#the tile guys will fix up the rest

[boopsloop363]

Boopek, how was that second round of breaking concrete? How do you feel today? I will pray for you 💌

I just got home from that job half an hour ago!!!! It took us seven whole hours just to install these two drains at this Wendy's lol

we even had to set up a makeshift tent around the work area to keep the dust off the food so we basically hotboxed ourselves with concrete dust and it still got everywhere with the constant in and out. We broke through about a foot of reinforced concrete and dug 3 feet down to find the sewer line. I got nasty Wendy's sewage on me when we opened the line and according to my fitness band I walked 11 miles today!

[shinig6mis]

stoner bf!touya isn’t the type to yell or shout to make a point. he doesn’t have to. the lazy smirk on his face and the way his half-lidded eyes slide over to you, then to whoever else is dumb enough to try their luck, are enough. everyone knows you’re his, no need to spell it out. and if they forget? well, touya has a way of reminding them.

he loves taking you to his favorite spots, joints that reek of weed and old vinyl records, where the lights are dim, and the air is thick with haze. you're always tucked into his side in your little dress that clings nicely to every curve, the hem barely skimming your thighs, and just enough of your chest on display to make his buddies stare a little too long. touya doesn’t mind, not really. he likes the attention you draw. it makes it all the sweeter when he throws an arm over your shoulders and leans in, murmuring something that makes you flush under his hooded gaze.

“look at you,” he drawls, his lips brushing your ear as he passes you the blunt. “so fuckin’ pretty. go on, baby, take a hit.”

you do, your lips wrapping around the edge as you inhale deeply, only to cough on the exhale. touya chuckles, low and gravelly, his hand rubbing lazy circles on your back as you double over. “easy, doll.” the words are soft enough for just you to hear, but the grin he flashes as you smack his chest is enough to make your heart skip.

and when his hand drifts lower, resting heavy on your bare thigh, squeezing just enough to make you shift closer, his friends exchange knowing looks. they know better than to say anything though. touya doesn’t share.

later, he pulls you into the grungy restroom, locking the door behind him with a flick of his wrist. “can’t wait,” he murmurs, backing you against the graffiti-covered wall. his hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, hiking up your dress until it’s bunched around your hips. his lips crash against yours, tasting of smoke and something faintly sweet as he drags his fingers through your slick folds.

“already so wet f'me,” he teases, his voice slurred and lazy, but the hunger in his mismatched eyes is anything but. “you’re perfect, you know that?”

he doesn’t bother to be gentle. his cock stretches you, the first thrust punching a breathless moan out of you that echoes off the tile walls. touya grips your hips, holding you steady as he pounds into you, each snap of his hips rougher than the last. your cries are loud, shameless, and he loves every second of it.

“louder,” he growls, dragging his teeth along your neck. “let ‘em hear how good i fuck you.” and you do, your voice breaking as you sob his name, clawing at his shoulders for balance.

when he finally pulls out, it’s only to watch his cum drip down your trembling thighs, his thumb smearing it into your flushed, sticky skin. “that’s a good look for you,” he mutters, fixing your dress and smoothing your hair with a smug grin that makes your cheeks burn.

and when you walk back out, your legs are shaking as you try desperately to lean heavily against him as he steers you toward the door. you can tell that everyone around you notices your swollen little lips and wobbly thighs. how could they not? touya doesn’t try to hide it either, his hand firmly on your ass as he glances back at the guys.

“gotta take my girl home. she’s had a long night.”

and when he finally gets you back to his shitty apartment, he doesn’t stop. the walls are thin, and he knows his neighbors can hear every slap of skin, every choked cry of his name. but he doesn’t care. you’re his, and tonight, he’ll make sure everyone knows it.

© 2025 shinig6mis | do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my work.

[avonnimimi]

Can you write a parallel story of making sevika jealous. How would she react? 😏

of course i can pretty girl😉

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Hers

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a/n: Here you go anon<3 I hope you enjoy, and i switched it up a little ;) I tried to make it extra special since you’re the first to send an ask ☺️ also i’m a firm believer that sevika has a daddy kink. MEN AND MINORS DNI

content: dom!sevika, mean!sevika, strap-on-sex (r!receiving), cunnilingus (r!receiving), face-sitting, overstimulation, semi-public sex, finger sucking, throat fucking, choking, two pussy slaps, degrading, name calling, daddy kink, bratty!reader, multiple + forced orgasms. lmk if i missed anything!

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Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have dared to be so bold, but Sevika had been a really mean to you today. First, she told you no when you tried to get three large ice creams from the truck. Then, she shut you down when you wanted to buy those $300 heels you’d been obsessing over online. And last, like the cherry on top, she hit you with; “You can’t always get what you want.”

It burned. So, you decided to be petty.

Tonight was one of your once-a-month traditions: a night at the club with Sevika. She was already at the bar, ordering her usual drink. You didn’t even wait for her to turn around before heading to the dance floor, your mind made up.

You scanned the room, searching for your victim. It didn’t take long. Dark eyes met yours from across the crowd, already locked on you. He was watching you like he’d been waiting all night. You smirked, letting your hips sway as you walked toward him, the hem of your mini skirt riding higher with every step. When you reached him, you grabbed his hand, pulling him closer until your ass pressed firmly against his crotch. The music pulsed around you, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heart pounding.

You started to move, grinding against him. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm. You felt him harden against you, and for a second, nausea twisted in your stomach. But you swallowed it down. This wasn’t about him. This was about Sevika.

Your eyes flicked to the bar. There she was, sitting with her drink in hand, her gaze fixed on you. She didn’t look mad. She didn’t even look fazed. If anything, she looked…amused.

The heat of embarrassment flushed your cheeks. You were doing all this to get her attention, to rile her up, and she didn’t even care. You watched as she downed the rest of her drink, set the glass down, and stood. Your heart dropped. She wasn’t coming to you. She was walking toward the bathrooms.

The sting of rejection hit harder than you expected, twisting your chest tight. You pulled away from the guy without a word, ignoring his protests, and followed her. The anger bubbling inside you felt like it was about to spill over.

You pushed open the bathroom door, ready to confront her, but before you could even call her name, a strong hand yanked you inside, slamming you against the tiled wall, the door clicking shut behind you. The sound of the lock turning made your stomach flip.

It was Sevika. You didn’t need to see her face to know. Her scent, smoky and electric, was unmistakable. Her body pressed against yours, her hips flush with your ass. You gasped as you felt the hard bulge in her pants press against you. Your knees almost buckled.

“Tryna make me jealous, trouble?” she asked, her voice low and deadly, the amusement in it making your thighs clench.

You didn’t answer, biting your lip to keep the words at bay. That only made her laugh, a deep, throaty chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Cute,” she murmured, before her hands grabbed the hem of your mini skirt and yanked it down your thighs. The fabric pooled at your feet. Then, she spun you around, her hands firm on your shoulders as she pushed you down to your knees.

She unzipped her pants, and her strap sprung free, thick and heavy. Your mouth watered at the sight, but you didn’t move. You just looked up at her, wide-eyed and defiant.

“Open,” she growled, her voice sharp and commanding.

You shook your head, a small, “No,” slipping from your lips before you could stop yourself.

Wrong move. Sevika’s hand shot out, grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks hard enough to make you cry out. Then, with no warning, she shoved her cock between your lips, pushing it deep into your throat.

You gagged, your hands flying to her hips in a weak attempt to push her back, but it only made her thrust deeper. Tears pricked your eyes as she fucked your throat, her pace merciless. Your body betrayed you, heat pooling in your core as the wetness between your legs grew.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she groaned, her voice rough. Her boot shifted, the toe pressing against your clit through your soaked panties. The pressure made you moan around her cock, your hips instinctively grinding against her boot.

“You know what to do,” she taunted. And you did. You bucked your hips, grinding down harder, chasing the friction as you sucked and licked at her tip. You could feel her watching you, her dark eyes burning into you. “Look at you,” she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “Such a pretty little bitch in heat.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until she pulled back, her cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop. You whined at the loss, your hips stuttering as you found an angle that dragged against your clit perfectly.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet. She dragged you to the sink, bending you over the counter. The mirror reflected your flushed face, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Sevika’s hand ran down your back before hooking into your thong and tearing it clean off.

She spread your legs wide, one hand gripping your hip while the other slapped your clit hard. You yelped, the sting sharp and sudden. But before you could recover, her cock was rubbing against your soaked slit, teasing you.

And then she shoved it in.all of it.

You screamed, your hands flying to the edges of the sink to hold yourself steady. She didn’t wait, didn’t give you time to adjust. Her hips slammed into yours over and over, her cock hitting so deep you thought you might break.

“Look at yourself,” she growled, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head up so you were forced to meet your reflection. “You see what a nasty little fucktoy you are?”

Your lip trembled. You wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but all you could do was whimper as she fucked you harder, her hips snapping against yours with brutal precision.

“You think that little boy out there could fuck you like this?” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain.

“N-no, daddy!” you cried, your thighs shaking, your body already teetering on the edge.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she spat, her pace quickening. “Now cum. Cum all over this dick, trouble.”

Her words sent you spiraling. Your body tensed, then shattered, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t even think. Your pussy clenched tight around her cock, your moans echoing in the small bathroom.

But she didn’t stop. Her thrusts stayed relentless, pulling you from one orgasm straight into the next. Tears streamed down your face, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“Aww, poor baby,” she cooed mockingly, her hand pressing against your stomach, right where her cock was buried deep inside you. “Too much? Or do you love it, slut?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, nodding frantically. “Love it, daddy! Fuck, I love it s’much…”

Your words only spurred her on. She slapped your ass hard, the sound echoing around you. “Good girl,” she growled. “Now cum again.”

And you did. Harder than before, your body writhing as you squirted all over her cock. You were a mess, completely undone, but Sevika wasn’t finished. She pulled out, spinning you around and sitting you on the counter, immediately dropping to her knees.

“Lemme taste,” she said, her voice rough with need.

Her tongue found your clit instantly, sucking and flicking it with no mercy. Your thighs twitched, your body jerking as you cried out, the pleasure almost too much. She didn’t stop, didn’t let up, her tongue dipping into your cunt before returning to your clit.

Your hips jerk up, desperate, fucking yourself against her tongue until she growls and forces your hips down, sucking your clit so hard you can’t stop the scream tearing out of your throat as you cum again. “F-fuck, daddy!” Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling, holding on for dear life as your body grinds into her face, completely out of control, lost in it.

Sevika doesn’t even give you time to recover. She’s up in an instant, her hand wrapping tight around your throat, pinning you to the mirror as two of her thick fingers slam into your dripping cunt. You gasp, legs spreading wider, chasing the stretch, the pressure. “You wanna cum again?” she growls, and all you can do is nod, your voice gone. You need it, fuck, you need her so bad it’s making you ache.

Her fingers curl, hitting that spot inside you like she’s mapped you out, like she owns you. You sob, your hands clutching at her wrist, thighs trembling as she works you open. “Please,” you whimper, sounding pathetic and raw, but you don’t care. She’s fucking you so deep, so good, you’d sell your soul just to keep her there forever.

“God, I love when you’re a brat,” Sevika groans, her voice low and wrecked, her thumb swiping over your clit just to watch you twitch. “Gives me an excuse to ruin this pussy, stuff it full, make it mine.” Her lips curl into a smirk, her eyes dark as she leans in closer. “Look at me.”

You try, you fucking try, but your eyes roll back as your orgasm claws its way up, your walls fluttering around her fingers. The pressure is unbearable, and your body’s trembling so hard you think you might shatter. “Fuck, Sevika—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she hisses, watching your body give up to her. Her grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin, and then she’s pulling you into a messy, brutal kiss, her tongue dominating yours, kissing all the air out of your lungs. You cum hard, your whole body locking up as you squirt all over her hand, soaking her wrist, the floor, everything.

She doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until you’re gasping for breath. Pulling her fingers out, she doesn’t even hesitate before shoving them against your lips. “Open,” she demands, and you obey immediately, sucking them clean, tasting yourself on her skin. You’re still trying to catch your breath when her other hand comes down, slapping your oversensitive pussy, making you yelp.

“Good fucking girl,” Sevika mutters, her voice thick with pride as she leans down to kiss you again, stealing the last bit of air you have left.

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this is my original post, please don’t repost, translate, or plagiarize my work ;)

©️avonnimimi 2024

[kentobb]

⊹₊⟡⋆ The Bet ⊹₊⟡⋆

Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader x Gojo Satoru

⊹₊⟡⋆ Masterlist ⊹₊⟡⋆

Warnings: Suggestive content.

Chapter 01

You’ve always known your place in the world.

The quiet one. The overachiever. The nerd. Your identity is a sum of academic accolades, a steady stream of perfect grades, and the quiet approval of teachers and professors. They praise your dedication, your punctuality, and your sharp mind. Students tolerate you. You’re useful when group projects roll around or when someone needs last-minute homework answers. Beyond that, they keep their distance.

You don’t blame them. Socially, you’ve always been… lacking. You’re an introvert through and through. Conversation is a hurdle, and parties make you feel like a fish flopping on dry land. But the truth is, you’ve made peace with your solitude. Better to exist on the sidelines than risk rejection by stepping into the spotlight.

It’s a routine you’ve mastered. That is, until Ryomen Sukuna walks by.

You’re moving through the bustling college hallway, textbook clutched tightly to your chest, when the loud voices of the football team cut through the air like static. You don’t have to look to know who they are. The athletes. The popular ones. The untouchables.

But there’s one voice that stands out above the rest, one figure who naturally commands attention.

Sukuna.

The moment you see him, your stomach twists in a way you hate. He’s impossibly good-looking, with sharp features, smoldering eyes, and a smirk that seems permanently etched onto his face. His confidence radiates off him like heat. Girls adore him. Professors cut him slack they wouldn’t dream of giving anyone else. Even guys can’t seem to hate him, not entirely.

He’s everything you’re not. Charismatic, magnetic, popular. And the worst part? He knows it.

You grit your teeth and keep walking, eyes fixed on the linoleum floor. You’ve spent years trying to squash the stupid crush that sprouted in high school, but it lingers like an old scar, refusing to fade. You hate how your heart skips whenever you see him, hate the way your palms grow clammy at the sound of his voice.

Because guys like Sukuna don’t notice girls like you.

The bell rings, slicing through the chaos of the hallway. You quicken your pace, weaving through the thinning crowd until you reach your finance class. It’s your sanctuary. Numbers make sense to you. Spreadsheets and formulas are puzzles you can solve, a language you speak fluently.

You settle into your usual seat—second row, third desk from the left—and arrange your notebook and pens in neat order. The classroom fills up slowly, the buzz of conversation a low hum in the background.

Dr. Aramaki strides in moments later, his presence commanding as he sets his leather briefcase on the desk. He’s a seasoned professor, his gray hair and sharp eyes giving him an air of authority. He launches into the lecture without preamble, writing “Investment Risk Management” on the board in neat, precise handwriting.

You’re already scribbling notes when the door creaks open.

“Sorry, prof. Practice ran late.”

The voice sends a jolt down your spine.

Ryomen Sukuna saunters in, his duffle bag slung lazily over one shoulder. His damp hair glints under the fluorescent lights, and the faint scent of cedar and mint wafts your way as he passes by.

Dr. Aramaki doesn’t even flinch. “Take a seat, Sukuna. And next time, try to be on time.”

Sukuna grins, unbothered, and scans the room. To your horror, his gaze lands on the empty desk behind you.

He sinks into the chair, the legs screeching against the tile. Your heart pounds as his presence settles behind you, a tangible weight.

You try to focus on the lecture, but every movement he makes—every creak of his chair, every muttered comment to the guy beside him—distracts you. You feel his eyes on the back of your head more than once, and it takes everything in you not to turn around.

Then, a light tap on your shoulder.

You freeze.

Slowly, you glance back. Sukuna is leaning forward, his notebook blank in front of him, a pen dangling loosely from his fingers. He flashes you a grin, all teeth and effortless charm.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “What page are we on?”

Your brain stutters. For a second, you forget how words work.

“Uh…” You clear your throat, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes are brighter up close, twin embers smoldering with something unreadable. “Page eighty-four.”

“Thanks.”

He smirks again, and you whip back around before he can say anything else, your cheeks burning.

The class feels like it’s dragging, and for once, your meticulous note-taking has been replaced by idle doodling. Your pen sketches swirling patterns along the edges of your notebook, a habit you’ve developed over the years to keep your nerves at bay.

Dr. Aramaki finishes a particularly dry explanation on risk assessment, then clears his throat, his voice cutting through the hum of the lecture hall.

“Alright, everyone. Listen up,” he says, taking a clipboard from his desk. “For this project, you’ll be working in pairs.”

Excited whispers ripple through the room as students glance around, already scouting for partners. Your shoulders relax slightly. People rarely rush to partner with you, so you’ve resigned yourself to whoever’s left.

“Don’t bother,” Dr. Aramaki announces, raising a hand to silence the room. “I’ve already assigned the pairs.”

The collective groan that follows is almost comedic.

You, however, are relieved. Group projects always devolve into awkward negotiations, and you’d rather avoid the hassle. At least this way, you can stay in your lane.

Dr. Aramaki begins reading off the list, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Gojo and Nanami.”

You hear Gojo’s delighted laugh and Nanami’s deep sigh of resignation. It doesn’t take a genius to guess how that partnership will go.

“Geto and Kawahara.”

The list continues, and you focus on your doodles, trying not to overthink. Whoever you’re paired with can’t possibly be worse than—

“Y/L/N and Sukuna.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You freeze, your pen hovering mid-air.

This can’t be happening.

“Keep in mind that this project is for the end of semester and it’s 80% of your grade.” Dr. Aramaki emphasized.

Your heart sinks as your mind scrambles for an explanation, a way out, something. But no. Dr. Aramaki has already moved on, and Sukuna, seated behind you, doesn’t even flinch.

The rest of class is a blur. You force yourself to act normal, though your hand trembles slightly as you scribble in your notebook. Doodles multiply along the margins, aimless swirls and stars filling every blank space.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of the lecture, you’re the first to start packing up. Your goal is simple: leave before Sukuna says anything.

But, of course, the universe isn’t that kind.

A light tap on your shoulder stops you in your tracks.

You turn to find Sukuna standing there, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. He looks you up and down, his gaze lingering a second too long, and then he says the words that make your brain short-circuit:

“Are you Y/L/N?”

Your jaw tightens. You stare at him, utterly dumbfounded.

How does he not know you? You’ve known him since middle school, sat in the same classrooms, attended the same schook events. It’s impossible to miss someone like Sukuna. Yet, here he is, looking at you like you’re a stranger.

“Yes,” you say flatly, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

“Cool.” He nods, completely unbothered. “Give me your number so we can figure this project out.”

The request is simple, but your brain struggles to process it. For a moment, you consider asking if he’s serious—if he really doesn’t recognize you—but you stop yourself. What’s the point?

Wordlessly, you pull out your phone, avoiding his gaze as you hand it over. His fingers brush against yours briefly as he takes it, and even that small contact sends a jolt through you.

Sukuna types in his number, then hands the phone back. “There. Just text me or whatever.”

“Okay,” you manage, still feeling like you’re caught in some bizarre dream.

“Thanks.” He slings his bag over his shoulder again, turning toward the door. “See you around or something.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The interaction lasts less than a minute, but it leaves your pulse racing like you’ve run a marathon. You glance down at your phone, where his name now sits in your contacts list, and something twists in your chest.

You tell yourself it’s just nerves, nothing more. He’s just your project partner.

But deep down, you know that’s a lie.

Sukuna stepped out of the classroom, his expression as unreadable as ever. The hall buzzed with activity, students heading to their next classes or hanging out by the lockers. His eyes landed on his teammates near the far end of the hallway, bickering as usual. He sighed, making his way over, already sensing trouble brewing.

He reached his locker, tossing his duffle bag inside, and glanced sideways at the chaos unfolding next to him. Nanami stood stiffly, his arms crossed like a parent scolding a child, while Gojo leaned casually against a locker, a picture of indifference.

“I’m telling you, Gojo,” Nanami says, his tone tight with frustration, “you need to step up and actually contribute this time. I’m not doing the entire project alone again.”

Gojo leans casually against the lockers, sipping a drink with an infuriating grin. “Relax, Nanami. I bring more to the table than you think.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Nanami snaps.

“Uh…” Gojo says as he thinks.

Nanami glares. “How about actual work?”

Nanami’s glare darkened, but before he could retort, Gojo glanced at his watch and straightened. “Oh, shoot! Gotta go! My Spanish exam starts in five minutes.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “You studied for it, right?”

“Si,” Gojo said confidently, giving him a thumbs-up.

Nanami sighed. “¿Eres idiota?”

Gojo paused, tilting his head in confusion. “Uh… biblioteca?”

Nanami groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sukuna chuckled under his breath. Gojo, completely unbothered, threw up a peace sign and sauntered down the hall, leaving chaos in his wake.

“God help him,” Nanami muttered, shaking his head.

Sukuna smirked. “What’s he even doing in Spanish class?”

“Who knows?” Nanami replied.

The two stood in silence for a moment before Nanami turned to Sukuna, his usual frown softening slightly. “So, who’d you get paired with for the project?”

“The nerd,” Sukuna said flatly, rummaging through his locker.

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “Y/L/N?”

Sukuna glanced at him, closing the locker door. “Yeah. You know her?”

Nanami stared at him like he’d asked if water was wet. “Seriously? She’s been in our classes since middle school.”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Don’t remember.”

Nanami shook his head. “Of course, you don’t.”

Sukuna leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. “What’s the deal with her? She some kind of overachiever or something?”

Nanami rolled his eyes. “That’s an understatement. She’s the reason the grading curve exists. You’re lucky to have her as a partner. She’s a workhorse. Unlike me, who’s stuck with…” He grimaced. “…someone who thinks ‘Google Docs’ is a streaming service.”

Sukuna chuckled. “Tough break.”

“Tell me about it.” Nanami smirked faintly before glancing at Sukuna. “You wanna switch?”

Before Sukuna could respond, a voice cut in, sharp and amused. “Switch? Nah, Sukuna’s not switching.”

The two turned to see Mahito sauntering up, his signature grin plastered on his face. Behind him was Jogo, his presence as calm and collected as Mahito’s was chaotic.

Mahito leaned lazily against the lockers, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Sukuna doesn’t need to switch. He’s got a system, right?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “What system?”

“You know,” Mahito said, smirking wider. “Your whole thing. Flirt with your group partner, flash that charming smile, get into her pants, and voilà—she does all the work for you.”

Nanami sighed heavily, his disapproval radiating off him. “Doubt is working with this one.”

Mahito turned to him, mock surprise on his face. “Why not? It’s worked on every other girl.”

“Because she’s different,” Nanami replied simply.

“Different?” Sukuna repeated, his voice sharp with irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nanami met his gaze steadily. “It means she actually takes her work seriously. She’s strict, focused, and won’t put up with your nonsense. And, quite frankly, you’re not on the same level… socially.”

The words hit like a bomb.

“Damn, Nanami!” Mahito howled, clutching his stomach. “Straight for the throat!”

Jogo chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

“Not on the same level?” one of the other guys echoed mockingly.

“Different social levels! Down bad, Sukuna!”

“Boo! Sukuna, you’re slipping!”

Sukuna clenched his jaw, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. His glare swept over the group, but Mahito wasn’t done yet.

“You know what?” Mahito said, his grin turning cruel. “I bet you won’t even make it through the project without her tearing you a new one. Forget hooking up with her. She’s out of your league.”

Jogo smirked, arms crossed. “I’ll take that bet. $100 says he can’t.”

The hallway erupted in laughter and jeers as Sukuna’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Shut up,” he snapped, slamming his locker shut with a little more force than necessary.

Jogo raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “What’s the matter, Sukuna? Afraid you can’t pull it off?”

Sukuna turned to him, his smirk dark and sharp. “Fine. You’re on. But when I win, I don’t want excuses.”

Nanami groaned audibly. “This is a terrible idea.”

“An amazing idea,” Mahito corrected, grinning from ear to ear.

As Mahito finished his jab, his laughter echoing in the hallway, the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat cut through the noise. The group turned as one to see Geto standing there, his imposing figure leaning casually against the wall. His dark eyes swept over them, calm yet commanding.

“What’s going on?” Geto asked, his tone even but edged with authority. His confusion was evident, though his calm demeanor gave nothing away.

The air shifted immediately. The teasing and laughter died down as everyone averted their gaze, falling into an awkward silence. No one dared to speak up, suddenly reminded of their captain’s presence.

Nanami, who seemed completely over the entire ordeal, sighed heavily. “They’re children,” he said flatly, brushing past Geto without so much as a second glance. “I have better things to do.” With that, he strode off toward his next class, leaving the rest of the group frozen.

Geto tilted his head slightly, watching Nanami’s retreating figure before turning his attention back to the remaining guys.

Mahito gave a half-hearted shrug, but even he didn’t have the nerve to add anything under Geto’s scrutiny.

Geto straightened up and addressed the group. “Practice is at 7 p.m. sharp. No excuses. Don’t make me hunt any of you down.” His gaze lingered on Mahito and a couple of others, making them shuffle uncomfortably.

Finally, his attention landed squarely on Sukuna. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he stepped closer, his presence radiating authority. “And you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “don’t be late. Last time was strike one. You’re not getting a strike two.”

He didn’t wait for Sukuna to respond, deliberately brushing his shoulder against Sukuna’s as he passed by.

Sukuna stood still for a moment, his jaw tightening as he watched Geto walk away. The guys around him stayed quiet, their eyes darting between Sukuna and the captain. Sukuna could feel the tension lingering in the air, but he refused to let it show.

“Who does he think he is?” Sukuna muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Mahito smirked, but the others stayed silent, knowing better than to stoke Sukuna’s temper further.

Sukuna’s fingers curled into fists for a moment before he relaxed, shoving his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t wait for the day he became captain—when he’d finally put Geto in his place.

“Practice at seven,” Geto’s voice echoed from down the hall, as if to punctuate the moment.

Sukuna scoffed, slamming his locker a clang.

[osamucide]

crush

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3.5k

cw: gn!afab!reader, bathing/washing, alcohol, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced substance abuse, post-dark era, intimacy, explicit sexual content, spitting, soft (ooc?) dazai

reid: this has been sitting a bit and i finally got around to fixing it up :,) sorry again for my absence i am unwell but surviving and i hope to keep sharing with you guys what i can. thank you for all your patience

. . .

He’s never admitted how much he delights in crawling back to your apartment after he’s been gone for too long — long enough to make you worry a little. It’s cruel of him, really, to keep you waiting around so much. But you’re going to be here waiting anyway! So, he figures, why not? It’s a few miles off Port Mafia turf, and you always have hot food and plenty of sake. Not to mention that your hands were the first to ever hold him so gently — to hold him like a lover — and that’s plenty to keep him coming, even if he sometimes takes weeks at a time to find his way back.

It’s always worth it to have Osamu half undressed in your bathroom. A decent meal and the humidity fogging up the tile walls usually melts his resolve just enough so you can work his crumpled white tee off without him sending you any sort of eyes; tonight though, the human spirit is unbreakable. You brush the small of his back as you lift his shirt and it has him hitching his hips toward yours.

He’s truly a sight.

His brown mop is greasy. Accumulated sweat is beginning to force the dramatic lengths of bandages to curl away from his skin. He looks little more than empty and tired, but there’s a shadow of contentedness in his sharp features — you’ve just fed him seafood boil and a couple of Tokyo Mules (heavy on the American vodka), after all.

You reach down and dip your fingers in the filling basin; scalding, how he likes it.

“Drawers off, please.” You poke his chest with a damp finger pad and disappear into the hallway in pursuit of linens.

Dazai sits naked (save for bandages) and curled in on himself on the edge of the bathtub when you return. You stack a change of clean clothes on the sink, and his ankles knock together as he waits for your attention to fall back on him. Your towels sling over the door before you turn to him with your hands tucked together. He looks uncharacteristically meek, not unlike a fawn before it first walks -– the way he only ever does before what happens next.

He holds his arms out, wrists up, and smiles like the sunshine.

You smile back uneasily, appearing much less enthused than he; you know that sunshine smile well enough to know it only ever comes out as a shield. You know no matter how many times you unwrap his dressings, he's always going to hate it.

So, you start with the butterfly clip secured at the crook of his elbow, and you talk.

"I have a slice of tiramisu in the fridge for after."

"From that place I like?" His eyes get wide.

"From that place you like," you sigh, grinning.

"You must've had a feeling I was dropping by."

You usually encourage him to reuse the strips of fabric when possible, sometimes going so far as to let him hide from the city while you take them to the laundromat with your own clothes, but these ones are far past help —barely white, significantly bloody in spots and dirtied in others, so you just ball them up and toss them in the trash. You're stocked anyway, and you reassure him of this by retrieving a few fresh rolls from under the sink.

"Maybe I did."

You finish one arm and move to the other. Osamu lets his marred, bare skin dangle in the air. The sunshine is gone. He’s zoned out. You know he’s protecting himself.

You push his hand down to rest in his lap and your mind selfishly drifts to later, where you hope he'll sleep without his bandages, too — he had traipsed into your apartment lined up to his fingers, and all you had wished for was that you could’ve felt his palms, his knuckles, his nails when he hugged you back. You take as much of him in as you can in these kinds of moments; it’s just the kind of person you are. Damaged or not, his skin is your favorite place to be. You’ve told him this, but it seems to come across much clearer when you look into his sad brown eyes like they’re the only ones in the world while your fingers trace the tracks across his thighs like they’re no one’s in particular.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

It’s so well received this time around that Osamu sinks into the water with barely a shred of apprehension. Granted, he’s still a bit glazed over.

He really snaps to once his shoulders are beneath the water and you’re lathering shampoo — the coconutty one — between your hands.

He speaks your name with an earnest that’s almost mocking. “What are you doing?” But he knows what you’re doing, or what you’re not doing, rather, and he’s not going to let you get away with it.

“What?” Your hands are sudsy and he has the audacity to be yanking at your shirt now. You bat him away as well as you can, flinging some bubbles at him in the process. “What?”

His bottom lip pokes out as his wet hands find purchase around your wrists. Dazai has manipulated a lot of people with nothing but the look in his eye, but it’s never this one; this specific look is reserved for you, and he figures it’s hardly manipulation if he knows you’d enjoy it too. “Get in with me,” he whines, drawing out his ‘e.’

You grumble something about your soapy hands, something about not wasting a perfectly fine handful of your good shampoo, but it just allows him to insist even more on helping you out of your clothes. You sigh, but really, it’s these silly idiosyncrasies about him that make you cry when he’s gone. So, you indulge him. You commence an awkward and wiggly dance in which his fingers stretch your sleeves over your hands with care. You kick your pants off and shimmy out of your undergarments, feigning annoyance as you give into his whims so easily.

The bath is still nearly boiling. You make peace with it by hissing hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (he chuckles at you) until either of your knees are nestled underwater on either side of him. You rub your shampoo hands together and — now that Osamu’s gotten his way for one of many times tonight, for the millionth time ever, never for the last time — he graciously lets you wash his hair.

You inhale all the little hums and sighs he gives you. He tastes like every emotion you’ve ever felt. Heaven is a bathtub in a crummy apartment.

“You smell much better. Let’s rinse.” You go to push yourself up after you’re finished with him, but Osamu grips you unceremoniously and by both of your ass cheeks, so you look sternly into his face.

“Wait, wait, wait, just—” he pleads.

You flick water at his eyes. “We’re wading in your filth, thank you. Get up.”

“Just a second, damn it.” He clutches you closer, hands clasped behind your back, and you settle with shattered resistance against his chest. He mumbles something about who you think you are, telling me what to do.

Not that you try all that hard with him anymore; you both know well he’ll get what he wants, and right now he’s intent on holding you in the cooling water, so you loop your arms around his neck, unable to help the kiss you press to the side of his jaw or the stifled roll of your hips against his.

He’s silent for a moment as he traces the expanse of your back. You hope his eyes are closed. You know they’re probably not.

“Thank you.”

It’s something Osamu says quite a bit. He doesn’t get terribly sentimental often, but it’s usually after you’ve rid him of those wrappings that he comes close. Although, he never says exactly what for. For bathing him. For feeding him. For loving him. You understand well enough.

He’s still a little shit. He squeezes your ass and bites the shell of your ear.

“That’s it,” you yelp. “We’re rinsing.”

His laugh is whole as you pull the drain and start the shower, dodging your (mostly) dry hair.

The promise of dessert lets you get him into a pair of shorts at the very least. Once again you return to him — you wait on him like he’s a prince, and he looks like one on your bed with the blankets pooled around him as he towel dries his hair.

It’s so unfair, you think, how angelic he gets to be no matter what he’s doing. It’s something so mundane; his scars are on display, he’s tipsy and damp and has your plush cat-printed blanket acting somewhat like a cape, yet he steals your breath as you enter your bedroom. To top it all off, he pretends not to notice your presence right away.

You fold your legs beneath yourself, unfinished bottle of sake in one hand, delicate plate of tiramisu in the other, and Osamu finally acknowledges you with owlish eyes, raised brows, and a grin that reprograms the pattern of your heartbeat. He tosses the towel aside, eager, and reaches out.

“This—” his mouth is full, “this shit is…God. Heavenly.”

“Share.”

“Should’ve brought two forks.” He makes a show of lifting the plate out of your reach. You grasp at it lazily, uselessly, and he laughs, taunting you. You’re tired so you hoard the sake in response, which he’s fine with only until the tiramisu is gone — you only got two bites in — and he goes for that as well.

“Greedy!” you accuse, but you can’t help your laugh. You’re warm — the few swigs from the bottle are doing their job, and you let Osamu know this by giving in; you steady his head with one hand, and with your other you press the bottle to his lips and tilt it up. He drinks like it’s cider, and comes up for air with a soft curse.

The way he licks it off his lips wants to draw a gasp out of you, but you’re trained like a skilled gunman when he gives you targets like these — you’ve built up trigger discipline, and there are some things, you suppose, that you don’t let him have so easily after all.

Nonetheless, it’s like Osamu reads this mechanism working in your mind and takes it as a challenge. The bottle is transferred from your hands to his somewhere in the searing kiss he gives you; you fully register a hunger buzzing between you both that has nothing to do with tiramisu as you reach out for him, fumble toward him until you’re in his lap — you almost overwhelm his lithe frame with your tenacity, but he catches you, bottle tapping your back as you engulf each other.

Osamu is sneaky, he is; he never executes even the smallest action without meticulous thought. The way you end up under him might’ve been planned out from the bath, or maybe even before he was on your doorstep — either way, you give way to his weight; the bottle’s in one hand, somehow your wrists are in the other, and his waist connects with yours.

If nothing else predicts what you say next, it’s his restless hand clutching your hip, pulling at your shirt, clawing up your side.

“Missed you,” you slip into his mouth. You’ve already said this over dinner, but it’s different, heavier, when you’re breathing him in. Osamu lifts away from you for a kiss from the bottle. In brief control again, you wring your hands.

He’s statuesque above you. You wish you could snapshot the seconds in which he tilts the bottle back, where his drying hair falls in those loose waves around his angled jaw and his eyelids flicker. You reach out to trace him. His severe collarbone to his lean shoulder, down the thin valley between his bicep and tricep. You ghost around the fingers suspended in midair and bridge the gap to end on his pretty waist.

The bottle disappears onto your nightstand. Your eyes are wide as he grips your chin. He holds his breath, plants an elbow by your head, thumbs your bottom lip — all a means to waterfall the sake into your open, waiting mouth.

Liquor drips off him, into you; how are you supposed to keep from the way your legs demand his hips toward yours? The way you grind into him from below? You’re a live wire and he’s fraying the hell out of everywhere you end and begin.

You swallow what he gives you before he pulls back. You’re breathless, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing. This is what he does — he gets you under him and he laughs, so beautifully that you can hardly be mad, and sultrily enough that you flush pink.

“You should see your face!” he exclaims. Osamu is truthfully at his most joyous when he’s catching you off guard. “Little too filthy for ‘ya?”

“Please,” you scoff, willing him toward you again as you recover, more from the sting in the back of your throat than anything, pressing all your love into each of his mangled wrists with your palms and fingers. “As if that’s the filthiest thing we’ve done.”

“Jog my memory,” he suggests as he puts his smile back to yours, and so you work him out of the shorts you just got him in less than ten minutes ago.

As for yourself, well — you’re only naked from the waist down before you’re working your own slick up and down on him, biting your lip with anticipation, all but pulling him into you. You don’t even care if it hurts, and you almost say it, but you don’t — everything you’re doing is saying it for you — you just want him in you right now, right now, and he touches you between the gasps you draw from him; he watches the way he slides into you like you’re meant for him, like he’s meant for you, and you dig your heels into him as you whisper his name.

“Baby,” he whispers back. Those sad brown eyes flicker, shut, open, find you. “Oh.”

He rocks into you softly, such a contrast from the urgency with which he was kissing you mere moments before. Osamu’s a natural at giving you whiplash, sometimes in ways you didn’t know him to be capable of. He’s concentrated; you watch him, the slightest bit confused as his lips purse shut. You want to hear him, he knows, but it’s all welling up within him, he can feel it on his lash line, so he tucks his face into your neck and hopes you won’t say anything. You don’t, not for bit. You just circle your arms around his neck and groan at the way he grips you, feels you all over; you clench around him and pretend you don’t feel the tears beading along your shoulder.

“Too filthy for you?” you finally tease, but gently; you cup his face in your hands, push his hair from his forehead, and kiss the wetness away. He half-laughs, half-sobs. He obviously wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, ‘samu. Honey.”

“Don’t know what the fuck’s going on.” It’s his way of apologizing. He sniffles and follows it with an explanation. “You feel so good.”

You know they’re not tears of pleasure, but you let him write it off as he fucks into you. “You- uhn- you feel so good,” you echo.

It’s not unusual for him to be vocal — he moans, he gasps, he gives you delicious noises to make up for the words he can’t ever find, but tonight is so different; you don’t know what it is, but he talks. He’s talking, and it’s not the lewd musings you expect from Osamu Dazai, much less while he curls his hands into your hair and begins to pound into you. Yes, it’s much different tonight.

“Missed you too,” he finally gives you. “Missed you. So fucking much- fuck- I’m- oh, fuck…”

“Stop leaving,” you say breathlessly. “Stop leaving me. Just move in.”

“Shit, I might.” His hair is your lifeline. You knot your fingers in it like you hope you become part of it. “Might just have to come home to this every day. Y’take such good care of me. Don’t know wh- hah- what I did to deserve this pussy.”

“Please, please, Osamu.” You’re begging for more than one thing. “Fucking stay.”

So he keeps his pace, staying in one way or another — at least he can say he’s done that much. Whether or not you’ll wake up next to him tomorrow morning doesn’t matter right now; right now he’s fucking you, right now he’s yours, right now he’s ripping himself open a little further to let you see his rotten soul and you’re giving him everything he could never ask for, everything he doesn’t think he deserves — it’ll be enough, you’re sure, even though it’ll hurt when he disappears again; at least you’ll know you opened up in return, reflected his rottenness in the way that you know how. You’ve made a place for him in your home. You’ve made a place for him in your heart. He knows you want him to take it. Take it.

“So pretty, my baby, takin’ it so good.” He looks at you with those wet eyes between pressing bruising kisses to your lips, chin, neck. “Y’feel like fucking heaven. God, fuck. Don’t know if I- don’t know if I deserve it. So fucking good. So good. So good.”

“You d- you don’t have to do anything to deserve it- just fucking stay, please,” you plead with him. You’ll plead with him until he understands. “Oh- Osamu- ah!”

Your hands flail for a resting place — his head is restless with his kisses, his calloused hands and ridged arms are moving too fast for you to keep up with, the expanse of his back isn’t nearly close enough amid his wild pace, so you claw into the peaks of his shoulders and give all your sound and breath back to him while he rains praise upon you. He’s almost frantic in his task, like he needs you to know.

“Need you to know how much I love comin’ back here.” Osamu grabs one of your hands and guides you to your clit. “Touch yourself, please- please- want you cummin’ on me, baby, give it to me. Please.”

He pleads with you until you do.

You’re well aware that everything you can give him might not be enough to convince him. Convince him he’s not rotten. Convince him he does deserve it. Convince him he’s worthy of love. You know the best thing you can do for him right now is rub yourself quick and hard in time with his heavy thrusts. You keep giving him what he needs — you give him all your moans, grunts, curses, and he reflects them right back — you match each other, sobbing, twitching, biting, heaving until the wave rolls over you and you’re collecting him, throbbing around him and telling him it’s all for him, he’s so perfect, don’t stop, it feels so good while he spills into you, fills you up in that familiar way you don’t think you want to live without for weeks at a time anymore. Osamu’s tense as he drags both of your climaxes out for as long as he can; you’re crooning out his name and Osamu’s panting out yours and he’s so beautiful as he cums, he’s so beautiful while he cries, he’s so beautiful when he’s raw and selfish and fucked out of his brain, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful.

“So afraid to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles into your cheek minutes later, half-asleep and tipsy and still pulsing inside you. “You don’t deserve my shit. Get caught up in my shit.”

You don’t care about his shit, is what you tell him in return. You want him. You want to show him all the wonderful things he does in fact deserve.

Like the picturesque breakfast you cook him after you do wake up next to him in the morning. Like the tender way you rewrap his dressings as the afternoon sun gleams in white columns through your window. Like the first day he spends completely sober and well-fed in a long time.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” All this, he means. You, and how wonderful you are. He says it again and again.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve it.” You secure the butterfly clip in the crook of his elbow and meet his eyes. Far off. Waning sunshine. “Wanna give it to you anyway.”

For a moment the sunshine returns, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, you see it reach his eyes. They don’t look so sad. Big, brown, maybe hopeful. Maybe sweet with preemptive regret. You hug Osamu in the still air of your apartment.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He hugs you back, limply, like he’s scared to break you. He trembles out, “I will.”

[the-winter-spider]

Good Guy | S.H

Word count: 1k

Warnings: None? Angst?

A/N: Yall i havent posted in ages, im still very much active reading everyone elses writings buuut im deciding to go thru and post everything i have in my docs, maybe finally fix my master list 💀🤭 we’ll see! Enjoy

—

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your legs dangling over as you turned to look over your shoulder at him snoring peacefully while you were holding your breath trying to savour this moment before the reality of what happened last night crushed you.

You knew what it was, it was ‘the world is most likely ending and the girl ive been in love with since high school still doesn’t love me back’ sex. Because there was no logical way Steve had feelings for you of any sort that would make him want to tear your clothes off and litter your bruised and scarred body with such tender kisses, whispering the sweetest of words in your ear, then proceed to hold you in his arms while he falls asleep.

There was no way in any world upside right or down that it was anything more than that.

You sighed, finally pushing yourself off the bed, tip-toeing around his room to gather the pieces of your clothing, ushering as quickly and quietly to his bathroom as you could. You wanted to avoid the mirror so bad, you were disgusted with yourself, not for sleeping with him, no but for letting your self think for a mere second that it was anything but sex to him. In all honesty it was probably just an itch he wanted to scratch, you were probably just a flavour of ice cream he was lingering on for a while something no one else in their right mind would pick but once you’ve tried all the other flavours you were the only one left.

Pathetic. That's all you were, you slipped off his boxers letting your tears hit the ground with them. The cotton fabric catches your salty waters as they hit the tile.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid” you whispered to yourself pulling on own clothes, before sliding out of his room and house.

The morning spring air hit you refreshingly as you closed your eyes, stopping to gather your thoughts for a brief moment, steadying yourself and the whirlwind of emotions going through your head.

You knew you had to hurry home and change to be ready to meet at the Wheeler's house for 9:00am sharp to discuss your next moves with Vecna, and arriving with Steve while you were still in yesterday’s clothes would raise suspicion, questions and leave you open for friendly banter and teasing but more importantly you didnt wanna still be at Steve’s house when he woke up, you couldn't handle seeing the pure regret in his eyes, the shame that would be radiating off of him, surely that would be your tipping point.

You looked at your watch, 9:00AM “Shit” you mumbled, downing the rest of your coffee like it was a shot at a party, you quickly tied the laces on your converse before running across the street to the Wheelers.

You let out a huff of hair, running your hand through your hair before knocking, the door whipped open revealing Robin “Oh! I'm so glad to see you” She grabbed your arm, yanking you inside, “We've been here all but maybe 10 minutes and everyone is already arguing” She threw her hands up “Can you believe that? it's too early for this!” You reached the door to the basement as Robin loudly started troting down “Y/n is finally here!”

You reached the bottom of the stairs giving a small wave and smile looking everywhere but the brown haired boy in the corner whose eyes you could feel piercing into you “Hi” your voice quiet before manurving your way to the side, far away from Steve.

You were sitting legs crossed on the wheelers couch, you could hear a buzzing surrounding you, squeezing your eyes shut, rubbing your temples you weren’t sure if at this point if it was the headache you’ve been nursing for a few days, the lack of sleep, or all the tears you cried this morning in Steve’s bathroom. All the voices of your friends overlapping one another mushing into a single sound.

tick, tick, tick, tick

“So we now know Max is one of Vecna’s targets, we just have to.…” Nancy spoke her voice trailing off as you tuned it out. Their chatter immersed into one inconvenient noise to you, the pounding in your head overpowering the conversation no one cared that you weren't taking part in. Even though you have always been more of a listener, never giving suggestions because someone always had a better one. You were just here to do as you were told and make sure no one else got hurt because they all had families, parents, people who loved them, you didn’t. And if one of your dumb ideas led to the possibility of one of them getting hurt or worse ending up dead, you would never be able to forgive yourself, so you stayed out of it.

You found picking at your pant leg was a better distraction, wasting all the energy you had on making the hole in your pants bigger than it already was, revealing a scar on your knee that you obtained last year running from russians, when for a brief moment the buzzing stopped and your sense zeroed in on the trickling cool wetness you felt on your upper lip and your eyes growing wide as you watched a single droplet of blood land on your jeans.

You moved your hand to catch the rest of the droplets when you looked up your eyes met Max’s, her eyebrows raised in shock before they softened as she watched a tear run down your cheek “Guys” she spoke, her voice could barely be heard over Steve arguing with Nancy that he didn’t want to be a babysitter anymore “GUYS!” she screamed even louder as all eyes turned to her

Steve and Nancy both turned their heads to her yelling “What?!”

Max lifted up her hand, directing her finger to point directly at you, suddenly one by one all pairs of eyes turned to you

“Holy shit” Dustin muttered “Holy shit!” He got louder as he pieced it together.

“No” Steve froze “No, no, no” He was panicking suddenly the room felt heavy, the air was leaving his lungs as he watched blood dripping from your nose.

[cillians-sweetheart]

How to Calm a Man - Robert Capa

Capa!Patient(29) x Fem!Psychologist!Reader(25)

Plot: (kind of a silly plot and beginning but trust it’s good) On the Icarus II ship, physicist Robert Capa meets the Gardner and psychologist aboard and can’t resist her ‘man calming’ treatment.

Content: smut, handjob (m), riding, therapy sex, slight teasing, cream-pie, unprotected pv, oral (f), face riding, semi public setting

Aboard the Icarus II, I join the group of the ‘real’ scientists as they say while they discuss a new radiation detection device currently being manufactured. I sit next to a long haired man in a tank top at the back of the room. He was the physicist, the one who created this idea for a radiation detector.

His head turned to me as I sat next to him in my tight, colourful, tank top and yoga pants. Though I hadn’t been looking straight at him, I could feel his eyes glaring to the side of my face.

“I don’t believe we've been properly introduced yet.” I turned to him, breaking the awkwardness of his stare. “Dr Y/L/N.” I grinned warmly, holding my hand out to him. He took my hand in his and shook it lightly.

“Capa, Robert Capa.” He replied shyly, “You’re positioned in the greenhouse.” He nodded, taking recognition of me. His flashing blue eyes analyzed my every feature.

“Yes I am a horticulturist, but I also have a degree and work in psychology.”

Capa leaned back slightly, intrigued by what I had said. “I wouldn’t have expected to see a psychologist working on a space mission.”

“It’s quite common that being so distanced from civilization can cause astronauts to grow severely unwell, mentally. Specifically, most suffer with anxiety and isolation caused depression, which as you probably know can cause difficulty in completing the mission.” I smiled and chuckled as I explained the best I could my reasoning for being on this mission.

“I suppose you’ve met the majority of the crew then.” He smiled while he fidgeted with his hands. “All of these intelligently complicated minds putting together one of the most important humanity saving missions sure can cause some to lose their minds.”

“Oh yeah,” I chuckled. “If you ever wanted to stop by and do some yoga, just let me know.” I winked. “Just kidding, I know guys like you probably wouldn’t be into that.”

“Can’t say I am.” He laughed along and shrugged.

“Well it’s more used in calming women… but do you know the best way to calm a man down?” I leaned closer to his anxious, handsome face, and my voice turned seductive, sounding like silk through his ears.

Capa paused, staring deep into my eyes. He regained his composure and the rest of the crew began to part to their stations, leaving us alone as last. “I’m not sure I do,” He grinned awkwardly. “How?”

“Well you don’t seem necessarily stressed.” I tiled my head, making him want to beg for the answer.

He chuckled and his expression turned to amusement as he played along. He couldn’t help but be drawn in by me, and my power. “Are you offering to fix that for me?”

“If you were stressed, yes.”

Capa smirked and leaned back against the cushion. His tone is still teasing through my game with his sarcasm. “Is that so?... Well I suppose I am feeling a bit stressed. Now that you mention it.”

I giggled and moved myself closer next to him. My hand slowly rubbed up his thigh to the center of his lap. I looked into his eyes as his cheeks went red and his breath got caught in his throat. The look in his eyes became serious, and lustful.

I looked over my shoulder around the empty area, then grabbed his hand in mine and stood from the sofa. “I’d like to see you in my office, Mr Capa.” I winked and pulled his tall, lanky body off the sofa.

Capa followed behind me, his mind going out of sorts and his eyes moving quickly up and down the backside of my body. He felt a sudden eagerness for what it was that I had planned. What it was that truly calmed a man.

Walking through the narrow halls I brought Capa to my bedroom, which was also my office where I would ease these poor, stressed men on ship. In my room I locked the door and continued to drag him to my bed, pushing him down onto the colourful, mandela patterned duvet.

He stared up at me while I crawled over his slim body. My hand returned to message the bulge beneath his track pants. His breath hitched and his body began to slowly loosen from my gentle touch. The suddenness of it all caused his mind to fog up with nothing but mindless pleasure, and need.

“So… what is it that’s making you so stressed?” I said mockingly as I continued to gently rub him.

He inhaled deeply, a silent whimper escaping his lips as I squeezed the tightening fabric beneath my hand. “I think you know what’s making me tense.” His voice was sarcastic and seductive.

“For sure something is tense.” I winked feeling the hardness of his cock in my hand, lightly stroking it through the fabric.

Capa blushed at my words and his body quivered slightly under my touch. He struggled to keep his voice and breath even with the growing pleasure I caused him. “Maybe you should do something about that then.” He groaned.

“That's my job.” My hand traveled up under his tank top to the hem of his pants. “How else would I heal these men here?” I smirked.

He swallowed hard, “That’s your speciality? Taking care of the physical ailment of your patients?”

“It heals both mental and physical health as it is a full body release.” My fingers glazed his bare, hot skin. “Also known as the best way to calm a man.” I wrapped my smooth hand around his pulsing, hard cock. Capa’s eyes closed and he inhaled deeply. I -while taking his cock from his pants- moved to straddle him.

I stared into his eyes while I stroked him with a therapeutic touch. The sight in my hands, and the length of his cock was the biggest -longest- compared to the other men aboard. It excited me in a way no other man has.

“Does this seem to be an effective treatment, or is there still more that you need?” I asked hoping he’d let me take this further, or even deeper by chance.

He stifled a groan and just barely opened his eyes to look up at me on his thighs. His eyes holding a look of need and lust “There's definitely… more I need.” He panted through a moan.

“Good…” I purred. And with the room dimly rit, I lifted the tight tank top over my head. My breasts falling out and bouncing against my chest. Suddenly his eyes were now wide open, scanning down my body as I began to strip down my pants. Revealing no bra, and no panties underneath.

His eyes roamed from between my legs to my breasts, to every curve and contour of my body above him. I stroked him faster while moving my hips up closer. Close enough I could rub his cock with my soft, wet pussy. The touch made him twitch and groan with arousal. His eyes became unable to look away.

Slowly lifting my hips while holding eye contact, I sat my pussy down onto his thick cock. He groaned as my soft, hot flesh wrapped around him tightly. His needy cock bucked up into me, and his hands grasped around my plushy hips.

My hands lifted beneath his shirt as I felt his sweaty, slim torso and chest. My tight walls squeezed against him the further my hands lifted. I kept lifting his shirt until it was fully over his head and thrown to the floor.

Capa’s eyes closed tightly and his body arched desperately into me. He tried, and struggled to hold that little bit of control he still had.

“Does that feel good?” I bit my lip and began to slowly grind and twirl my hips around his throbbing cock. He became overwhelmed by the slow pace, and could hardly speak through his soft groans.

“Mhm…” Was all he was able to moan out.

As my wet arousal began to spread over his length, my speed increased and I jumped hungrily down onto him. His groans grew louder as I rode him and clenched my walls around his needy cock. Both of our breaths came out as heavy gasps and moans. His cock hit everywheres I needed and wanted it to. My insides twisted and ached with pleasure.

Luckily with the thick, steel, sound proof walls, I could scream for him and slap my pussy against his cock as hard as I wanted.

Capa eyes stayed glued at the sight between us. He became completely immersed in the moment. His twitching became more frequent, as did his low groans. Instinctively, his hips began to buck up into mine. The double amount of force made both of us incredibly close.

I rode harder and bit my lip, “Mh, you feel so good.” I moaned.

Capa gasped and groaned, his cock twitching and beating inside of me. Hot cum shot up deep inside me. I too felt as though I were going to cum and continued to fuck his cock. Tremors shook through his body. The sensitivity made him whimper and shake as he still continued to cum all the way until I did.

His breath was laboured and ragged as I finally began to slow down. Both his and I’s cum dripping heavily from between my thighs. But I didn’t move, nor did I get off yet.

I hadn’t said anything but leaned down towards him, pulling his face into a rough kiss. He immediately sank into it and his body reacted eagerly to my silky lips. His sweet moans filled my mouth before he paused and pulled back to say, “I want you sitting on my face…” With the most sexy, low voice.

I giggled and my expression turned to pure excitement. There's nothing I wanted more than to rub my pussy on his beautiful face. “Is that a yes?” He smirked.

“If it helps my patient.” I winked and sat up away from his face.

“It will help me a lot.”

Instantly I moved myself to have my thighs either side of his head. His hands came eagerly around my thighs, pulling my soaked pussy down to his lips. He closed his eyes and flicked his tongue hungrily over my clit. I shivered and whimpered over him, my hands latching onto his hair. His tongue never slowed. He licked and sucked as if he were a pro.

He held my hips tightly, being sure I wouldn’t move until I came on his tongue. I desperately -the best I could- tried to grind against his face as my insides began to tighten. Capa hadn’t even been thinking of anything but the taste of my sopping pussy on his lips. A taste he’d continue to crave.

I looked down at his beautiful face, seeing him lick me so perfectly made everything come out all at once. I shook profusely against his face. Screaming and moaning, I came like I’ve never had on his lips and tongue. He groaned deeply against me as he continued to lick me all the way through my orgasm.

His eyes glared up at me with satisfaction, and perfection. With the look on his face alone I knew he’d be getting stressed a lot more often. And with a cock -long and thick- like his, so would I.

[aezuria]

uptown girl!

"she's been living in her uptown world, i bet she's never had a backstreet guy" —billy joel

content: mortal au!leo valdez x reader

╰┈▸ info: stuck-up reader (she gets character development later), cursing, reader is ~18, early 2000s core

notes: stella finally posted a fic !? (pls tell me if u enjoy i need validation 😔)

this has got to be the worst way to start summer ever. first, your morning was ruined by a bird shitting all over your car window—not a mess you had the time nor the patience to clean. then, on your way to pick up your friends for some much needed girl time, your car had the fun idea of breaking down. great. it left you on the side of the road, dialing up your father. which, when you think about it, really wasn't your fault! your precious ride just spontaneously combusted or something. nothing to do with the fact that you've crashed the front about seven times since january. after all, you'd gotten them fixed! it should be the mechanic's fault. or maybe, this car was cursed!

but of course, your dad just had to disagree. apparently it was his "last straw."

you winced away from the phone's speaker as his voice burst through. "you have been so ungrateful lately! when you asked for that car, i bought it for you! i looked over the fact that you don't even have your license yet! all i asked was for you to take care of your things!" he cried. from the tone of his voice, you could imagine the creases dug into his forehead. okay, now you felt bad. just a little.

before you could apologize, he finished with, "you just wait until i get there, young lady."

leave it to him to take away your guiltiness.

"dad!" you watched in horror as the truck towed your sleek red baby to god knows where. you turned your stricken expression on him, hoping to elicit at least a little bit of sympathy. but it seemed like his mind was made up on this one. dammit.

he crossed his arms sternly, putting his foot down. "let's go. we'll talk more in the house."

"-so you want to ship me away to some place crawling with bugs and creeps for the rest of the summer!?" you screeched along with the chair as its legs slid across the kitchen's tile floor.

your dad raised his hand in a placating gesture. "now, now, just until your car is fixed. it might not even be a whole month." he shrugged. yeah, real comforting. "and the city's a nice place. we lived there when you were young, remember?"

"no, i don't remember." you snapped. you did remember, but that brought on memories you'd rather not have right now.

he sucked in a breath. "alright then. it won't be so bad. we still have that apartment, and i got it cleaned up recently. it'll teach you some responsibility and independence." he nodded, satisfied with his decision.

you opened your mouth to snark at him again, but he continued, "and you won't be completely alone. there's a nice young man who will be fixing up your car, just down the street from the apartment building. i asked him to show you around when he has the time. and you'll have your phone, so make sure to call me, okay?" his strict behavior gave way to the soft spot you knew he had for you.

"...okay," you agreed reluctantly. once he really made up his mind about something, there was no changing it, so there was no use in arguing.

he smiled, patting your shoulder gently. "great. now pack your bags."

"be sure to buy groceries, and do the laundry, and clean every so often-" your father rambled on and on. if he was this worried, why wouldn't he just not go through with it? and why was he acting like you couldn't do basic chores!? it's not like you ever did them, but they couldn't be too hard, right?

"i get it dad." you rolled your eyes, staring out the car window. the buildings were all drab, painted in browns and grays, without a single bright color in sight, save for the red stop signs.

he pulled into an empty parking spot in front of the building. your insides recoiled. you swore it didn't look this... dilapidated all those years ago. or maybe you just had better taste now.

"we're here! looks like it's got a lot of.. character." he tried to cheer you up, but even you could tell he didn't think to check how it looked. it would've hurt too much to do so.

your lip scrunched in distaste. "i can't spend a single second in there."

"don't worry, it'll be over before you know it." with one last reassuring smile, he turned and left.

the apartment itself wasn't too bad, it was all cleaned up, just as your father had said. it smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, pillows fluffed and spritzed. your room was cold despite the warmth that came with summer. the pristine sheets were unfamiliar against your skin, as if you were tucked into a hotel bed. the sound of tire rolling against pavement never ceased, people had places to go, places to be even in the dead of night. a draft through your window made you shiver. you should close that in the morning. you curled in on yourself like you did when you were little, only this time there was only the unfeeling fabric to hold you, instead of the warm, long forgotten embrace no one could quite replicate.

you cringed at the shoddy place your phone had led you to, and looked up at the peeling paint sign that read: valdez mechanics. how charming. you even debated touching the rusty doorknob, but it swung open before you could turn it. which would be nice, if it didn't almost smack you in the face.

"watch it!" you hissed, side-stepping in time to see a boy your age walking through. his hair was a mess, and there were grease stains all over his face and clothes. his fingers were tap, tap, tapping away at his leg, to the rhythm of the song blaring inside. you think he'd be cute if he wasn't so dirty.

“sorry ‘bout that!” he laughed sheepishly. he stared at you for a moment too long before asking, “you here for the thunderbird?”

“yes,” you said shortly.

he chose to ignore your clipped tone, flashing you a smile. “come on in then, yeah?”

you followed him into the tiny shop, already wanting to leave. the place smelled of oil, and you could barely find a clean place to sit on. there were tools thrown everywhere, the floor sticky with dried up grease.

“i’m leo, by the way.” his voice snapped you out of your judging thoughts as he led you to the back. you finally saw your car, propped up with the hood open.

“y/n.” you barely glanced at him as you rushed over, examining the damage. “so? what’s wrong with her?”

he gestured with the wrench in his hand—when’d he get that?—and pointed to the engine. “well that’s all busted up, so i’m gonna have to build a new one for ya. i’ll do you an oil change too and-“

“yeah um, how long will it take?” you interrupted, giving him a smile you did not want to have on.

“i’d say three to five weeks? depends if i have any other stuff that comes in so…”

three to five weeks of your summer wasted away here? when you’re supposed to be having the best time of your life before college!?

“are you serious? can you get it done sooner? i can pay you some more-“ you reached into your purse.

“whoa!” he caught your wrist. his hands were clean now, must’ve wiped them on a rag. “money won’t make me work faster, honey.” he let go and shrugged. “sorry.”

honey? “well then what will? cause i need to leave as soon as-“

“some help, maybe?”

you blinked at him, utterly flabbergasted. “you want me to help you? the person who’s paying for all this?”

“technically, your father’s the one paying,” leo pointed out. “and y’know. you don’t have to help, of course. it just might make it go a bit quicker…” he trailed off, dimples poking through as he tried to hide a cheeky smile.

you huffed. “what do i have to do?”

”i am not sticking my hands in those.” you defied, shaking your head firmly.

leo scoffed, flapping the gloves around. “come on! this is the cleanest pair i have!”

"put this here?" you asked, shoving a part that you forgot the name of into an empty space.

"hm?" leo looked up from his fiddling, jaw dropping in horror. "no no no!"

"oh i know how to do this!" you exclaimed as he gave you a screwdriver. "my dad always said 'lefty loosey, righty tighty.'"

the boy nodded. "yeah! try it out." he pointed to a loose screw.

you successfully tightened it (to the right), giving him a proud smirk. "see?"

"yup." leo grinned at your enthusiasm, even though it was the most basic thing ever. "try and tighten the rest. i'll be right back."

a loud clatter made leo jump from across the repair shop. he rushed over to you, finding the parts that were supposed to be screwed together in complete disarray. "uh, maybe you shouldn't help..."

"really?" you deadpanned. "i hadn't noticed."

"sorry." he laughed. "scooch."

you pursed your lips. no one told you to "scooch" before. but you moved over anyway.

"wanna keep me company?" leo slid his gloves on and began putting the contraption back together.

no, you thought. but you didn't have anything better to do other than wander the city like a clueless idiot. and you hated looking like an idiot. "fine."

the shop was quiet, save for the occasional clanging as leo worked on the engine. his rambling was cut short as he focused on his work, something you didn't know he could do.

"nice car you got here. i've always wanted to drive one of these." he patted its side appreciatively. "where'd you buy this?"

scratch that. maybe he could only shut up in two minute increments.

"don't know. my dad bought it for me." you looked around, not even bothering to hide your boredom.

"right." leo laughed. you found he did that a lot. "must be nice."

your eyebrows knitted in confusion. "i guess?" what did he mean by that?

"i hate it here. it's so boring!" you complained over the phone. cooking dinner had been an absolute mess. “and that leo guy is so weird.”

"give him a chance, will you? he could show you around town, maybe teach you some manners…” you father muttered the last bit.

"what?"

"nothing! all i'm saying is give that boy a chance. who knows, he could be a great friend."

“‘great friend’ my… foot.”

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Do I look like him? p.2

Heyy guys, here's part 1 of this story if you've missed it, I hope you enjoy it and if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The champagne was still sticky on your skin as you stood on the podium, the cheers of the crowd ringing in your ears. It didn’t feel real—not yet. You’d dreamt of this moment for years, and now that it was here, the flood of emotions was almost too much to process.

Lewis had been one of the first to congratulate you. He’d hugged you tightly, whispering, “You deserve this,” before stepping back with that signature smile of his. But there had been something in his eyes—something deeper than pride or admiration.

Later, as the team headed out to celebrate, the energy was electric. Laughter filled the air as glasses clinked, the glow of your shared victory uniting everyone. Lewis was there too, but he was different. Quieter, reserved. He’d offered you a smile here and there, but it felt forced, as if he was keeping something at bay.

You noticed how he lingered at the edges of the room, sipping his drink and avoiding the animated conversations happening around him.

It wasn’t like him.

Your curiosity got the better of you, and after excusing yourself from a group of engineers, you made your way over to him. He didn’t see you at first, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the answers to whatever was troubling him were etched in the patterns of the tile.

“Hey,” you said, lightly touching his arm.

He startled, his dark eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the air seemed to shift, heavy with something unspoken.

“You’ve been acting weird all night,” you said, tilting your head to study him. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, his voice tight.

“No, you’re not.” You crossed your arms, refusing to let him off the hook. “Come on, Lewis. You can talk to me.”

He hesitated, his jaw clenching as he looked away. “It’s nothing, YN. Just... a lot on my mind.”

“Bullshit,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me all night. Did I do something?”

He flinched, his eyes snapping back to yours. “No. It’s not you. It’s... complicated.”

You arched a brow. “Complicated? That’s vague, even for you.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” you pressed, your voice softer now.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on yours as if he was waging an internal war. The tension between you was palpable, a crackling energy that made the air feel too thick to breathe.

And then it happened.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. Before you could process what was happening, his hands were on your face, his lips crashing against yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, as if he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t contain it anymore. You froze for half a second before your instincts took over, your hands gripping his shoulders as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

The world around you disappeared.

It was just him—the taste of champagne on his lips, the warmth of his body against yours, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“This is why,” he said, his voice low and raw. “This is why I’ve been avoiding you. Because I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s wrong, but I—”

“It’s not wrong,” you interrupted, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you.

“It is,” he insisted, pulling back slightly. “You’re younger than me. We’re teammates. It’ll start a firestorm if anyone finds out.”

You smiled softly, reaching up to brush your fingers against his cheek. “You think I care about any of that?”

He searched your eyes, his expression a mix of hope and doubt. “You should.”

“I don’t.”

For a moment, he was silent, his eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe.

“You drive me crazy,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I see you, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I tried to ignore it, to focus on racing, but you’re everywhere. And it’s not just... I mean, it’s not just that I’m attracted to you. It’s more than that.”

Your heart swelled at his words, but you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Attracted to me, huh?”

He groaned, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you said, your smile widening. “But you’re stuck with me now.”

He shook his head, laughing softly, but the tension hadn’t entirely dissipated.

“You know,” you said, your tone more serious now, “I already knew.”

His brow furrowed. “Knew what?”

“That you liked me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “How?”

“Nico,” you said simply, watching as his expression shifted from surprise to something softer, more vulnerable.

“What?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“He told me he saw it in your eyes,” you said, stepping closer to him again. “The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. He said it reminded him of... well, you know.”

Lewis stared at you, his emotions laid bare. “He said that?”

You nodded. “He was right.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, a small smile curving his lips. “Of course he was.”

You smiled back, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “So, are you done avoiding me now?”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling you into his arms again. “I’m done.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was slower, deeper, and filled with all the things words couldn’t express.

[ladykailitha]

The Hellfire Exotic Club Part 13

Do I mourn the fact that this isn't the last chapter because it's a spooky number? Yes, yes I do. But!

Have fun!

In this we have the renovation and reopening of the club, the trial of Robin's attacker, and Steve gives the performance of his life.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

~

Construction of the new stage went smoothly with guardrails to keep the dancers from falling off and keeping the crowd from getting to handsy.

The chairs and tables were red leather and black metal fittings. The chair backs had the club logo in wrought iron. It was really cool. The wood floors where replaced by red and black tiles. The walls were painted with flames and the lighting was changed over to faux candles.

The whole vibe went from converted speakeasy to an actual Hellfire Club. When the second set of dressing rooms were finished; it would be the backup dancers on the right, because they had more costume changes to go through in a night and needed the bigger space for all their costumes and the Sins on the left.

Each Sin would have their own vanity and closet where they would have more room to change into their Sin costumes, because they tended to be more over the top. Well, all but Brian’s. Brian’s was his three piece suit, but he was a large guy, so he still needed all the space he could get.

When Steve asked where Eddie was getting all the money to do the renovations he merely grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

The truth was that Eddie had gone to Nancy’s boss and told him about her schemes. The man offered $300k to make the problem go away. Which Eddie happily took and then someone *Wayne cough cough* call in an anonymous tip to their main rival. It wasn’t Eddie’s fault that of the fifty odd people who were there that night decided to take justice in their own hands, was it?

He kept $100k of it back, and put the rest into updating the club. Upped all his insurances and made sure all his licenses would cover the bigger place, getting all his ducks in a row.

Opening night was packed to the gills, even for a Saturday night. Just like addicts needing their fix.

The three new dancers fit in seamlessly. Mason considered themselves to be non-binary so it was a bit of an adjustment getting use to the new pronouns but Eddie was proud to say he hadn’t hired a single fucking bigot among them as they all got used it. Admittedly, some quicker than others, but they all adjusted.

Steve really got along with Micaella, the new Wrath. Which privately Eddie thought was pretty hilarious considering how little he got along with Stella.

Eddie got up to the stage and pulled out a microphone. “I don’t usually do this public speaking bullshit. Singing, dancing, and playing in front of an audience is fine, it’s the talking that scares the hell out of me. Go figure.”

There were some polite chuckles.

“So why am I doing this you ask?” Eddie said, pacing back and forth on stage. “Well it’s because the club isn’t the only fresh face around here. Our Satan wasn’t given a proper introduction because we literally threw him into the deep end. So let’s give him a round of applause.”

A thunderous roar came and Steve blushed a deep red as he waved.

“I don’t stand for bullies no matter the form they take,” Eddie continued. “And when a couple of my dancers started to bully our Satan, I had to gather up the evidence I needed to make sure I fired the right people. So it pains my to say that Dagon, Leviathan and even our very own Wrath, Lamia, will no longer be preforming with us.”

There was some oohing and disgruntled mumbling on that one.

“When they endanger the life of fellow dancer,” Eddie said solemnly, “that’s line that needs to be drawn. So that’s why the guardrail was put up. It won’t interfere with your viewing pleasure. I checked.”

There was some appreciative rumbling and Eddie took that as a win.

“So to replace our little demons,” he continued, “we have Set and Kimaris. And to replace our Wrath, we proudly introduce Megera, the Fury!”

The three of them stepped forward, waving and bowing. Then they stepped back

“And to celebrate our grand return,” Eddie concluded, “we present Fairy Tails!”

There was some wolf whistling and stomping as the lights went down.

They did the fairy tales Seven Deadly Sins style and Ellie’s costumes were an absolute treat, coming off with a sultry ease.

The new additions fitting in so seamlessly that soon the audience had forgotten their counterparts in light of their new titillation.

Mason Clark was a non-binary black person whose Set was chaotic and fierce, the way they danced with Cheryl or Choronzon was electric. So much so Eddie was starting to think of changing her name to better fit the Egyptian god theme. He would just have find a really good that match their style. He was thinking Apothos or Ammit. Whichever one she liked the best.

Kyle had that sweet country boy look off the stage, cowboy boots and blue jeans. He had blue eyes and red hair. But once he got on stage all of that fell away and he was phenomenal. And if Eddie ever retired from dancing, he knew he would have his perfect replacement in Kyle. The man could move and move you in a style that was both rough and tender at the same time.

Eddie still wasn’t sure how managed it. Maybe rough wasn’t the right word. Raw. Raw was a better word. It was like he was showing you a side of himself reserved only for the stage. It was breathtaking.

The money flowed in as easily as it had before the two week closure, leaving Eddie, and by extension, Wayne feeling very relieved indeed.

So Wayne made the decision to go back to Hawkins, safe in the knowledge that Eddie now had everything under control.

~

Eddie sat in the back of the courtroom, squirming in his seat. He had never be in the gallery before, usually the defendant’s chair, so it was making him twitch.

Robin had given her testimony last week and now it was Steve turn. He wore a simple grey sweater vest over a long sleeved white button up and grey slacks. You wouldn’t have known from the look of him that he shook his ass on stage five nights a week.

The prosecutor was up first and got Steve to lay out the events of the day as plainly as he could remember them.

The defense lawyer stood up. He was slick man in a thousand dollar suit, diamond rings on almost every finger. The man screamed slime just from his appearance.

“Can you state your current employment?” the lawyer asked smugly.

“Objection!” the prosecutor cried, leaping to his feet.

“Goes toward the character of the witness,” the lawyer said.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said dryly, waving his hand to the prosecutor’s visible displeasure.

“Hellfire Exotic Club.”

There was some twittering in the jury box but the gallery remained silent.

“And what do you do there?” the lawyer asked, standing up and walking around to the front of the table.

“I’m a dancer,” Steve said, with clenched jaw. His hands gripped the sides of the witness chair.

Eddie could tell it was taking every ounce of self-control for him not to rip this guy’s balls off. Which he was happily willing to do the job for Steve because this guy reminded him of his dad in all the worst ways.

“You strip,” the lawyer corrected, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes.”

The lawyer turned around and picked up a folder from the table and flipped through it for a moment. “It says that you were the lead dancer at the Indiana Ballet Company, is that correct?”

The room was tense as everyone waited to see where this was going. Eddie crossed his arms and leaned back in the seat, taking a desperate measure not to leap over the guardrail. Robin grabbed his knee and gave it a squeeze. He looked at her and she gave him a weak smile back.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed, leaning further into the microphone.

"And why did you leave the Indiana Ballet Company?" the lawyer asked, throwing the folder back on the table.

"Because I tore a muscle in my shoulder," Steve replied tersely.

The lawyer rolled his eyes. "You're a dancer, why would a shoulder injury make you quit?"

"Because a male danseur must be able to lift other dancers,” he said slowly as though he was talking to a small child. “Do you know how useless a danseur who can't lift is?"

"No."

"About as useless as this line of questions is in reference to my character as a witness,” Steve bit out. “Move it along."

There was some snickering among the prosecutor’s table.

“Mr. Harrington...” the judge warned, giving him the eye.

“May I say something really quick,” Steve asked the judge, looking over at him on the bench, “before this becomes a ‘gotcha’ moment?”

“Your honor!” the lawyer huffed. “This is most unusual!”

“I think he should have a say if it’s relevant to his character,” the prosecutor said, leaning back in his chair.

“And is it?” the judge asked Steve sternly.

“Yes, your honor.”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said waving off the defense’s further objections.

“I only started working at the club because I was fired from the rec center,” Steve said, shyly. “The bills were piling up and I needed to make a lot of money fast.”

The courtroom was a still as a statue and as quiet as death at that proclamation.

The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Is this true?”

“It is your honor.”

“So let me get this straight, counselor,” the judge said angrily, “that the reason Mr. Harrington was working at the strip club in the first place is because he was fired from the rec center for reporting your client? Do I have that right?”

“I can’t attest to the cause of Mr. Harrington’s dismissal–”

The judge cut him off with a single glare. “Do I have that right?”

“Yes, your honor,” the lawyer hissed.

“So all his working at the strip club attests to is that his firing made him desperate,” the judge said. “As Mr. Harrington said, move this line of questioning along.”

The lawyer seethed but did as he was told. He tried to work every angle to get Steve to trip up but Steve was flawless on the stand.

Eddie was proud of him. So fucking proud.

Then it was time for closing remarks and Eddie really enjoyed the prosecutor’s.

“...Not only did this man brutalize a young woman for the sheer fact she was gay,” he said solemnly, “but their subsequent firing left them destitute and having to turn to working at a strip bar to make ends meet. The sins this man has enacted upon Robin Buckley is immeasurable and despicable.”

Steve was silently crying into his silk and lace handkerchief and Robin and Eddie held on from either side.

No one was surprised when the jury returned the verdict as guilty on all charges in less than twenty minutes.

As they walked away for a little celebration, Eddie turned to Steve, “So... you’re still going to work at the club, right?”

Robin and Steve shared a glance and then burst out laughing.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket. “My mother is a complete bitch, but she absolutely is also one of the best lawyers in the state. I have seen her coach many a client on how to cry on command. Not a single fucking tear was genuine, let me tell you.”

Eddie’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That’s is so good to hear.”

“Now let’s call the crew and have them all meet us at Kincade’s for drinks and barbecue on me,” he replied with a grin. “We have some real celebrating to do!”

~

Part 14

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @gloomysoup

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @garden-of-gay

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts @too-much-tma-stuff @dolphincliffs @chameleonhair

10- @themoonagainstmers @novelnovella @micheledawn1975

[someforeignband]

🪱Wiggly Worm Wednesday!🪱

more of a wip wednesday, but! heres a snippet from Tie Em In A Knot, which i've been working on for the past couple weeks! CW: implied parental abuse; steve's dad is a piece of work and this (when i eventually post it,,,) will be DD so heed this warning now i suppose

Steve stares at his mother’s lifeless form, the bandages around the front of her head, the various tubes and machines hooked up to her body. 

Eddie doesn’t answer, but Steve can hear the squeaking of his boots’ soles on the tile floor, approaching his chair. 

“Visiting hours are over,” Steve states, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair. “So, you’d better get out of here.” 

The boy behind him reaches out a ringed finger to flick at the dead flowers. “Those need a drink.” 

“How’d you even get up here, anyway?” Steve asks, beginning to get irritated by Eddie’s seeming lack of ability to respond to his statements. 

“Who gets flowers and doesn’t even get a plastic cup to put them in?” Eddie asks, still completely ignoring Steve, finger running along the emaciated stem of the carnation nearest to where he stood. Steve’s father hadn’t even bothered to cut them out of their ugly plastic wrapping. 

“Munson,” Steve huffs, finally turning away from his mother to look at the guy. “Seriously?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, all theatrics, and that smirk is back. He bounces a couple of times on the balls of his feet, shrugging. 

“Look, man,” Steve runs a hand over his face. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate you coming to… do whatever you’re here to do,” He motions over all of Eddie before continuing. “But, my dad’ll be back any second and he doesn’t want any vis—”

“Well, lucky for you…” Eddie’s tongue darts out and licks at his bottom lip. He’s looking at Steve with this glint in his eye that makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up.

But then, he’s popping his hip out, grinning and whispering, “I don’t care.” 

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches, dimple in his cheek threatening to make itself visible, and Steve’s stomach goes warm. 

Oh shit. 

In the quiet of the hallway, Steve can hear his father’s footfalls, his over-confident gait, and suddenly damn near every hair on his body was standing on end, shoulders pulling upward, spine going stiff. He sits up, taking a quick peek over his shoulder, trying to gauge how much time he and Eddie would have before—

“What the hell, Steve? Who is this—” 

“Mr. Harrington, hi,” Eddie holds out a hand for his dad to shake. “I’m Eddie.” 

His dad, naturally, completely ignores it, fiery gaze fixed on Steve. 

“Visiting hours are over.” He says, and Steve’s eyes flick down to where his dad’s hands rest comfortably on his hips, thumbs in the belt loops, right forefinger pressed against the gold belt buckle. “You know you’re not allowed to have friends up here.” 

“Steve and I were supposed to meet up, and he didn’t show up, so I figured maybe time got away from him.” Eddie supplies easily, coolly even. 

Steve watches in horror as Eddie mirrors his dad’s stance, spreading his feet, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. He stretches his neck a couple of times before flashing Steve’s father a cocky grin. 

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get ahold of his breathing. He felt like he was going to be sick.  

“He knows he isn’t supposed to have people up here,” His father repeats, and Steve can feel his pulse in his toes. 

“My mistake,” Eddie concedes. “I just came up here looking for him.” 

Steve swallows, trying to will himself not to die right there. 

“Steve,” His father snaps. He immediately looks up at the man, uncrossing his arms, placing hands against the front of his jeans. 

“You know this boy?” 

“Yes, sir,” Steve nods. “He’s my friend. From school.” 

His dad makes a dissatisfied noise, then breaks eye contact with Steve, focusing in on Eddie, studying him. 

Steve, panicked, glances in Eddie’s direction, and he’s got this sick smile on his face. Like this is exactly what he wanted, like he couldn’t wait to get up here and do whatever he was doing right now. 

“Like I said earlier,” Eddie licks his lips again. “My name’s Eddie. You went to Hawkins High with my old man, I think.” 

That seems to catch Steve’s dad off guard, and something akin to hope that Steve might get out of this better than alive flickers in the center of his chest. If there’s one thing Steve’s dad likes to talk about, it’s those Hawkins High Glory Days. 

“Is that so?” He throws Eddie a tentative smile, studying him, trying to figure out just who Eddie could look like. 

Eddie maintains his easy demeanor, that blinding smile painted on his face like he’s none the wiser, like he doesn’t know he’s toe-to-fucking-toe with a Copperhead. 

But, Steve watches something behind his eyes flicker, like he’s taking some kind of pleasure in this, like there’s a sick sense of satisfaction building there. 

“It’s so,” Eddie nods, smile pulled tight. 

“I always thought Al and Maria only had a daughter,” His dad finally decides, before following up, “But, I guess I must be mistaken. You got that Munson nose, don’t ya?” 

God, does his dad look proud of himself. 

And for the first time since he’d set foot in that room, there’s a flash of something akin to fear across Eddie’s face. But, it’s gone in a split-second, and the shit-eating grin returns. 

“You’re good, Mr. Harrington.” Eddie laughs, and god he’s a good actor. "You're scary good."

All those years in drama class must’ve done him some kind of good. Steve supposes there are rare plusses to flunking senior year. 

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Eddie breathes out a small sigh, looking down at where Steve still sits, stock-still, in a chair at his mother’s bedside. “C’mon, Steve.” 

Steve scrambles to his feet, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Eddie starts a leisurely stroll toward the door. 

“Give your old man my regards, won’t you?” His dad asks, and it feels oddly genuine for the man, like he really cared about that kind of thing. 

Eddie bleats out a surprised laugh, then his smile gets impossibly wider, and that look is back. Steve’s knees feel like jelly. 

“Oh, sure,” Eddie nods, licking that bottom lip again. “But, uh, you might see him before I do… that is, if you’re planning on sticking around town for a few more days.” 

“Well,” His dad nods towards his mother, who lays slumped against the rails of the hospital bed. 

“My mistake,” Eddie quickly offers, giving a sympathetic nod. “My sympathies.” 

And for some reason, his dad laughs. 

“Accidents,” His dad shrugs. “They’re a bitch.” 

Eddie hums, eyes on Steve’s mother. “So sorry to hear about something so unfortunate.” 

Steve’s heart is in his throat, but he’s breathing shallowly through his nose, attention rapidly alternating between his father and Eddie. 

“Let’s go, Eddie, come on,” Steve places a tentative, sweaty hand against Eddie’s arm. 

“So nice chatting,” Eddie practically sneers, turning over his shoulder and walking into the hallway. 

Tagging: @yours-etc and @pearynice and @sageclipse and @kaspurrcat because i allllllwayyyysss love to see what you guys are up to ! <3 <3 <3

anyways see u guys never bc this burst of inspiration will inevitably not last long

[pomegranti]

Poor Nanami..

Nanami x Reader short

Warnings: Quickie, rough sex, cream pie, jealous Nanami.

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Poor Nanami, he works so hard, risks his life daily and puts up with Gojo’s annoying remarks every time he clocks in. But he does it all for you, pretty little Y/N. Everything he does, just for his special girl…So why are you such a brat about it? Sending him needy texts while he’s busy, being pouty when he gets home late, and constantly lingering around other guys whenever he takes you to his business parties. Even if it’s not intentional, he can see the way they look at you with their predatory gaze, the way you laugh and feed into their awful personalities, boosting their egos. Mindlessly nodding to whatever his co-worker is blabbering about, he pretended like he was listening, all the while his gaze was focused on you, the way the guys around you gently brushed their hands against you subtly, whispering things in your ear that made you laugh. It was infuriating, tightening his grip on the cup he had before apologizing to his co-worker, and that he would return shortly. Stalking towards you, he snatched your wrist and dragged you off from the crowd, all the while you resisted while demanding an explanation for this. “Nanami! What do you think you’re doing? Let go, it hurts!” Yanking you into the bathroom, he wasted no time in turning you around and bending you over the sink, tangling his fingers in your hair. “I know you think I don’t notice, but I saw how those men lingered around you. You think you can get away with whoring yourself out right in front of me?” Words laced in venom, he unzipped his pants and pulled down his briefs, freeing his aching member, only to push your panties aside as well, breath fanning against your ear. “W-Wait Nanami! Please just give me a second, I’m not prepped yet!-“ Cutting off your words with the thrust of his hips, your lips parted into an o-shape, legs trembling while your hands gripped the edge of the marble sink. Holding you up to get a better angle, your heels were lifted off of the floor by a few centimeters, relying solely on the support of the sink to keep you from crumbling apart. Pinching your eyes shut at the burn between your legs, you could feel Nanami begin to retract his shaft before connecting your hips once more, causing your body to jolt in surprise. Hand remaining in your hair, the other one found itself on your hip, keeping you still while you began to plea for god knows what. “Stop squirming or else I’m going to pull out.” Whining in retaliation at his words, he repeated his earlier process, gaining a steady rhythm as he thrusted in and out of your pussy. Nails clawing at the counter, he tugged your head to make you look at the mirror, seeing the way your eyes became glossy. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” He spat, grunting in your ear each time he sheathed his length within your velvety walls. “M’ sorry for…ah- s-sorry for being a brat..” Moans filling the room, your release rapidly approached with the way he plowed into you, not giving a moments rest. Satisfied with your apology, he turned your head to face him, to which he leaned closer in order to capture your lips for a kiss, murmuring praises with each gasp for air. Walls tightening around your length, the addition of praises was just enough to push you over the edge, a high pitched sound rolling off your tongue while clear fluids gushed around his cock. Not long after, Nanami released a particularly loud groan, connecting his hips to yours as the white substance painted your insides, dripping onto the tile floors. Eventually pulling out, he readjusted his appearance, pulling his pants back up while fixing your dress, sliding your panties back to cover your core that was dripping with his cum. Tightening his tie, he placed a kiss onto your forehead, ready to leave the bathroom. “I hope you learned your lesson.” He said, before exiting back to the party, leaving you a mess against the sink.

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Note: ahhh tysm for all the likes on my Choso short, don’t forget to leave requests so I know what to write, part 2 of Gojo is still in works ^^

[ghostfanwriter]

✨🥐 𝐊𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐝 🥐✨

Part two to Pink Velvet.

🥐 Pairing: Single dad, young Joel Miller x Baker! Reader

✨ Setting: No Outbreak Au! Joel's the biological father of Sarah and Ellie.

🥐 Synopsis: Joel starts working on the renovations around your bakery. But he's willing to do more than just fixing your floors for you.

✨ Features: Joel and reader flirting some more, reader being helplessly down for Joel (and Joel eating it UP), a lot bit of a competency thing from reader.

🥐 Word count: 4.2k

✨ About this/Author's note: You guys seemed to really like part one, I can't tell you how happy I got with all the comments on it 🤧 This one is pure fluff and flirtation. I love watching them being all awkward and giggly next to one another. It's cooking, friends, and they know it.

Hope you like it 🩷

You hear a soft sound while you're putting the chairs up so you can sweep the floor. After you don't pay it any mind, you hear a proper knock on your door, and it startles you, making you jump and laugh while you walk towards the door, Joel laughing on the other side.

"Sorry, I tried not to scare you, but you didn't hear it the first time." He says, laughing as you make room for him to walk in.

"Not, it's fine. I just wasn't expecting you to be here early, I was trying to finish cleaning before you arrived." You explain yourself, locking the door back.

"Did you just close?" He asks, noticing the dirty dishes on top of a few of the tables.

"Well, my closing time is never my closing time, you know? People arrive five minutes before closing and I just can't tell them to leave." You say.

"And they never even ask what time you're closing?" He asks and you laugh.

"Some do. But they stay anyway." You say, and he shakes his head.

"Well, I'mma help you so we can sit down and talk, then." He says and you smile.

"Thank you, Joel." You say as he gives you no time to protest, going to the dirty tables and picking up the dishes, putting them on the counter, then going around and putting the remaining chairs on top of their tables.

"You know what's really unfair?" He asks, and you frown.

"What is really unfair?" You ask.

"You know my name and I don't know yours." He says, and you smile, saying your name.

"Nice to meet you." He says your name, and you love how it sounds on his lips.

"Nice to meet you too." You say, swiping a table so you can sit down.

...

"So, tell me about what needs to be done here." He says, sitting across from you.

"Well, first the floorings." You start. "They're... Not great. There are hollow pieces, uneven parts, it's all scratched and the color's not so nice anymore, the tiles of the bathrooms are stained and gross. So I'd like to change all of them." You say, and he nods, a cute pout on his lips as he keeps his eyes on you while you talk.

"Alright, fully changing the floorings will require a few hours to work on them and then a while of no one walking over them, is that ok?" He asks, leaning down to touch the floor.

"Yeah, no problem. Sundays I only open in the morning, just to sell some bread, but it's always the same people, so I could just let them know I'd be closed on Sunday. Maybe try and deliver them the breads if they want." You say.

"Great. I could start on Saturday night and let it rest until Monday morning." He says.

"You can do the whole flooring in just one night?" You ask, shocked.

"Yeah, my brother helps me out when I need it. I'll just bring him with me and we should be done quick. Maybe in like... Four or five hours" He says.

"Alright, that sounds good. I can work on the bread for delivery while you two do it. Does Saturday night works for you, though?" You ask.

"Yeah, any day that works for you works for me." He says.

"Oh, ok. It's just that, you know, Saturday night. Maybe you'd have something to do." You say.

"Trust me, I don't know what going out at night feels like for a very long time now. I'm always working at night." He laughs.

"I know. I miss it, but since I opened I haven't really been going out much neither." You admit.

"Well, now you're gonna spend the nights here watching me renovate your shop, how exciting is that?" He jokes.

'Oh, watching you be skillful and fix things, carry heavy stuff around and make my bakery look better? That's very exciting.' You think to yourself.

"Can't wait." You say, and he laughs.

"So, floorings we can't do much for at least a week, then. Is it ok if I work in one bathroom at a time? Maybe you keep just one, would people hate that too much?" He asks.

"No, I don't think so. I'm ok with that." You say.

"Alright, so I can work on it before the floorings. But you mentioned the walls and lights too?" He squints his eyes.

"Yeah. I think the old renter used to hang big and heavy stuff on the walls, so they're full of big holes." You say, and he looks around, frowning when he doesn't see anything. "I covered them." You say. "With the paintings."

"Why do you need me then? You're already so good at this." He jokes, and you laugh.

"I'm talented." You shrug, laughing.

"That you are. That cake?" He says, his eyes growing wide as he remembers the taste.

"You liked it?" You ask.

"Oh, I fucking loved it!" He says. "We ate the whole thing in like... Ten minutes." He says.

"Really?" You ask, your smile even bigger, even though you can't help but wonder... Who's we?

"Yeah, I mean, I'm sorry." He says, his tone suddenly getting serious as he leans over the table, touching your forearm, your chest suddenly filling with air. "But we destroyed that beautiful thing you created." He says, laughing.

"Oh, my poor baby." You whine dramatically, making a cry face, and he laughs.

"Do you do it all yourself?" He asks, and you nod.

"I do." You say.

"Well, you're in the right business, that was insane." He says, and you can feel your cheeks on fire. "Is there anything else?"

"What?" You ask, a silly smile stuck on your face, still flustered with his praising.

"Anything else you want to work on?" He asks, laughing.

"Ah, yeah, hum... There's an infiltration on the open patio, on the back." You say, and his eyes grow wide.

"And we're here talking about holes in the wall?" He asks, concerned, his laugh telling how funny he thinks your priorities are.

"I'm sorry!" You say, laughing at yourself. "They just annoy me so much."

"Can I see it?" He asks.

"Sure, it's over there." You point to the patio, getting up, and he follows you.

...

You remove the planter from the corner where the infiltration is and he bends down to take a look at it.

"Well, this is not looking good." He says.

"Is it too bad?"

"Yeah, the concrete is pretty wet, there may be a broken pipe underneath here." He says. "Was it like this when you rented?" He asks.

"Yeah. I asked my landlord about it and he said he'd get a guy over to check on it, but it's been a year and still nothing." You explain.

"He won't fix it." He says, like he's certain of it. "But neither should you." He says.

"But you said it's not looking good." You say, confused.

"Because it isn't." He says, getting up, standing close to you. "But it's not your problem, you shouldn't pay for it."

"I was gonna ask you about that." You say, your voice small as he's towering over you. He smells so good, he's so big, so... "Do you want something to drink?" You ask, your throat dry all of a sudden.

"Yeah. Do you have coffee?" He asks.

"Coffee at night?" You laugh, walking back inside.

"Still got a lot to do when I get home." He says, sitting down as you brew him some coffee.

"So, how much of what I have to do here do you think I should ask him to help me with?" You ask.

"Anything that's structural, permanent or semipermanent." He starts. "The infiltration, the tiles and the floorings, basically. You won't take the floorings with you when you leave, and they seem like they haven't been touched for a long time, so you're gonna up the value of the space. The infiltration is here since before you, so it's not your problem." He says. "He should fully pay for both, as far as I'm concerned."

"Don't know if he's gonna like to hear that." You say. You know the man, unfortunately.

"I can come over if you want. I can bring you a detailed budget and project plan, we sit down and talk to him." He offers.

"When, you think?" You ask, bringing him his coffee, sipping on some water.

"Thank you." He says, drinking it. "I just have to take a look around, take some notes, see what kind of materials you want, maybe in one week we can have it all. Maybe earlier." He says.

"Cool. One week is long enough to decide everything and tell everyone about the Sunday when I'll need to close."

"Alright. So I'll take a look around." He says.

"Ok, I'll be in the kitchen. Just call if you need anything." You say, getting up.

...

You finish what there was still left to do in the kitchen while Joel inspects the place. After you're both done you close everything.

"Do you want a ride?" He asks after you close the door.

"No, it's fine. I gotta run some errands, buy some groceries." You say. "Thank you, though."

"No problem. I'll text you tomorrow so we can talk floorings and tiles." He says.

"Uhum. Thanks, Joel. See ya." You say.

"See ya." He says, waving goodbye before crossing the street, going to his car, and you walk away.

For the next three days he texts you, you send him the type of floorings you want, he explains to you the durability and maintenance costs and efforts of each option, and you ultimately decide everything you want.

You set a meeting with your landlord, and Joel says he'll join you, like he promised he would.

...

"So, how do you want to do this?" He asks.

"I don't know." You admit. "What do you think?" You ask.

"I think you should talk to him, and I should just back up what you say." He suggests.

"What if he doesn't listen to me?"

"Then I'll deal with him." He says, his tone almost intimidating.

"Ok." You agree as you watch the man walk inside.

"Alright, now what's this about?" He asks, as sweet as always. His eyes roaming from you to Joel, and Joel hates how the man eyes you up and down.

"Hi, Michael, look, I wanted to do some renovations, like I told you, so I called Joel." You say. "And we talked about the floorings and the infiltration on the back—"

"You're not expecting me to pay for it, are you sweetheart?" He cuts you, his tone condescending, and you see Joel's nostrils widen.

"Those were bad before I got in, you knew about the loose tiles, the worn out floorings, the infiltration was already pretty bad. And you know that." You say, angry. "You even said you'd fix that before it became too much of a problem." You add.

"Don't remember that." He laughs.

"Do you really wanna fucking do this?" Joel asks, his ever so deep voice even deeper, none of the usual softness coating it.

"I'm not here to talk to you, ok? You're just trying to make money out of this situation." Your landlord tries to sound convincing.

"If you don't work on this I'm gonna have you sign this aknowledgement notice saying that you were aware of the infiltration before she rented the space." Joel says, placing a paper on top of the table. "Because if that shit gets worse and she loses equipment, one of her clients or God forbid, she gets hurt... She's gonna sue you and then you're gonna lose a lot more money than you'd spend to fix it now." Joel says firmly, and you take a deep breath in. He's always so sweet to you, but the angry yet somehow professional tone he's using with your landlord makes you almost melt.

"How much is it gonna cost?" He asks, his bravery finding a short end on Joel's dominant presence.

"I made a budget for her. Found the most affordable materials and I separated my labor's cost on each part of what needs to be done here." Joel says, handing him a folder filled with numbers and project details.

"And what else needs to be done?" He asks you.

"Some of the lights are not working, even after I changed the lightbulbs, the floors are terrible, some of the tiles on the restrooms are falling down and the walls are filled with holes." You say. "Now I told Joel I didn't mind paying for part of this. Especially the floors, because I need a specific flooring, and it's a little more costly than other, worse options. So I suggest I pay for Joel's labor in all of these, except the infiltration and split part of the costs of the floorings with you." You add.

...

After some more back and forth you get to an agreement you're all satisfied with. Your landlord ends up paying for all the structural and permanent fixes, and Joel tells you that it's ok for you to pay him a bit per month.

On the first day of the renovations, Joel's working on the infiltration, breaking the old and humid concrete so he can access the pipe and see what's wrong with it.

He wants to make sure he at least changes the pipe today so the leaking stops, so he's outside, focused on finishing it as fast as he can.

But his work is interrupted when you scream from the kitchen.

"Fuck!" You scream, and he comes in running, his eyes and nostrils wide, his protection glasses still on, a cloth on his shoulder, his neck glistening with sweat, his hair slightly stuck on his forehead, his arms so big, his torso and belly slightly outlined on his shirt—

"Are you ok?" He asks, scared, pulling you out of him.

"Me?" You ask, confused, finally finding his eyes.

"Yeah, you!" He says. "You screamed, I thought something happened to you."

"Oh, God, no! No, Joel, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry." You say, starting to laugh. "I'm just used to being here alone, I... I'm sorry, I'm fine." You explain yourself, and he laughs, his shoulders dropping as his body relaxes.

"Jesus, you almost fucking killed me." He says, a little out of breath while he removes his protection glasses.

"No, I'm sorry." You say, laughing, feeling funny for him caring about you.

"What happened?" He asks, leaning on the doorframe, still catching his breath.

"Oh, it was my fucking mixer. It was weird for a while and now it just doesn't wanna work anymore." You say, frustrated, going towards it to grab the dough that's inside it.

"Do you want me to take a look at it?" He offers.

"No, it's fine. You're already busy out there, I can call some technician tomorrow." You say, and he makes a 'tsk' sound, grunting at you.

"I'm already here, I'll see if it's something I can fix. You don't need to spend more money." He says, his look telling you he wouldn't let you say no as he uses the cloth he had on his shoulder to clean his hands.

"Thank you." You say. "Can you take that tray for me, please?" You ask, and he holds it in front of you, so you throw the dough in it and he puts it back on top of the table. "Thanks, gotta finish kneading it now." You say, setting a timer for fifteen minutes and starting to knead it.

He kneels down next to the mixer and uses his flashlight to inspect it.

"Did you smell anything burnt?" He asks, and you frown.

"Don't think so." You say, struggling with the dough.

"What did it do, exactly?" He asks, turning to look at you.

"It started kinda like... bumping, instead of it's constant movement?" You say, trying to see in his face if your words made any sense. "Like, usually it's pretty smooth, but then it started doing like—" you say, moving your arms to mimick it's bumpy and stiff movements. "And then it just stopped."

"Great demonstration, thank you." He says, his face showing pure satisfaction, and you laugh.

"Told ya. Talented." You joke, making him laugh before turning back to the mixer.

"Alright, I think I saw some oxidated parts. You'll probably have to change them, but I can oil them so you can use it until you get the new parts." He says.

"Sure, thank you." You say, and he goes outside, coming back with a can in hand.

He grunts as he kneels down next to the mixer, putting his flashlight in his mouth so he can properly oil the machine.

You watch him as he opens the can, throwing the lid on the floor besides him and wetting a brush, oiling the mixer parts.

His proactivity, his capacity, his availability to help you makes your knees weak, make you want to go to him — jump on him —, kiss him, thank him, fuck him.

Make sure he's well fed, well taken care of, make sure he's happy, he feels loved. Show him just how much you appreciate him.

"You got paper towels?" He asks, already up, startling you.

"Yeah, yeah, hum... They're over there." You point, almost out of breath. Both because of the kneading and your thoughts.

He rips two sheets of the paper and comes back, kneeling back down besides the mixer.

"I made a mess on your floor." He says, sounding apologetic.

"Ugh. How dare you, Joel? Make a mess while you fix my broken mixer for me?" You say, playfully. "How dare you try and not make me knead everything by — grunts — hand?" You say, grunting with the force you're making.

"That's a lot of dough, huh?" He says, standing next to you, watching you knead the dough from behind your shoulder before walking away to throw the paper away.

His smell — God his smell —, so woody and masculine, so strong and so gentle at the same time, the comforting warmth his body emanates, his soft and deep voice, so close to your ears...

All of him making you feel lightheaded, like you're drowning on the man, like you're incapable of peacefully coexisting with him without having him take over you.

"Yep, brioches, rolls, sweet breads." You say before the pause gets too long. "All the same dough." You add, almost jumping when your timer goes off. You look at it, turning your head, confused.

Has it been fifteen minutes already?

"It's this one." Joel says, coming back close to you with another timer in hand. "Croissants." He reads the name written on the tape you put on the timer, and you sigh.

"Shit." You say under your breath.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

"The croissant dough is chilling, and it's good to roll out and shape now, but I still got ten minutes on this one." You say, and he catches the distress and tiredness on your tone.

"Can I help you?" He asks, his voice soft and gentle.

"Don't tell me you know how to shape croissants?" You joke sweetly, looking up at him and laughing.

That'd be too much to ask.

"No, that's not I'm my book, sorry." He laughs, his own tone sweet and playful. "But I know how to squeeze things." He says, almost suggestively, you could swear. "I mean, how hard can this be?" He says, pointing at the dough with his palm.

"Oh, yeah? Go wash your hands." You say, and he goes, smiling.

He comes back, his sleeves rolled up, forearms looking obscene almost, his strong hands looking like they would feel so good, like they'd squeeze and hold you so nice...

"What do I do?" He asks, pulling you out of him again.

"You're gonna knead it like this. You lift it, then slap it down, then turn it and do the same. As soon as it gets less sticky you can start doing more like, pressing down and rolling it motions." You say, showing him how to do it.

"Alright, cute, thank you. Let the professional work now." He jokes, pushing you aside with his body.

"Ten minutes, huh? Professional." You say, and he gives you a desperate smile.

You grab your dough on the fridge and come back. Then you take the rolling pin and smack the dough a few times, startling Joel on the first one.

"Love for the craft, right?" He jokes, noticing the lack of delicacy on your movements.

"I like to think about some clients when I do this part." You say before thinking, and he laughs.

"Sounds therapeutic." He responds.

"The butter is actually pretty hard. Gotta break it a bit so I can roll it out." You explain, and he smiles.

He could listen to you talk about baking for as long as you wanted.

You start rolling the dough out, and he focuses back on his own dough.

"Look." He calls your attention. "Not sticking anymore."

"Now you can press and roll it." You say. "If you stand on your tiptoes you can put more force into it."

You set the a ruler at the top of your dough and start cutting it in long and thin triangles. But then your sight escapes from it, finding Joel at the other edge of the table.

His arms muscles flexing as he kneads the dough, his thick fingers piercing into it, his nostrils widening as he uses all his force and body weight — he learned so fucking fast — to work the dough. You're completely lost in him. Lost until you hear...

Your name?

You look at up at his face, a cocky smile on his lips.

"If you told me croissants we're about measurements I'd have done it." He jokes, his smile getting larger as your eyes widen. "Did you mess up your measurements? 'Cause I wouldn't have messed mine up." He teases, his puffy and red cheeks showing how hard he was holding his laughter back.

"No. No, I'm just—I'm just thinking here." You say, embarrassed to be caught mid daydream.

"Thinking, huh?" He asks, panting. "How much longer, again?" He asks, turning his head to look at the timer in front of him.

"Five more minutes." You say, laughing, and he shakes his head.

"Fuck— alright, I take it back. This is hard, Jesus Christ." He admits, stopping as his muscles give up with his laughter.

"To think that I used to wake up at four in the morning to make these everyday." You say, and he shakes his head.

"That's what you were thinking about?" He asks, smirking.

"Kinda." You admit.

You weren't... But he doesn't have to know that.

"You always did it all by yourself?" He asks.

"Pretty much. At first I had my mom help me, but then I realized that overnight proofing and simplifying my menu was better than working all day everyday, and now it's just me." You explain. "Well, me and my mixer." You say, pitifully looking at it.

"I'll fix it, don't worry about it. It needs some rest too." He says. "And well, you have me while it's broken, so that's not perfect but... At least you're not alone." He says, smiling sweetly at you.

"It feels good. Having someone to talk to." You admit. "Though I'm starting to really worry about how many rolls I'm gonna have to make you to pay you for this." You say, and he laughs.

"Never enough." He says, going back to knead the dough.

As the renovations progress, Joel spends each day more and more time in the kitchen with you. Even after he fixed your mixer, he still found reasons to spend some time there talking to you.

And it's not like you didn't escape your own chores to go talk to him. Your favorite thing to do was using him as a beta tester for new or improved recipes.

...

"Do you like raspberries?" You ask, coming close to him while he's applying the new tiles to the bathroom.

"I do." He answers, smiling. His smile sweeter everytime he looks at you.

"Try this." You hand him a small spoon with a raspberry custard. "Is it a bit too sweet?" You ask.

"Just a little, but yeah." He agrees. "Is it for a cake?" He asks.

"Donuts." You say, and he pouts, closing his eyes like you've hurt him.

"Get away from me." He says, handing you the spoon, gently pushing, and you walk away, laughing.

...

"Joel, catch." You say on another day, coming under his stairs and throwing him a pesto roll.

"Fucking amazing." He says with a mouthful after taking a big bite.

"Thank you. I'm testing them." You respond, almost skipping on your way back to the kitchen.

"Make some garlic ones!" He shouts.

"No!" You respond from the kitchen.

"Why not?" He yells, almost disappointed, his voice chocked on the rest of the roll he shoved in his mouth, and you come out of the kitchen.

"Because people come on dates here all the time!" You yell. "I don't want them kissing each other with garlic mouths." You say, already closer to him.

"Hmm. Is the atmosphere here romantic?" He asks, screwing a lightbulb.

"Very romantic." You say, smiling up at him. "Don't you think?" You ask him, and he finishes with the light, that starts brightening all of his best features as he climbs down the stairs, stopping close to your body.

"The only way to know is having a date here." He agrees, his eyes scanning your face, a sweet and adoringly smile on his lips. "You—"

When he opens them, one of your times goes off.

"My donuts." You say quietly, and he smiles, watching as you walk back into the kitchen.

...

"Are you ok with my brother coming over tomorrow?" He asks, throwing his equipment on the back of his truck.

"Yeah, sure. I don't want you going through the whole floor by yourself if you can have some help." You say, smiling.

He nods and stands near you, awkwardly shifting on his feet.

"Can I... Ask you something? And it's ok if you don't want to, I mean..." He stutters.

"What is it?" You ask.

"Is it ok if I bring us something to drink tomorrow?" He asks.

"Sure, I was already gonna bake you some rolls anyway." You say. "But is it to give you energy or to celebrate after you're done?" You ask with a smile, and he frowns, making you tilt your head to the side.

"No." He laughs, scrunching his eyes, gathering the courage to just say it. "I just — laughs — It's not for me and my brother... I wanted to ask you out, but we're already gonna be here tomorrow, so I was thinking of asking if we can hang out here, since we're already gonna be... here." He says, speaking fast so he doesn't have time to second guess himself.

"So you're asking me out... But in?" You ask, playfully, trying not to sound too excited.

"Yeah." He laughs. "Exactly." He says, his cheeks puffy and red as he looks down at you. "But I mean, I get it if you don't want to, if you want to keep it professional, you know?"

"Hmm, professionalism is kind overrated." You say.

"Alright, tomorrow night then." He's quick to say, not giving you time to second guess yourself. "We kick my brother out and hang out." He says, sighing, all of his stress leaving his body at once.

"Sure." You agree, laughing.

"Don't bake any garlic rolls, though." He adds, that sweet smile back on his lips.

"Oh, I'll exclusively bake them." You joke, and he smiles.

"See ya." He says.

"See ya." You say, walking away from him as he gets on his truck.

You're trying not to get your hopes too high. You are.

You're telling yourself there must me something about him that'll shatter the man you know. He can't be this charming, funny and good person he seems to be.

Or maybe you got lucky. Maybe he is all that.

Maybe tomorrow you're gonna have a great time, maybe you're gonna kiss him tomorrow.

You can't wait for tomorrow.

Hope you liked it 🩷

I wrote it right after finishing Pink Velvet, and spend the last week editing it. This series is so warming and comfortable for me that it hurts, I'm so happy you seemed to like it as much as I do 🩷🫶🏻

My Masterlist 🩷

[lazywinnerprincess-blog]

Vaggie’s Choice

Season 1 Rewrite

The events of Season 1 are the same except for when Sera talks to Adam and Lute in Episode 6.

Lute: Your Majesty, What is the hellspawn doing here?

Sera: They are here to plead their plan for “redemption”. Despite her naivete, she has the potential to destroy everything we have worked for. (Sera turns to Adam) This would not be happening if you did what you promised and kept the people of hell under control.

Adam: What do you expect from me? I’m just one guy!

Sera: I expect you to find a way to fix it without exposing the exterminations to heaven.

Lute: If I may, Your Majesty. What should we do about the traitor?

Sera: (A look of confusion appears and disappears in a moment) Oh yes, the exorcist that you exiled 3 years ago. It seems that she has become the “companion” of hell’s princess. She could provide an opportunity to solve this potential problem. Adam, Find a way to bring her to my office alone.

Adam: Got it

_______________________________________

Even before she fell, Vaggie never felt at home in heaven. Its unchanging temperate temperature, universal public expectation of politeness, and unshakable cleanliness always felt fake. Hell, on the other hand, was miserably real. It always forced her to be present and aware. Its smells are pungent. Its people are rude when they can't be cruel, and its weather is just a series of survival challenges instead of neutral natural events. What does it say about Vaggie if the land of suffering felt more right than the world of everlasting joy. She kept all of these thoughts to herself while Charlie left to have a fun visit to the zoo with Emily. Vaggie exhaled for the first time since being thrown through that portal. She loved Charlie more than anything, but she needed a break. The same way you  can't eat nothing but candy without getting sick, Vaggie can't spend every waking moment with her hyperactive super loving girlfriend. A small bit of quiet before the trial is what she needs. Just as she was getting comfortable on the bed, a knock on the door breaks her fragile tranquility. 

She quickly leaps out of bed, hoping to efficiently address the annoyance at the door. The sight of Adam instinctively forces her into attention. She doesn't have the time to hate herself for this reaction. Her focus was getting him to leave as soon as possible. A goal that was proven impossible with a single sentence.

Adam: Sera wants to see you.

Vaggie: What are you talking about?

Adam: We don't have time for this Vajjie. You’re going to see her now.

Before Vaggie could say anything, Adam made a portal right behind her that sucked her in.

_______________________________________

Vaggie was beyond done with finding herself face down on golden tiles after being tossed through a magical portal for the second time. Her aimless fury at the string of humiliations were prematurely stopped at the sight of the seraphim. She was seated on a white and gold set couch. In front of her is a table with a (shockingly) white and gold tea set and an empty matching couch. 

Sera: Greetings, Please have a seat.

Sera had the same serene yet intimidating face that introduced Vaggie to her life as exorcist.The same instinct that caused Vaggie to straighten up for Adam had nearly forced her to slightly bow in Sera’s presence. Even after everything, some part of Vaggie wanted to show her respect. The rest of her thought of the people she slaughtered on her orders. This mental conflict resulted in a guarded standing position and expression-less face. Her single eye was scanning the angelic leader for any cracks in the older angel’s facade. 

She found nothing.

Vaggie: What do you want?

She felt an uncomfortable shiver at her insubordination. Surprisingly, Sera ignored her tone.

Sera: I am prepared to offer you a chance to live as a winner in heaven provided you assist us in court.

Vaggie’s incredulous expression prompted clarification 

Sera: I understand your doubt. Quite frankly, the method that was used to punish your disobedience was regrettable, but now you have the opportunity to live the peaceful eternity you clearly desire.

Vaggie chuckled dryly. 

Vaggie: “Regrettable”, You let Lute cut out my eye, rip off my wings, and leave me for dead in hell.

Sera: In her defense, you were the first exorcist to dissent. We did not realize that an exorcist would ever show mercy to any sinner. Fortunately, we now know better.

The fallen angel’s tilted in disbelief 

Vaggie: Do you people want a cookie? Do you expect me to thank you for recognizing how horrible what happened to me was? You say that you understand my doubt, yet you clearly think that I am just a problem you can quickly solve to maintain your messed up status quo. 

Sera: I know that you are experiencing a lot of strong emotions, but you must look past them to see the bigger picture. The exorcisms, though unpleasant, are necessary to maintain order and preserve all that is good.

(Vaggie's eye narrowed)

Sera: Even if you no longer believe in our noble goal, think practically. For thousands of years no demonic soul has ever redeemed itself. What realistic hope can Lucifer’s daughter have in changing that fact? 

(Vaggie’s vacant expression turned aggressive)

Sera: It’s clear that you have a certain “fondness” for Princess Morningstar, but you can let this desire supersede your morality, prudence, and common sense. Take heed. You will come to regret trading an eternal paradise for the temporary feelings that you have only come to develop in 3 short years.

Vaggie: I guess I see where Adam got his arrogance and inability to listen. I love Charlie, but my devotion to her is far from the only reason I would never help any of you. It’s clear that explaining myself to any of you is a waste of time. None of you actually care. All you need to know is that I’m not a weapon, I’m not a puppet, and I’m not your fool. 

Now Leave Me Alone 

I WANT NOTHING FROM YOU FUCKING PEOPLE 

The silence that filled the air was suffocating. Now that Vaggie’s rage has subsided, she’s finally able to appreciate the situation she has found herself in. Her bravado is replaced with a cautious weariness. She did not realize how draining being around these people would be. All Vaggie wanted to do now was to go back to her crazy mess of a world with the people she loves. Sera closed her eyes and exhaled in an attempt to calm herself. 

Sera: I guess there's nothing left to say

Vaggie wordlessly walked to the door

Just before she could touch the knob.

The door disappeared 

Sera: I am truly sorry

In an effort to hide her fear, Vaggie tried to keep her voice even while speaking to the Seraphim. The placid mask the older angel wore did nothing to aid her quest.

Vaggie: Let Me Out

Sera: Sleep knowing that you will be safe and happy after all of this is over.

Any strength within Vaggie evaporated in an instant. Before her unconscious form hit the floor, Sera caught in her arms. She truly pitied the young misguided soul in her arms. All will be well,the ancient being reassured herself, I am going to fix everything.

[hypequeenves]

Before the Hotel

This is Chapter One of: Before the Hotel. It is a written work detailing a little bit of what life was like for Vesper before the events of the Blog. Word Count: 2684

Chapter One: Old Grudges Everyone loves a good game, the push and pull of power - the delicate dance of ownership. It begins with a glance, a look across a crowded club – a singular moment of recognition sparking the flame for a blaze of new circumstances.

The prize?

In hell, a bed of sinners all scrambling, scampering over one another to reach the top – there really is only one prize worth winning.

Something far more precious than mere material possessions. The acquisition of one’s very being: their soul.

Angel knew this dance all too well. He knew the give and take, being trapped slowly, limb by limb, not realising the danger until he had already lost. 

This is how he found himself where he was right now. Outside the very tower that holds him prisoner on a daily basis – the Princess of Hell standing right next to him. A quick look at Charlie’s face showed him a reflection of his own apprehensive emotions.

With a deep breath, Angel swallowed the lump in his throat – uncharacteristically quiet.

“Are you sure we should be here?” Charlie’s voice was clipped, her usual peppy cadence flattened by the weight of all that’s been left unsaid.

“You want the hotel to succeed?” Angel’s reply was stilted but cut an edge of resistance. 

“You know I do” Charlie’s hand finds his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Then we need her”. 

A look of resolution paints Angel’s face as he steps forward, the automatic doors of the Vee’s tower opening obediently as he strides forward.

The screams, shouts and sirens of Hell deaden as the doors slid closed behind them. The familiar thudding of bass, enveloping the two – Angel recognises it as her music. The kind of pop-rock that worms its way into your head, and before you know it you find yourself humming the lyrics while you wash the dishes. 

With a small squeeze from Charlie’s hand, Angel recovers enough to put one foot in front of the other. The pounding music gets louder, the deep base vibrating the walls.

“So…” Charlie pipes up, filling the silence with nervous talking. “How did you meet her?”

Angel shrugs nonchalantly, hoping to summon the look of indifference. “She works for Vox, who works with my Bos-“ he cuts himself short “-with Valentino”. 

Angel takes a few more strides before he finds himself also needing to fill the quiet. “She- doesn’t like me much”.

Charlie tilts her head, frowning lightly. “Why?”

Angel runs an anxious hand through his hair. ” Cause I, well you know how I am – how I was before this Hotel shit.”

Charlie nods sagely, understanding Angel’s boundaries enough now to not press the subject further. “Gosh, but a pop star – I’ve been listening to her music since she debuted.” She looks up at Angel trying to judge his reaction, his gaze is still fixed down the hall. “Even Vaggie likes her music.” Angel looks down at her, a cheeky smile on his face.

“No fucking way!” He laughs “Now that’s a surprise.”

Charlie nods in agreement.

“Vesper is…” Angel tried to think of a nice way of putting it “a bitch” he sighs giving up. “Just be prepared for a rejection – I-I’m not even sure she would want to talk to me.”

Angel pulls them to a stop, the door standing impassively in front of them bearing her name, the V looping from a heart into the rest. Charlie adjusts her grip on Angel, swinging him gently to look at her.

“Angel, you are the sweetest, the kindest guy I know” The pep slowly comes back to her tone as she continues “Maybe you weren’t great to her back then – but you’ve grown up a lot since then.” She grips two of his hands and smiles widely at him “You’ve got this! We are doing this for Sir Pentious!”

Anthony takes a deep breath and Angel comes back to him, grinning widely. 

♫ ♩ ♫

A heeled boot taps impatiently against the tiled floor of a dressing room. Deep thumping music keeps rhythm with the sharp clicking of her foot.

Inky black boots give way to a dusky pale blue ankle, the splattering of freckles found there trails up to curved hips barely contained by a tight skirt. Above which holds the plane of a flat stomach and a set of Satan-gifted tits. 

Said pair of long legs and tits, sits, leaning back in a chair, the backrest emblazoned with her name. One hand scrolling absentmindedly on her phone, the popstar holds a can of sickly-sweet energy in her other – taking intermittent sips. 

A team of stressed-looking imps dance around her, pulling and pinning her obnoxiously floor-length hair into a high ponytail. 

The picture of a perfect pop star.

Vesper was having a good day. A great day even.

Hour 13 of the music videos for her new EP was going smoothly, as was the ad campaign for said EP and she was having a merciful break from the sweaty studio to boot! 

Her thumb double tapped on a photo – Vox, arm wrapped tightly around her waist as she gives the camera the middle finger – wolfish grin plastered on her face. His lips curled into one of his most impressive megawatt smiles, the caption reading: ‘My seventh year working with this absolute powerhouse of a pop star! This one’s for you Ves, here’s to seven more!’

A small fond smile creeps up on her face; he remembered their anniversary.

Speak of the Devil.

A sharp shock of wrists and ankles brought Vesper out of her fond stupor. Vesper’s smile fell, giving way to her normal petulant frown.

“There’s my money maker!” the sound of classic poker slot jingles emended from a spot behind her head.

A middle finger was all Vesper gave the man she called Boss as a greeting. The clicking of wingtip shoes against the tile, a steady hand tilted her chin up from her phone, her eyes found the mirror in front of them. 

“What’s got Hell’s favourite Siren so out of sorts?!” 

Vesper gave the man a harsh glare through the mirror framing them both perfectly.

Vesper hated when he would do this, checking in on her. You’d think seven years was enough time to gain a modicum of trust from old Pixel Brain, but she had underestimated just how much of a control freak he could be.

It was seven years ago that Vesper had signed the contract. Eight years since she had brute-forced her way into his office proposition in tow. Eight years since that night.

A metallic hand slid around her shoulder, the cold metal leaving a trail of goosebumps on her skin. Vox’s hand found what it was looking for – a chunky V-shaped cuff that clung to her neck. Similarly shaped cuffs adorn her wrists and ankles. Some might say jewellery, but they both knew what it was: a physical manifestation of her contract. A visible message to everyone - herself including – just who owned ‘Hell’s Favourite Siren’.

Vesper wasn’t dumb, nor was she naïve. This was a purposeful transaction. Vesper was a businesswoman at heart, and since her fall into Hell; Vesper had put that heart into action.

Vesper dropped her phone, the sparkling blue tech vanishing into the ether. Handing her drink to the awaiting hands of her hell-born assistants Clay and Cole the popstar finally spoke. 

“You messed up my hair with your static bullshit” she growled swatting at his claw and playing with her necklace.

A chuckle came easily to Vox, his companion had always been quick to temper. It seemed he was drawn in by those with a short fuse. 

“Apologies, you know I always want you perfect.”

“Let Clay and Cole do their job then! Go back to whatever crawlspace you apparated from and Let. Me. Work.” The popstars ever tapping feet, accelerated – the music keeping up with the tempo change. Electric guitar picks up in the melody – adding a sting of what could only be described as frustration to the catchy beat. 

Vox’s steady fingers started working, combing through her tresses, pinning, teasing, and spraying her hair into the perfect high pony. She could feel the drag of cold metal against her scalp, it felt like a ripple of electricity zipping up her spine. 

As he finished, he leant down – pressing the plastic of his screen against her cheek. “See. ꝑēɍӻēȼⱦ.” 

Vesper rolled her eyes at him a small smile betraying her fondness of her boss, before pushing him away again before standing.

Vox watched the star stretch out - arms above head, assessing her face, the cut of the clothing, the shape of her hips. A hum of satisfaction passed his lips, He had chosen well when he decided to take a chance on this nobody sinner.

“How long do I have?” Vesper grabbed her drink back from Clay. Even when talking her voice was trained, and measured, phone appearing from nowhere in her hand she turned away from him.

“Ten minutes, forty-five seconds-“ Vox is cut short as two figures breech the door of Vesper’s dressing room. Vox’s signature smile falls at the sight of his least favourite porn star. Before his eyes widened at another truly unexpected sight; Charlie Morningstar.

He snuck a glance over at Vesper, trying to gauge her reaction to the unlikely pair walking through the door. Her face was painted with a look of indifference, but the grip on her drink was so tight that her knuckles were white. 

She was angry.

His smile returned quickly “Miss Morningstar!” the lanky man quickly cleared the distance between them slinging a casual arm around the princess. “What a surprise! What brings you to my beautiful studio?!” He leans in more lowering his voice “I heard your last trip here was rather… warm?”

You could cut the tension with a knife.

Vesper cocks one hip to the side “Better be careful of any electronics in the area Boss, no one likes a re-run”. 

This elicits a chuckle from the CEO, and with a confident stride forward, Vox takes his place standing right next to Vesper again.

“You are so right Ves, so, Charlie - how can WE help you TODAY?!” He pulls Vesper in by the waist and raises an eyebrow at the two expectantly.

“Well…” Charlie begins, pushing down the growing sense of anger in her stomach. “As you know, the Hotel is having… a hard time recruiting new demons.” She pauses, desperately trying to find the right words. “And we were hoping… that Vesper…”

Vox’s grip on Vesper’s waist tightens possessively at the sound of Vesper's name.

“Would come play shows at the Hotel! It would draw in new people and it would be so much fun and you could meet all of Angel’s new friends…” Charlie continues quickly and excitedly like the floodgates of a new idea breaking open. But her speech was nothing but static to Vesper's ears, she was furious. Her eyes pinned Angel to the wall, her grip on her drink coiling, closing until it crumpled under her grip. The sticky liquid flowed down her wrist and fell in droplets from her elbow.

The song blaring against the speakers sharply changes, heavy metal piercing through them.

“God, you are just the WORST.” Vesper's voice was filled with unending malice. Sharp and cruel, an entirely different tone than when she snaps at her boss. 

“Oh, here we go…” Angel huffs rolling his eyes.

“After all this time, no calls, not even a fucking text” the star begins to take slow strides towards Angel. “And now, when I’ve finally made something of myself - here you are” Another stride arms stretched wide, she was closing in on her target.

“I would feel bad for you knowing how absolutely pathetic this is, but that would mean I gave a FUCK about you, and clearly” the pop star gestures to the room around her “I’ve got better things going on”. Vesper finally closes the gap, poking Angel directly in the chest. Charlie shifts quickly, pushing Vesper’s arm away from Angel – standing between the two. Horns growing, hair flowing.

Angel was right, she is a bitch.

Vesper laughs, moving backwards – ignoring Charlie completely, centring her deadly glaze on Angel. Her look was probing, assessing; like from one look, she could know everything about someone, right down to their underwear choice. Like she was taking in all eight years of change 

‘Using more people to hide behind? Wow, we really have ascended Angel, whose dick did you have to suck to get the Princess of Hell to stand up for you? Never mind, we all know the answer is everyone and anyone” Vesper’s arms crossed with a satisfied smile. The music fades, the tension in the room so thick that you could reach out and grip it.

“And… CUT!” Vox strides back up to Vesper, arm slung around her shoulder – the red dot on the upper right corner blinking off. “That’s gonna go viral Dove.” He whispers into the crook of her neck. Vesper’s smile turns wolfish.

“Well! Looks like you got the answer you came here for!” 

“Fuck. You. Ves.” Angel grits out through clenched teeth, his one golden tooth gleaming under the room's neon lights. 

Vesper raises a single delicate eyebrow by way of response.

“Okay, I think that’s our cue to leave Angel” the Princess begins to shuffle Angel out of the room.

“You’re so fuckin’ sore about something that happened eight years ago! You should really take the time to bend over and remove the stick from your ass. Uptight bitch doesn’t suit you, Nessie” Angel threw out her nickname like a soldier would throw a javelin.

The spear finds its target. Vesper’s grin drops, contempt quickly replacing it. Vox’s grip tightens as she goes to take a step forward, keeping her in place. 

‘I’m surprised you have time to be concerned with my ass – when your heads so far up your own, Toni” She pulls out the weapon made of something that used to be fond and hurls it right back at him. 

Before it finds its mark Vox interrupts them “You should listen to your therapist Angel. She seems like the smart one between the two of you.” He pauses looking Charlie up and down before adding “And that’s saying something”. 

After one last long glare between Angel and Vesper, the dressing room door slams shut, leaving the two separate pairs seething. 

♫ ♩ ♫

“Fucking CUNT – I can’t believe that shit!” Angel spat, one of four hands running soothingly through his locks. “I mean I expected it to be awkward, she had a vicious tongue even back then – but fuck me! That’s not the same Ves I knew”.

Angel was pacing, back and forth in the dingy alley flanking the Vee’s tower. Charlie’s eyes follow back and forth as he does so, seemingly lost for words.

“The Ves I knew, hated Vox. She didn’t take any bullshit from no one”

A flash of a memory: Vesper lying on his couch legs draped lazily over the armrests. It was a quiet moment after one of Val’s episodes. She chucked a note, the folded butterfly landing smoothly on his desk.

“You hold more power than you think Toni. Remember, you’re the prize – not him”

Stuck back into the present - Angel’s pacing paused, turning to his wide-eyed companion.

“How could someone change so much in so little time?”

Charlie hums thoughtfully - taking her time to answer, “You know how you put on the mask of Angel?” Angel gives a single nod in affirmation. “Well, some people just forget it’s a mask – they don’t take it off and it just becomes who they are”. Charlie pats Angel on the shoulder “I think I’m done with this place Angel, let go home”. 

Angel agrees it’s been a long night – though a small thought nagged in the back of his mind. 

Would he have turned out like that if he never moved to the Hotel?

Guess he’ll never know; he really did luck out when Charlie found him on that corner.

[hitsmelikeasteamroller]

Runaway Thoughts

Carmen Berzatto X Reader

Warnings: Smut, Language, Anxiety, Drinking, Slightly drunk sex

Word Count: 3,051

Summary: After a mishap in the kitchen, Carmen takes it upon himself to cheer you up. 

A/N: This is my first Carmen fic and I hope everyone likes it bc I am definitely starved Carmen content lol. This is not proofread sorry not sorry <3

When your brother begged you to join him working at The Bear, you would have said no if you knew what it entailed. Richie pulled you into the job by calling me over and over, complaining about other candidates and how they “didn’t fix the napkin” whatever that means. You gave in, becoming a server for the restaurant, and managing front-of-house affairs, training the servers on anticipating customers’ needs and wants, and improving their overall experiences at The Bear. The tense atmosphere of the back of house staff doesn't often carry to the front of house workers, but when it rains, it pours.

Tonight was one of those nights. Focaccia courses were behind, pushing everything else back, and causing Carmen Berzatto to lose his shit behind the kitchen doors.

“Where the FUCK are the seven fishes for table 42?!” Carmen screams at Tina.

She attempts to explain that the last batch got undercooked, and she had to cook some of the ingredients a bit longer when Carmen cut her off, snapping  “Just get it done, chef. Every second counts.”

Tensions have been high all night and only continue to rise as servers poke their heads in and out of the kitchen to ask where their missing dishes are. Nothing pisses the chefs off more than this.

The flames between the servers and the chefs are stoked with every backed up dish, and every question, a fact you are overwhelmingly aware of as the servers decide to come to you as a front-of-house manager. You’ve finally had enough of the complaints, and you stomp through the restaurant in search of Richie. He would know what to do, his gruff and snarky exterior being able to bridge the gap between front and back-of-house, with his sister in front and Carmen in the back. Unable to find him in the front, you push open the doors to the kitchen and begin to make your way to the back doors, behind which you assume Richie is standing smoking a cigarette. In your haste, you forget to yell ‘corner’ as you crash directly into one of the dishwashers, who just so happened to be holding a freshly clean stack of salad plates. You watch in slow-motion as part of the stack tips off the top, crashing and shattering on the kitchen tile.

“Oh my God, I-I’m so sorry, here let me go get the broom, I’ll-” you begin to panic, rambling on about cleaning the plates before you look up and meet the eyes of the person you crashed into. It’s one of the new guys, you haven’t talked to him before, making your mishap all the more embarrassing.

In the middle of your rambling he cuts you off.

“Are you too fucking stupid to say ‘corner’?!” He barks. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you not know how a kitchen works?! Now we’re gonna be fucked over for the rest of the night because we’re short fifteen plates! And it’s your fucking fault.”

You apologize profusely again as you grab the broom and the dustpan, attempting to sweep what you can to avoid any risk. The man finally walks away as you sweep, muttering more about how he hates you and how you fucked the kitchen for the night. You go silent, retreating from your current situation into your head and thoughts. Are you stupid? You couldn’t solve the server’s problems without running to cry to your brother. You empty the dust pan into the trash. You’re awful at this job. You don’t deserve to work here. You smooth your shirt as you walk back to the front, not looking at any of the chefs you walk past. You’re an obstacle. You don’t help all you do is hurt. You tell a server to deal with their backed up tables by themself, continuing to walk past the rows of tables, to one you know is waiting on their food. Thoughts continue to plague you as you offer them all free glasses of wine as they wait. You wouldn’t have to give away free drinks if you could control the servers. You’re costing the restaurant money. You’re gonna fuck everyone over.

Your night continues like this, nitpicking yourself as you try to do your job, unable to fully be in the moment. A faraway look sits on your face as you complete your cutwork. You roll silverware in fabric napkins, placing the complete bundles into a crate for tomorrow as your thoughts haunt the back of your mind. Richie’s gonna be so fucking pissed. You roll another. Carmen’s gonna fire you. Another. The chefs all hate you now. You reach for another fork, and realize you’re out of clean silverware, signaling your ability to leave.

Checking your phone, you realize it’s much later than usual, you must be moving pretty slowly tonight. The kitchen getting backed up must’ve been your fault.

You arrive at your locker, swapping your non-slip work shoes for regular sneakers. You hear footsteps as you grab your bag.

“Oh good you’re still here. I need to talk to you.” It's Carmen. You’re fired. He hates you.

“I was actually just about to leave, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened earlier too, I didn’t mean to knock into him, I understand if you don’t want me back, I totally fucked up the whole kitchen I’m so sorry.” your words escape you before you can think about what you want to say.

“No. No no no, you’re not fired (y/n). You’re like the most reliable one here.  I just need to know what he said to you.” Carmen looks surprised that you would have thought he would ever fire you. “Plus I think Richie would kill me if I fired you so…” he laughs, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh. Sorry. I just kind of assumed-” you trail off before you begin to tell Carmen the awful things the dishwasher said to you, not letting the tears that were welled in your eyes spill down your cheeks.

Carmen looks at you with an upset empathy in his blue eyes, he reaches forward to brush a stray tear from your cheek, then takes your hand in his as you finish telling him how the things the man said to you had echoed in the back of your head all night. “I’m sorry, I know it shouldn’t affect me like it does, I should just move on, grow up.” You dryly laugh, attempting to brush your insecurities off as a joke.

“No, (y/n), I expect that from my chefs who have gone through culinary school. They have those words drilled into them for years and they learn to deal with that in a learning setting, not a professional kitchen like this. That is not in your job description and should not have happened, as the owner I can not apologize to you enough.”

Carmen’s words make you feel reassured and safe. You’ve never heard him speak like that in all of the years you’ve known him.

“It’s not your fault Carmy, I think- I think I just need to go home and sleep off the day.” you brush a strand of hair behind your ear as you bend to grab your bag again.

“Here let me call you an Uber, you don’t really seem to be in a place to deal with the L.” Carmy grabs for his phone, opening the app. “Where do you live?”

You tell him your address and he snaps his head to look at you

“Are you fucking with me?” he asks. You shake your head. “Oh my God you live like a block from me.” He laughs in surprise.

“Oh shit, are you leaving soon? We can just share the Uber to our shithole apartments.” You laugh back. It’s definitely not the nicest part of town but at least Carmy can share your pain.. You’re shocked Richie never mentioned that you live in the same area as Carmen, but Richie is kind of fucking stupid.

Carmy agrees to split the Uber, grabbing his things while you wait for the car to arrive.

As the two of you walk to the car, Carmen opens the door for you, allowing you to slide in before he takes his own seat and slams the door shut, briefly exchanging pleasantries with the driver. It’s a 20 minute drive through the traffic spent exchanging stories of Richie, remodeling The Bear, and finding line cooks doing drugs in the alley. As you pull up to Carmy’s building, he licks his lips nervously, and turns to look at you. “Hey uh, do you want to maybe come in for a drink? I can walk you to your building later if you want?”

“Only if you have tequila.” You respond. He laughs and you follow him out of the car to the doors of his building.

You sit on his couch with a drink in your hand. He sits beside you, picking up your earlier conversation.

“Richie was always an asshole but you were so nice and polite, I didn’t believe you were related when you first came to Christmas.” Carmen is leaned back against the couch, feet up on the coffee table. The arm holding his drink is propped up on the arm of the couch. He looks delicious. It’s then you remember to respond.

“I think I was on my best behavior because your family is terrifying.” You laugh. “Like is Cicero in the mafia or like what is the deal with that?”

Carmen’s face drops “Oh babe, we can’t talk about that.” His voice is hushed and your heart drops. You dumbass you fucked it up. Carmy's concerned look cracks into a smile.

“I’m fucking with you.” He laughs and you let out a sigh of relief.

“You’re awful.” you laugh in response, softly swatting his arm. It's then you realize how close together you are really sitting. You can smell him, hear him breathe. As he finishes laughing, he meets your eyes. It must be the alcohol talking when he says “You know I used to have the biggest crush on you, I was too scared to talk to you that first Christmas because of it.”

You’re taken aback. Fucking Carmen Berzatto just admitted that he had a CRUSH on you.

“No you’re fucking with me again.” You can’t believe him.

“No I promise you I’m not. I honestly don’t think it ever went away, and I probably shouldn't say that but I’m a little drunk right now and there’s a beautiful girl on my couch.”

You can’t say anything. Your cheeks heat up as you lean into him meeting your lips with his. As your lips meet you feel him sigh in contentment, he’s been waiting for this and so have you. Your lips move against each other heatedly as you intensify the kiss. You’re leaned over him so you can kiss him as he is leaned against the back of the couch. Your arm meets his side of the couch to prop yourself up across him and he breaks the kiss for a moment as his arm meets your lower back, encouraging you to set yourself on his lap. Your legs wrap around his waist as you continue to kiss, his tongue entering your mouth as his hand pushes itself under your shirt, rubbing your back. Your hands make their way to his head, you have one hand on his cheek, one tangled in his hair as he moans into the kiss. You feel his hardening cock underneath you as you sit on his lap and you trail a hand down his torso towards his hips.

You pull away from his lips as you whisper  with a soft laugh “Carmy I think I owe you for the Uber.”

You take yourself off of his lap as he frees himself from his pants, his hard cock rests against his stomach as he lays back on the couch. You place yourself between his legs, taking him in your hand. You run your hang along him a couple times before taking him in your mouth.

“Oh my God that’s so fucking good babe, Oh my God.” Carmen moans as you move your head up and down.

He threads his hand into your hair as his head falls back looking towards the ceiling, consumed in the pleasure you are giving him.

He begins to rock his hips to meet your mouth, your hands run up and down his thighs as you continue to suck him off.

Suddenly he pulls you off his cock, keeping his hand in your hair as he pulls you to his lips, heatedly kissing you.

“Can I please fuck you, I need to be in you.” Carmen almost whines.

“Please.” is all you respond before he lays you down on the couch, pulling your shirt off and throwing it somewhere into the abyss of the living room. His kisses from your neck down to your stomach, unbuttoning your pants. Your pants come off next. They meet the same fate as your shirt, thrown to the side. Carmen continues to kiss along your hips, pulling your panties down. He slides two fingers through your heat as he leans back up to meet your mouth with his. “So wet babe. Is it all for me?” He knows the answer, he just wants to hear you say it yourself.

“Yes Carm, all for you.” you moan in response, giving him exactly what he wants.

“Oh babe.” He lines his cock up with your entrance, pushing in bit by bit to give you time to adjust. He kisses up your neck, right under your ear as he begins to thrust into you, causing you to gasp and wrap your hands around his back.

He moans as he fucks you, your hands running down his back. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as he angles his hips up, hitting the perfect spot inside of you. Your head is thrown back, whimpers escaping your lips as he continues at that angle.

“Oh yeah that’s the spot isn’t it?” Carmy muses, confidence dripping from his statement as he watches your reaction to his actions. It's driving him crazy. He fucks you harder as he feels himself about to finish.

“Oh Babe, I’m gonna cum, you’re so good, so tight oh my God.” He is rambling as he fucks into you, trailing his hand down your front, stopping at your clit, rubbing small circles as he continues to fuck you hard and fast.

“Oh my God Carm please don’t stop that I’m gonna cum, oh fuck.”

“Fuck babe, cum with me, please, fuck.” Carmen continues his actions as your orgasm washes over you, causing you to tense as he pulls out and finishes onto your stomach. Moans fill the room as you ride out your orgasms. Carmen, still above you, leans his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. You tilt your chin up to meet his lips, capturing each other in a sweet, heavy kiss.

Finally Carmen stands to grab a towel and clean you off. He finds his boxers and pulls them back on as he walks away to throw the towel in the laundry. You wonder if you are going to sleep here, or complete the walk of shame back to your complex down the street. Your questions are answered when Carmy tosses one of his shirts to you, cocking his head in a ‘follow me’ signal towards his bedroom.

“Uh, there’s a shower in there if you want, you can sleep here with me, or I can walk you home. No pressure.” He kisses your temple and moves to his dresser to find a shirt.

You make your way to his bathroom to take a brief shower, still feeling a little gross from your shift earlier. Washing yourself with Carmen’s soap, you’re lost in thoughts about how you just fucked your boss and family friend, and it was fucking awesome. You dry yourself with a towel, putting the shirt Carmen gave you back on. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, writing something on his phone when you open the bathroom door. He sets his phone down to look at you. You sit next to him and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Hey.” is all he says.

“That was so good, Carmy.” you simply respond.

“Fuck yeah it was.” He softly laughs. You turn your head and meet him in a soft kiss. “Do you want to stay here tonight? I can make you breakfast in the morning.” He offers, speaking into your hair as you lean against him.

“Yeah, I think I’d love that.” you respond. You crawl into the bed, settling under the covers as he slides in next to you.

He pulls you to him as you wrap your arms around him. “We probably shouldn’t talk about this in front of people.” He says softly.

You breathe out a laugh as you think about what Richie would say if he found out about this. “Yeah, probably not. Just act normal.” you respond.

“Just act normal, huh?” he laughs. “Act like I didn’t just have the best sex of my life with you?” He teases.

“I don’t know, Richie and Sydney would love to hear every detail of this, I’m sure.” You counter playfully. He sighs as he begins to rub your back. You close your eyes as you are hit with a wave of exhaustion from the day, head growing heavier against Carmy’s chest. He kisses the top of your head, whispering a soft goodnight as he turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

...

After a delicious breakfast, Carmen walks you back to your building so you can get ready for your dinner shift. You smooth your shirt, trying to get rid of the wrinkles caused by it sitting in a heap on Carmy’s living room floor. Just act normal.

You walk into the restaurant, clocking in and walking past the chefs cleaning up lunch. You meet Carmy’s eye and hold back an awkward laugh. Sydney and Tina exchange a suspicious look and Carmen tells them to get back to work as he watches you pass through the kitchen doors to the front.