in a long time, Jason’s shoulders broke.

He hunched forward, pressing his masked face into your lap, into your belly, as his huge arms wrapped around you protectively, almost desperately. His entire body trembled, and you felt the smallest sound escape him—a choked, muffled sob.

He held you like you were his anchor, like the world was spinning too fast and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers slid under your shirt to feel bare skin, not with lust, but in disbelief and awe.

When he finally looked up, he reached to lift his mask just enough for you to see his mouth—lips trembling, jaw tight, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners, something he never let anyone else see.

He placed the gentlest kiss on your belly, and you felt it shake slightly with his breath.

A promise.

“Mine,” his voice rasped out—quiet, raw, and barely a whisper. The first word he’s said in months.

You broke then, sobbing as you held him. He didn’t move from that spot for hours, just resting his head against your belly, listening like he might already hear something.

That night, when you both finally went inside, you found the small wooden cradle he’d made long ago. It had been gathering dust in the back room, quietly waiting.

He brought it into the bedroom.

He was ready.

.

Thomas Hewitt

You’d been thinking about it for a long time—years, really. You and Thomas had made a life together after everything calmed down. The chaos had quieted. The house wasn’t filled with the screams of strangers anymore—just laughter, soft music from the radio, and the occasional hiss of a skillet on the stove. You had love, safety, a roof over your heads. But one thing was missing: your own family. A child.

The thought had built up slowly at first… but now it was loud. Persistent. You wanted to hold a little one that had his eyes. You wanted to see Thomas cradling someone so tiny in those enormous hands. You dreamed of baby giggles echoing down the halls of the Hewitt farmhouse. And today, something in you snapped.

He was in the kitchen, apron on, humming quietly to himself as he cut vegetables. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. You watched him for a long time, your heart full, your chest tight.

Then you blurted it out.

“Tommy… I want a baby. With you.”

He froze.

The knife paused mid-slice. His whole body tensed, like a string pulled taut. He didn’t turn to you right away, didn’t make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly. You stepped closer, voice softening.

“I mean it, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I want to have a family. Our family. I want a little one that we can raise together. I want them to feel safe, to feel love like we do. And—”

Your voice cracked. His shoulders slumped the moment he heard it. He turned to you, mask still on but eyes wide and glassy with tears. You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

He set the knife down and walked toward you slowly, as if making sure you were real. As if scared you might disappear.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. His forehead rested on your stomach, a choked, emotional sound escaping his throat. He didn't speak, but his body did all the talking. He trembled. He clung. He understood.

You whispered against his hair:

“I want our baby, Tommy. Please. I need this... I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He looked up at you with glistening eyes, nodding so hard it seemed like his whole body moved with it. A soft grunt escaped him as he gently pressed a kiss—through his mask—against your abdomen.

That night, he was the most tender he had ever been. Every touch was full of meaning. He worshiped you. His hands were careful, slow, reverent. As if helping you conceive was something holy.

Something shifted in Thomas after that. He changed.

He began to prepare. Quietly at first.

You caught him staring at a broken crib out in the barn—something Hoyt had probably scavenged and forgotten about. A few days later, it was gone from the scrap pile. He’d fixed it. Painted it. Lined it with soft fabric.

He began carving things. A mobile with woodland animals. Teething toys. Rocking horses. You didn’t ask—he just did it, pouring all of his love and nervous energy into creation.

He also started fussing over you. If you so much as sighed, he’d be at your side with a worried look, checking if you needed water, a blanket, anything.

Luda Mae knew something was up the moment she saw how Thomas hovered around you. She gave you a knowing smile one morning and handed you a baby book she kept from when she was younger.

“Just in case,” she said softly, with warmth in her eyes.

Thomas had never seen himself as someone worthy of love—let alone worthy of fatherhood. But you, with your soft words, your unwavering love, your plea for a future—you changed that. You made him believe it was possible.

In the quiet hours of the night, when you were asleep in his arms, he’d gently rest a hand on your belly and imagine it growing round and full. He’d imagine holding your child, swaying them gently in the rocking chair, singing lullabies in his muffled humming way.

He feared passing down pain, but your voice echoed in his mind:

“They’ll be safe, because they’ll have you.”

That gave him strength.

.

It had started with little signs. A missed period. A wave of nausea that came on stronger each morning. Your body, once still and silent, now felt different. Alive. Shifting. It scared you… but mostly? It thrilled you.

You bought a small test in secret—something you had to lie to Hoyt about when he caught you coming back from town. You clutched it like a lifeline, palms sweating.

And when the second line appeared?

You sat on the bathroom floor in stunned silence, hand trembling over your mouth.

It was real. It was finally happening. You were carrying Thomas Hewitt’s baby.

You waited until the timing felt right. He’d had a hard day, out butchering meat in the sweltering Texas heat. Now, back inside, he was scrubbing his hands in the sink while Luda Mae quietly stirred stew behind him. The house buzzed with its usual rural stillness.

You stepped up behind him and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He turned, already melting a little when he saw your shy smile.

Then you pulled a tiny handkerchief from your pocket. Folded in it was something small and white. You pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it.

He opened it slowly, unsure. When he saw what was inside—the positive pregnancy test—he stared at it, silent. Frozen.

At first, you panicked.

“Thomas...? I—I thought maybe I should wait, but I couldn’t. I had to tell you. You’re going to be a daddy.”

“I’m really… I’m really pregnant, Tommy.”

His hands began to shake.

He looked from the test to you, then back again. Then his entire body just collapsed to his knees before you like someone who had been shot through the chest with emotion.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, squeezing—not roughly, but needing. Desperate. His mask bumped against your belly, muffled sobs escaping from behind the leather. His body shook as he cried into you.

You’d never seen him cry like this.

Tears soaked through your shirt as he looked up at you with eyes red and raw, one hand gently—gently—spreading over your belly.

“Tommy,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

He nodded hard, over and over again, hand still on your stomach like he was afraid to let go—as if it would disappear if he blinked. Then he stood up, towering over you, still trembling. He reached for your hands, placed them on his chest, and grunted something deep and full of gratitude.

He was saying, Thank you. I love you. I’ll protect you both with my life.

You found him sitting on the floor by the crib he had fixed months ago—just staring at it.

He’d placed a single baby blanket in it already. His hands were resting on the side rail, his thumb slowly brushing over the edge. He looked lost in thought, a little overwhelmed.

You came up behind him and sat beside him, taking his hand.

He looked at you, eyes still red but softer now. At peace.

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles gently before resting his head against your shoulder.

The two of you sat there in the quiet for a long time.

The stars were bright that night. The wind outside was soft. And in that stillness, Thomas imagined the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, the weight of a small body resting against his chest, the lullabies he would hum while rocking them to sleep.

And he realized:

He had never felt more complete than he did right now.

.

Vincent Sinclair

The wax studio is filled with that familiar scent of warm paraffin, the soft scratch of tools working against clay, and the creak of old floorboards under your feet. You’ve been sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, quietly watching Vincent sculpt for the past hour. He hadn’t asked you to leave—he never does—but you can tell by the way he glances at you every few minutes that he’s aware of your presence.

There’s something about watching him work that fills your chest with warmth. The way he loses himself in his craft, how focused his hands become, how even his breathing slows to match each movement of his blade. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just the weight of time finally building up to this moment... but you suddenly can’t hold it in anymore.

You walk over quietly and place a hand on his shoulder. He pauses but doesn’t turn. Just leans slightly into your touch.

“Vincent…” Your voice is soft—barely more than a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

He tilts his head a little, curious.

“I want a baby. Your baby. I want our own little family.”

He freezes.

Not dramatically. Just... stillness, like all the air left the room. The kind of stillness that only Vincent can embody—deafening, heavy, deliberate.

You keep going, even though your heart is pounding. “I know it’s sudden, and maybe it’s scary, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I want them to have your eyes… your soul.”

He sets his sculpting tool down slowly. You can see his hand tremble ever so slightly. He still won’t look at you.

You step in front of him, crouching down until you’re eye-level. Carefully, you reach up and brush your fingers along the edge of his mask. He lets you lift it—he always does. He’s learned that with you, he’s safe. He doesn’t have to hide.

His one visible eye is glossy, a storm of emotions warring behind it—disbelief, wonder, fear, yearning.

“I’m not asking for a perfect life, Vincent. Just ours. And maybe I sound selfish, but I want to carry a piece of you. Something beautiful from the both of us.”

He exhales hard—almost like a sob—and cups your face with his hands. You lean into him, feeling the quiet quiver of his fingers.

Then, wordlessly, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and aching, as if pouring all the emotions he doesn’t have words for into that moment. His kiss tells you yes a thousand times.

In the weeks that follow Vincent becomes obsessed with the idea of fatherhood. Not in a loud, boastful way—he simply begins channeling it through his art. You notice subtle changes in his work. He begins sculpting infants in wax, cherubic and serene, tucked gently in the arms of faceless figures that feel suspiciously like you.

One night, you catch him sketching by candlelight. The paper shows a child—half-drawn, soft features, long lashes, the faint trace of a scar over the lip. A blend of your features and his own. When you gently ask him what it is, he lowers the paper shyly but allows you to see. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I think they’re beautiful.” He doesn’t reply, but he clutches the sketchbook to his chest after you leave.

When you bring up trying again, maybe even beg for it—his response is immediate. He carries you to bed, his touch reverent, treating your body like something sacred. He’s gentle but determined. His way of saying, I want this as much as you do. That night, there are no masks, no silence between you. Only shared breath, whispered words of hope, and a love so thick it feels like candle wax—heavy, slow, warm, and everlasting.

Afterward, he keeps his hand on your stomach for a long time, as if hoping he can will life into existence just by touching you.

Vincent doesn’t speak much—but when he holds you tighter than usual, when he builds a cradle from reclaimed wood and lines it with soft wax, when he starts making space in the house for someone small—you know he’s saying:

“Yes. I want this too.”

.

The house is quiet—almost too quiet.

Even the wax figures seem more still than usual, as if the entire world is holding its breath.

You’ve been walking around in a daze all morning, one hand unconsciously brushing over your belly again and again. You keep replaying the moment the test turned positive—how the lines darkened slowly, almost shyly, like even it was in awe of the possibility.

You haven’t told him yet. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because you want the moment to feel right. Sacred. Private.

You find him in his studio.

He’s sculpting, lost in the trance-like rhythm he always falls into. Wax shavings gather at his feet, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, veined forearms. You hesitate in the doorway, watching him work.

And then, in a voice trembling with everything you’ve tried to hold back, you say softly:

“Vincent... I have to tell you something.”

He pauses. His body stills in that signature way, but his head turns to you almost immediately. His hair falls over the edge of his mask.

You take a slow breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking. One hand rests gently on your stomach again.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not the kind that fills the room awkwardly—but the kind that means something has shifted.He blinks. Once. Twice. His hand drops the sculpting tool. It hits the floor with a dull clatter, but he doesn’t notice.

You smile, a little nervously. “You—you’re going to be a father, Vincent.”

He stares at you, unmoving. His eye glistens. And then, slowly, carefully, he crosses the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

He kneels in front of you. Both his hands reach out hesitantly, almost shaking, and hover just above your belly. He doesn’t touch at first. He looks up at you for permission. You nod, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

His hands press lightly against your stomach. It’s still flat, but he touches it like it’s full of stars. And then he leans in, resting his forehead against your belly, trembling. His mask presses gently against your shirt as he holds you with all the reverence in the world. No words, just the soft sound of his breathing—hitched, overwhelmed, and so full of emotion.

You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper:

“They’re going to have your eyes... your hands... your heart.”

He pulls back, just enough to look up at you. His one eye is red-rimmed, wet, raw. His hand gently cups the side of your face. There’s no mask between you now.

He lifts you into his arms without a word and carries you to your shared bed. Not to make love—not tonight. Tonight, he just wants to hold you.

He wraps his arms around your back, one hand splayed over your stomach all night, refusing to move. He doesn’t sleep. He watches you, protectively, like he’s guarding the beginning of everything he never thought he’d have.

A family.

His family.

.

Bo Sinclair

You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

It started as a quiet moment in the kitchen. You were sitting on the counter while Bo fixed something under the sink, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, grease on his cheek, muttering curse words at the rusty pipe. The sun was bleeding through the windows, catching the gold in his eyes, and you were suddenly struck by this aching need. That familiar pang had been growing inside you for months now—quiet, tender, powerful.

And before you could stop yourself, you said it.

"I want to have your baby."

Bo froze mid-motion. His wrench clattered to the floor with a dull metallic thud.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “...Come again?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bo. I mean it. I want... I want us to have a baby. I want a family.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh—nervous, deflective. “Aw, darlin’, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause Lottie next door just popped out another one. Baby fever’s catchy as hell, huh?”

But when he looked up and saw your eyes—glassy, trembling with sincerity—his heart sank.

You weren’t joking. Not even close.

Bo Sinclair, for all his bravado, had never let himself picture something so vulnerable, so pure. Not for real.

Not for him.

He’d always known how to charm, how to seduce, how to play the part of the smooth-talking man with the confident grin. But being a father? That terrified him in a way nothing else could.

Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was cut out for it.

Not after the way he was raised. Not after what his father did to him. Not after the screaming, the belt, the bruises hidden behind long sleeves. Not after watching his mother choose silence over protection. Not after years of telling himself that he was just too damaged, too broken, too much like him to ever risk repeating the cycle.

But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and everything cracked.

"Please, Bo..." you whispered, voice raw and trembling now. "I’ve thought about it for so long. I want a baby. I want your baby. I want them to look like you... talk like you... I want to build something good with you. I know what kind of man you are. You’re not him. You’re better.”

And just like that, Bo Sinclair—the cocky mechanic, the wolf in sheep’s clothing—felt small. Felt seen.

He didn’t answer right away. He stood up, wiped his hands on an old rag, and walked over to you slowly, as if approaching something holy. Then he cupped your face in his calloused hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. He stared into your eyes with a softness you rarely saw—vulnerable, bare, aching.

“Why... why the hell would you wanna have a baby with someone like me?” he asked, voice almost breaking. “You could pick anyone. Anyone cleaner. Safer.”

You grabbed his wrists, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I love you. Because no one would fight harder to protect their family than you. And because if we made a baby together… I know they’d grow up with love. And strength. And someone who would burn the world down for them if they had to.”

His mouth parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to keep building that wall between him and the future. But he couldn’t. Not when your faith in him burned brighter than all his doubts.

So instead of arguing, he leaned in and kissed you—slow, reverent, his hands trembling against your skin.

He didn’t say “yes” in so many words. He just started acting like a man who wanted it too.

You caught him, a week later, quietly fixing up the empty guest room—patching holes in the walls, redoing the paint. He grumbled something about “just makin’ it less of a dump,” but you knew what he was doing.

One morning, he tossed a catalog onto the kitchen table—circled a page that showed old-fashioned wooden cribs. He started touching your stomach when he thought you were asleep. Pressing his warm palm over your belly like he could already feel something there. Like he was already trying to protect something that hadn’t even existed yet.

And the first time you begged—half-laughing, half-crying, curling against him in bed and whispering, “Please, Bo... I want your baby... I want you to give them to me...”—he growled softly and melted into you.

He whispered in your ear, “Alright, baby... let’s give you what you want. Let’s make us a little Sinclair.”

And he meant every single word.

.

It had been a strange few weeks.

You were tired all the time. Your appetite shifted—suddenly craving fried pickles at 2AM and hating the scent of Bo’s aftershave, which had never bothered you before. You brushed it off at first—maybe it was stress, or the heat, or maybe your body just felt off.

But then… one morning, as you stood in the dim yellow light of the Sinclair house’s bathroom, staring at a stick on the counter that screamed “PREGNANT”, your heart climbed into your throat.

It was happening.

It was real.

You were carrying Bo’s child. You laughed, cried, sat on the floor in shock. And then you just sat there, pressing your hand gently to your stomach, whispering, “Hey there, baby… guess it’s time to tell your dad.”

Bo was in the garage, as usual—shirtless, grease-stained, humming something low under his breath as he tinkered under the hood of a rusted-out car. You stood in the doorway, hands curled tightly around your back pocket where the test was hidden, heart pounding like a drum. You watched him for a second, just… absorbing the moment.

He always looked so wild and put together at once. So much fire in his bones, and yet there he was, gently tightening bolts, the curve of his back strong and steady, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He glanced up and grinned when he saw you. “Hey, baby. You look flushed. You alright?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then walked forward slowly, your voice soft. “Bo… I need to tell you something.”

He blinked, straightened up, wiped his hands with a rag. “You okay?”

You nodded. Your voice trembled. “I… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A slow second passed.

Bo just stared at you. His expression didn’t move. His fingers clenched the rag tighter, the grease soaking into his palms.

“...What?”

“I took a test. A few. They're all positive. I’m… I’m gonna have your baby, Bo.”

He stepped back like the words physically hit him. Like they echoed straight into the deepest part of his soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, hoarse.

You nodded again, smiling through tears. “We did it. You did it. We’re gonna have a baby.”

For a moment, he was utterly still. You thought—maybe he’d panic. Maybe he’d shut down. Maybe he'd break into that cocky sarcasm he used when emotions got too big for him to handle.

But then—

Bo dropped the rag.

He walked over to you like a man in a dream, rough fingers trembling as he reached for your stomach, barely touching it like it was made of glass. His hands splayed wide, cupping the soft curve that wasn’t even showing yet.

And then his eyes—his goddamn eyes—got glassy. Red at the edges. Shining like he’d been punched straight in the heart.

“You’re serious?” he whispered. “There’s really... there’s really a little piece of me in there?”

You reached for his hand and pressed it flat against you. “Yeah, Bo. There is.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly crushed you to his chest. He held you like you were the last precious thing on earth. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly. And for the first time in a long time, Bo Sinclair shook—not with rage, not with fear—but with love.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ try,” he whispered, over and over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better than he ever was. I ain’t gonna let this kid grow up the way we did. I swear it, baby.”

You buried your face in his chest, tears soaking his skin.

“I know you will,” you whispered back. “You already are.”

After that Bo becomes fiercely protective—almost feral about it. You so much as slip on a step, and he’s cursing the stairs and demanding to carry you everywhere. He finishes the nursery he had started months ago, painting stars on the ceiling and carving the baby’s name into a wooden cradle he made himself (once you pick one).

He becomes unusually quiet sometimes, just lying beside you with his hand on your stomach, whispering promises to the baby. But he’s also proud—in his Bo way. Smirking and bragging to Lester, “Yeah, well, I knocked up the hottest damn thing this side of the county. My kid’s gonna be a fuckin’ legend.”

When you feel the first kick, he cries. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face as he holds your belly like a sacred thing.

He never thought he’d get this.

But now that he does?

Bo Sinclair will fight the world to protect the family he never thought he deserved—but somehow found anyway.

.

Lester Sinclair

You never expected it to come out the way it did.

The words had been brewing for months—maybe even years. Each time you saw a baby in a movie or passed a family with a stroller, a pang pulled at your chest. You and Lester had been married for a while now. The wild chaos of Ambrose had quieted around you, and life with him had settled into a strange, beautiful routine. The two of you made your own kind of peace—your own kind of love.

So when you blurted it out—“Lester, I want a baby. Our baby. Please…”—it came out in a shaky whisper, almost like a prayer.

Lester froze. His boot scuffed against the dirt, hands still sticky from whatever roadkill he'd just finished hauling. He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right.

“A... a what now?” he asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

You stepped closer, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I mean it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want a family with you, Les. I want our child. I want to raise them right, with love. With you.”

The smile dropped off his face.

There was a long, soul-splitting silence as he looked at you. Really looked. You could almost see the gears turning in his head—the pain behind his eyes, the memories he never talked about. Growing up with abuse. With neglect. Feeling like the forgotten Sinclair, the one shoved into the back seat while his brothers got all the attention (in their own twisted ways).

You’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the dirt-streaked cheeks and lopsided grin. The man who brought you wildflowers every week. Who patched up your clothes by hand. Who kissed your forehead every morning like it was holy.

Now, that man looked like he was on the verge of breaking.

“You really think...” he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, “...that I could be someone’s dad?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’d be the best damn father I could imagine.”

His face crumpled. Not all at once—just slowly, like a dam giving way. His knees buckled, and he sat right there in the grass, running a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grime as he laughed bitterly through tears.

“I always thought… if I ever had a kid, they’d end up hating me. Thought I’d mess ’em up. Thought they’d deserve better than me.”

You dropped down beside him, grabbing his hand. “They’d have love, Lester. That’s what they’d have. And you’d protect them like you protect me. You’d show them what survival means. What being real means.”

Lester stared at your joined hands. For a while, he didn’t speak—just gripped your fingers like they were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Finally, he whispered, “Alright… we’ll try. If you really want this, darlin’... we’ll try.”

After that night, something in Lester shifted.

He started coming home earlier. He’d disappear into the shed, whittling tiny animals out of wood, then bashfully present them to you with a crooked smile and red cheeks. You’d find him sitting in the truck, staring at your picture with his hand resting on your side of the seat, lost in thought.

He cleaned up more. Tried to quit smoking (even if he cursed every step of the way). Bought books on parenting from a thrift store—even though he’d never admit it.  And when you came to him again, a few weeks later, breathless and desperate from sheer baby fever, begging for it, nearly trembling with longing—he didn’t hesitate this time.

He kissed you so softly you thought your heart might crack.

That night, under a sky full of stars, he made love to you like he was giving you every piece of his soul. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

He whispered into your skin, “I hope they got your smile… but maybe my laugh. And eyes like yours. The kind that see everything.”

He’d do it all for you.For the child you’d bring into this world. For the future he never thought he deserved—until you gave it to him.

.

It starts small.

You wake up nauseous for the fourth morning in a row. Your chest is sore. You’re tired in a way that’s not just fatigue—it’s different. You know your body, and this feels… like something new is blooming inside you.

You wait until the test confirms it. Two pink lines. Bold. Undeniable.

Your hands shake. Your heart thunders. You sit there in the bathroom with the little test in your hand, whispering, “Oh my god… I’m pregnant…”

Your first instinct is to tell him. But a flicker of fear sneaks in. You know how Lester is—emotional, insecure, vulnerable beneath his carefree shell. What if he panics? What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he thinks he’ll mess it up?

But then you remember how he held you when you first asked. The look in his eyes when he whispered “We’ll try.”

So you plan it carefully. You make his favorite meal—fried catfish, cornbread, and that weird butterscotch pie he always swears he doesn’t like but devours anyway. You light a candle. You even set the table.

When he walks in, he knows something’s up. He squints suspiciously at you, grinning. “Alright, darlin’, what’s all this? Did I forget an anniversary or somethin’?”

You shake your head and slide a tiny box across the table.

He opens it.

Inside: a simple, hand-painted pacifier. And a tiny note that reads:

“Coming soon... Baby Sinclair. ETA: 9 months.”

He stares at it.

Silence.

Then his hands start shaking.

He looks up at you, and for a second—just a split second—you swear you see the little boy he once was. The one who never thought he’d get a happy ending. The one who slept in the barn sometimes because the house didn’t feel safe. The one who never imagined anyone would want to build a family with him.

“…You’re serious?” he whispers, his voice cracking.

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Lester. You’re gonna be a dad.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half sob—and stumbles back into his chair, hands over his face.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Holy shit, we did it. We really did it.”

Then he’s on you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’s already trying to hear the baby. His tears soak into your shirt.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, fiercely, desperately. “Both of you. I swear to God, I’ll work harder, I’ll keep ya safe, I’ll… I’ll be better. I’ll be good.”

You cradle his head, running your fingers through his messy hair.

“You already are.”

.

Carrie White

It’s a quiet evening when you finally gather the courage to say it.

Carrie is sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing out her strawberry-blonde hair with soft, methodical strokes, humming a lullaby that echoes faintly from some forgotten childhood. The lamp casts a golden halo around her, and in that moment, she looks so gentle, so peaceful, that the words well up and spill from your lips before you can stop them.

"Carrie… I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. I want to have a baby. With you."

The brush falls from her hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

Her body goes rigid. She turns her head slowly, her wide, delicate eyes shining with something unreadable—shock, fear, hope—all blending into one.

"A… a baby?" she whispers, as if afraid the very word might shatter something inside her.

You nod, moving to sit beside her. You reach for her hands, and she lets you take them, though they’re trembling. Her eyes are locked on yours, searching, desperately trying to believe what you’re saying is real.

"With me? You’d want… a baby with someone like me?"

The weight in her voice stabs at your heart. You know what she’s thinking—what she’s been taught to believe all her life. That she’s cursed. That she’s unnatural. That someone like her shouldn’t be a wife, much less a mother.

You cup her cheeks and bring your forehead to hers. “Yes, you. Only you. I want to see your eyes in our baby. I want to hold something we made together. A family, Carrie. Our family.”

And with that, something inside her breaks—not painfully, but like a floodgate. She collapses into your arms, sobbing softly into your chest, as if releasing a lifetime of fear, shame, and loneliness.

Later that night, she speaks in the dark while you're holding each other in bed.

"I used to dream about it, sometimes. A little girl… with freckles. I’d braid her hair and teach her songs. But I thought that dream had to die with everything else..."

You kiss her hair and whisper, “That dream’s still alive. You’re allowed to want this, Carrie.”

Over the following days, something changes in her—subtle at first. She begins to touch her stomach absentmindedly when she's daydreaming. She visits the old nursery aisle at the general store and stares at the soft toys and onesies, barely breathing.

She starts sewing. Simple things at first—little booties, a blanket. She tells you it’s “just for fun,” but you catch her levitating the needle with her powers, stitching the shape of a tiny heart into the fabric. It glows faintly when she thinks you're not looking.

And then one night, your desire for it spills out of you, raw and aching.

"Carrie… I need this. I want to carry your baby. I want to give it your light, your heart. I want you to be someone’s mother. Please…” Your voice trembles. You didn’t mean to beg, but now that you have, you can’t stop.

She’s stunned silent at first, staring at you as tears run freely down your cheeks. You barely notice the soft shimmer of telekinetic energy that hums in the air around you—floating dust particles caught mid-air like stars frozen in time.

Then she presses her lips to yours, tender and reverent, her body warm and trembling.

"Okay," she whispers, barely a breath. "Let’s try. Let’s make our little miracle."

After that, every moment is sacred to her. She holds you like glass, kisses you with a reverence that makes your heart ache. When you finally begin trying, it’s nothing short of ethereal—the room filled with flickering candlelight, her powers humming faintly like a lullaby beneath your skin. Her touch is slow, patient, like she’s carving the moment into her soul.

She whispers your name like a prayer, over and over, as you make love. Tells you she believes. That she finally sees a future not written in fire or blood—but in soft blankets, warm bottles, lullabies, and love.

Carrie White doesn’t just agree to become a mother. She becomes a vessel for every ounce of hope she thought she lost—and for the first time in her life, she chooses her future.

And she chooses it with you.

.

Carrie White is pregnant.

It starts subtly.

Carrie is quieter than usual. She stays curled up in your shared bed a little longer each morning. Her appetite changes—foods she used to love now make her nauseous, and she craves the strangest combinations. You catch her staring into space, one hand absently over her belly, her expression unreadable.

At first, you chalk it up to nerves. Trying can be emotionally taxing, after all. But one night, she doesn’t come to bed right away.

You find her in the bathroom, the light low, her knees tucked under her in front of the sink. Her nightgown is wrinkled and damp with tears, and she’s holding something in her hands.

A small stick.

Your breath catches.

Her hands are shaking when she turns to look at you, eyes glossy, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“I… I think it’s positive.”

She says it like a confession. Like the words might make the floor collapse under her if she says them too loud. But she holds the test out to you, and the double lines are clear. Undeniable. Real.

You kneel in front of her slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Carrie…” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “You’re pregnant?”

She nods, lip trembling. Her powers stir faintly in the air—curling around her like a warm breeze. The water in the pipes hums. The lights flicker once, like even the world is holding its breath.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” you ask again, your voice trembling with disbelief and awe.

This time, she manages a smile—watery, fragile, but radiant.

“Yes… we are.”

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly your arms are around her, both of you crying and laughing at once. You kiss her face over and over, your hands cradling her stomach like it’s already holding the future.

You whisper against her hair:

“You did it… we did it. You’re going to be a mom. My god, Carrie… we’re going to have our baby.”

Carrie breaks down, sobbing into your chest—not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion. For the first time in her life, she is wanted, and now she’s the start of something even more: a life that you both made.

You carry her to bed like she’s precious, tucking her in and lying beside her with your hand over her belly. She falls asleep in your arms, the tiniest smile on her lips.

From that day on, everything changes.

You start collecting books on pregnancy and baby names. Carrie reads them slowly, sometimes out loud to the bump as if the baby can already hear her. You watch her body change with awe and tenderness—her face glowing, her hands always resting on her growing belly protectively.

She talks to the baby every day. Tells them stories. Hums lullabies. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, her powers pulse softly—wrapping her, and you, and the baby in a faint golden shimmer that almost feels like a blessing.

Carrie was once told she could never have something good.

But now, with your love, her strength, and a little life growing between you, she knows:

This is good. This is hers. This is real.

.

[candiyaa]

what would the upper ranks reaction to reader ignoring them after a fight ><

LOVEEE ITTT thanks for requesting, I didn't know if u mean to include Muzan or not but so I added him !! ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍒ɞ˚‧｡⋆

WHEN THEIR S/O IGNORES THEM AFTER A FIGHT

MUZAN KIBUTSUJI

Completely unfazed at first.

Genuinely couldn't care less, he believes his point was valid and that you're overreacting.

Stubborn +++

Although the hours are getting long and he won't admit it but he's getting bored without you.

Would intently stare at you from across the room hoping you'll catch on and come back to him.

Intense staring contest at that.

Lightly considered the idea apologizing, then came back to his senses.

This word is not even in his vocabulary.

He would go back and forth silently in front of your room, monitoring checking on you in secret.

Well not that secret...cuz you can feel his tormented aura miles away.

It started to gnaw at him yet he couldn't break character and act all needy with you so he played it nonchalant : he went to go get your favs in a pretty basket (he might be a villain and manipulator but he does know and has studied well his s/o to their likes and dislikes) and came to give it to you. Yes with that "I just happened to find this stuff so now I'm giving it to you as an act of kindness" kinda vibe. He gently holds your hand as a little sign of affection, yet it's subtle. (HE JUST WANTED SOME CONTACT AFTER ALL THESE HOURS)

"It's okay to be wrong, you see. It's simply part of life, I presume."

"BUT YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WAS WRONG-"

"Shhh, just eat now. So noisy..."

KOKUSHIBO

Just like Muzan, he was genuinely stubborn on the fact that his point was valid.

Gave you the silent treatment too.

Yet for certain reasons , he refused to leave your sides.

There was no talking. No nothing. Yet you could go in the kitchen to grab a drink, he'd be there too, doing his own thing. Leaving to go on the couch and relax in front of TV, there he is AGAIN, following you, reading a book in his fav armchair.

You even thought he was simply teasing you and trying to annoy you even more, and perhaps there was a bit of that too.

Yet it just genuinely felt so natural to be around you that he couldn't help it.

After some time, he'll just start staring at you, YES WITH THOSE SIX DAMN ETHEREAL EYES, NONSTOP. (no blinking either 😔..)

He wants to make you crack first because in his mind, he still doesn't see where is he at fault in all this.

He's more mature than Muzan tho and eventually starts to get tired of this little silent treatment game.

So, after some time ofc he's the first one to crack :

"Are you done being childish now ? I may have made a mistake, but then can we talk about it like grown adults ? I'm willing to apologize if you agree to have a talk about it."

DOMA

THAT DAMNN CRAZY AHH B

Laughs in your face.

Pushing your buttons to the very edge bc it amuses him.

Really having the best time of his life.

Though when you really get upset and give him the silent treatment, whole mood changes.

His facial expression changes, he's upset that you're upset.

And he's upset at himself for not understanding what really went wrong.

He leaves your side for some time.

Actually goes pondering and wonders if there's an emotion he didn't quite catch.

He eventually comes back, mask back on, boisterious personality back on and simply goes :

"Here, aren't these your favorite ? Ahh, it'd be such a shame if I had to eat them all by myself, don't you think ?"

Teases you with it. (Doma will forever stay Doma..)

You just know that it's his way of apologizing, so you simply accept and here you are, both on good terms again and eating sweets.

Although you did catch that tiny, genuine, reassured smiled even if it quickly disappeared as soon as you spotted it.

Creepy smile back on!!

AKAZA

He pauses.

Didn't actually mean to upset you.

Arguments are usually what he avoids yet this time it had to happen.

He spirals, wondering if his point was wrong or if he just didn't understand yours.

Deep pondering.

Completely against the idea of you giving him the silent treatment , if there's any misunderstanding, he wants to clear it as quickly as possible.

He's obviously the first to reach out, determined to have a talk with you.

Comes with your favs ofccc + flowers!!

"Hey, I think we both spoke in the heat of the moment and said things we didn't mean. I apologize if I upset you in any way, I just want to understand...Can we talk ?"

GYUTARO

Tries to play it cool and acts like it doesn't bother him whether you talk to him or not.

Pretends not to care.

“Tch…good, less naggin ig."

Internally panics.

Went to Daki for advices.

The silence really starts to get to him.

Will keep glancing your way then look away when your eyes lock.

When the silence gets too long, he starts to take it out on him, muttering to himself :

"Tch..well ofc they hate me now. They're all like that. Who wouldn't."

Hearing him say that, you came BOLTING, giving him the tightest hug EVERR.

Reassured him that none of it were true, but stayed firm on your point and talked abt what really upset you.

You both apologized for each other's behavior.

HANTENGU'S CLONES (minus zohakuten)

AIZETSU :

THE.END.OF.THE.WORLD

His s/o not talking to him = what is the meaning of life if my s/o is not in it ?

INSTANT CRAZY PANIC.

SO PANICKED HE EXPLODED, JUMPED OUT THE WINDOW, DID A BACKFLIP AND-

Okay more seriously now, he's super super extra scared.

So scared, you can't even stay mad at him seeing him eyeing you in a corner.

You're obviously the first one to crack and come to comfort him.

He did understand where he went wrong and apologized.

Pinky promise and everything's sorted out !

UROGI :

Instantly panics. He’s the most emotionally reactive of the clones and can't handle silence well. The moment you stop speaking to him, he paces around like a restless bird.

Tries to make you laugh by doing silly things.

Nudges you with his wing to make you react even a little.

Once you respond, even a little, he instantly lights up like he just won lottery.

He's CLINGY for hours afterward, afraid of making you upset again.

SEKIDO :

It started as a little argument yet things escalated pretty quickly and well he's not "Anger" for nothing..

He believes you overreacted and certainly will not apologize first

He mumbles in his corner angrily

Many hours after there he is STILL grumbling abt it again , (yk like moms when they keep talking when the argument is literaly supposed to be over 😭)

Gives you the silent treatment and thinks your reaction is childish

You had to come apologize first.

KARAKU :

Thought of it as a game at first.

Teased you and kept getting in your face.

Then started to catch on that you're really upset and will not talk to him until he apologizes.

Tries to make you laugh and succeed.

You did express what bothered you and he promised to do better in the future.

Here you are back on his lap, cuddling.

⋆˚✿˖° Heyy there I apologize for the delay but there it is !! I also apologize for the Hantengu's clones part I didn't have much imagination for that one lol Hope you guys liked it tho !! There might be grammar mistakes apologies once again... xoxo ⋆˚✿˖°

[honeyhonest]

hmmmrg last night I was thinking about what a disaster it would be to have crowley get you pregnant while you're still a student

yknowww what I mean

any other boy- leona, rook, cater, whatever- well, that's a stupid mistake that kids make. parents will be contacted, rumors will be spread, meetings will be held, but you'll be taken care of

but. crowley??? he can't really do anything in his position. the most he could get away with it is pretending that his interest in your unplanned pregnancy is just his kindness and care as an educator- not as the culprit behind the baby

(granted, of course, that the yuu in question doesn't abort that thang)

obviously your friends will ask who the father is. where else could the baby have come from?? no one at school is permitted to brew those sorts of potions, and you wouldn't have done anything stupid. right?

but you obviously can't tell them. you'll have to say that the father is not in the picture, that it was a fling, that his identity is important... whatever. your friends might assume it was a passing person in your life (rollo and fellow please count your days and pray no one catches up to you), or a royal like malleus or leona that can't be involved in a wedlock baby scandal, and, of course, some will assume it's a member of the staff. crowley? perhaps. but nothing is asked and nothing is answered

and when/if you have the baby, everyone will be involved, which will leave crowley feeling miffed. obviously, he can't do a thing, because getting too involved will raise suspicions, but watching your friends babysit his hatchling for you would make him so sad. say what you will!!! the man is not a total deadbeat. and crows are very involved parents, anyway

there's just no winning for anyone

[sparkflower-fields]

Confidence… is key.

Rodimus repeated this to himself every cycle before facing his crew, his people. Constantly reminding himself to be confident, even if he didn’t feel as such. To never let anyone see him as anything less. To be less was to admit weakness, to admit defeat in the face of doubt. There were other aspects he strove to embody; pride, leadership, even friendliness. All of which his predecessor, Optimus Prime, embodied. He shaped himself into what was expected of a Prime. A mech worth looking up to. Or at least he tried.

But no one believed any of that for one second. Not one mech under his leadership thought of him in any of those ways. Very few even saw him as a true Prime. Too young, they said. Too naive. Too reckless. Too stupid. They didn’t think he knew what they said about him behind his back. But he did. And it left a bitter, bitter feeling in his spark.

What the others didn’t know was the sacrifices one has to make to become a Prime, not just through morals and principles. You sacrifice a shard of yourself. You cut it out of your spark despite the agony that it brings you to lose such a vital part of yourself. Your joy, your happiness. Your peace of mind. You lose your sense of individuality, becoming infinitely connected to all the Primes before you and carrying the ever crushing weight of their pains, their sorrows. Their haunting voices forever screaming through you in your quiet moments. Like an echo of agony that never ceases to bear down on your very being.

No.

No one ever speaks of the white hot pain that is transforming into a Prime.

Taking on the matrix, it rebuilds you. Changing your very CNA, shred by shred. It tears open your spark and plucks it out right before your optics, reconstructing it like pieces of a puzzle into Primus’ sovereign champion. It does the same to your frame, breaking it apart and twisting it, forming it into a body worthy to carry it. It is a process that lasts only moments, but instills vorns worth of pain and suffering into the very essence of the wielder. And Rodimus was the youngest to ever be made a Prime. Barely even matured, he had hardly lived before he was remade in Primus’s vision. His tortured scream still haunted Optimus. He could feel it on occasion, echoed through the Matrix.

Hot Rod was cut from his own frame, dissected and pulled apart from himself, to be remade into Rodimus Prime, used as raw material to be created again, but never made quite whole. It left him feeling raw, empty. Like the essence that made him uniquely himself was siphoned from his spark and burned.

He often wondered if this is how Orion Pax felt, once upon a time. He never bothered to ask Optimus. He knew the answer as the thoughts formed in his processor. Their agony was his. And his agony was theirs. Rodimus supposed in pain, he had fellowship, but if that were really true, he often questioned, why didn’t any of them feel the agony he was in emotionally? Perhaps they did and simply didn’t care. Or chose to let him feel it all alone. Maybe that was how Optimus felt. Despite being connected he still had many questions that went unanswered, that he had to figure out on his own.

But how cruel was that? To be promised glory, power, adoration, and be given the strut shattering reality that was his existence. To simply be a vessel to a parasitic artifact that he once revered with the highest respects. Thrown into a blistering inferno of raging consciousnesses and struggle to find your own inner voice in it all. To trust so wholly in someone such as Optimus, and still trust him wholly despite not telling Rodimus of the horrors of becoming a Prime.

In the end, when he left his homeworld in search of the Knights of Cybertron, it wasn’t totally for the greater good. He did it for himself too. To try and prove he could walk in the footsteps of the Primes before him, both to his people and to himself.

But he failed.

And the sad thing was he wasn’t even surprised when it really sank in.

He wasn’t surprised when he lost the respect of his crew, or when even Ratchet confessed he was among the ones who wished to vote him off the ship. His ship. He was hurt, but not surprised. His blunder after Primus forsaken blunder prepared him to the notion that they had all given up on him. He himself wouldn’t have followed a leader who seemed so… incompetent. So, he didn’t really blame them in the end.

Losing the respect of his crew sent him into a tailspin of the likes he had never experienced. He had finally felt like he was discovering himself again, when it was all ripped out from underneath of him. It tore his wound in his spark from the matrix open again.

The only thing he had as a constant reminder of who he was, was the weight of the Matrix itself in his chassis. Despite the pain, and the grief that came with becoming one with it, he found solace in the ebb and flow of its energy. Eventually. It hadn’t been that way at first.

His perspective of the artifact had been changed once it was assimilated into his frame. Parasite, he would think. He still thought that of it. But he grew to understand it the longer he was connected with it. It was alive, in the way that the essence of the Primes from the past were alive in it. It drew upon their wisdom and knowledge and urged him towards action as if it was instinct. At first he fought against the thoughts and feelings that were forged by the Matrix. It stole his sense of self, so why would he want to further erase himself and do what it wanted?

But he eventually realized it wasn’t really the Matrix telling him what to do. It was the way the Primes communicated to him and shared their experiences. This realization softened his spark to it, and brought him out of his hatred for it. It’s what made him really start listening to it. Reaching to it for comfort in his failings, to learn of what he could do to change things, to make his circumstances better. And it helped him.

Then, he was demoted. By Optimus.

It crushed his spark when Optimus brought Megatron of all mechs onto his ship to “co-captain” with him. It was the biggest slap in the face next to his crew petitioning to have him thrown out. He was a Prime! He should have outranked anyone regardless! But, ‘Primes don’t think like that.’ Optimus had said. And the shame he felt melded with the utter betrayal in his spark. This was his mission! His adventure in the stars! And it was practically taken from him.

So he sulked for a long time. He didn’t engage in extracurricular activities outside of his duties. He didn’t joke on the bridge.

He even changed his plating color. From his bright and cheery orange, red and yellow, to black, purple and blue. He couldn’t stand looking at himself in the mirror and seeing a failure. So he changed himself. He became gritty, and brooding. Dismal even.

When he entered a room, people finally listened. And it angered him it took a complete overhaul of his personality to make it happen.