#tw. marihuana

[athenaccrs-blog]

🫶🏻

[4pocal1ps3]

Y la sonrisa vuelve a mi rostro cada vez que te vuelvo a probar

[soloquieroserchiquita]

sera cierto que fumando compulsivamente marihuana uno baja de peso?

[pansytheleia]

Isn't it kinda the plot of a sitcom that the year I turn straight edge my parents start growing pot?

[catliacutegirl]

Quiero amigaaaaas, escríbanme:)

[lascivuscorvus]

Weed cat

[s4tanzone]

i swear i'm ok *smoke weed til forget who i am*

[biior]

* BIOR BRUNET en la mano de dionisio en north heaven .

[momomowitch]

Ni modo

[crisal-siar]

No hay alcohol ni marihuana que me mantenga con calma...

[ott0s]

él no piensa mucho cada vez que le pone oportunidad de regresar a la fama en bandeja de plata. otto, por supuesto, no entiende mucho la decisión que ha tomado porque no se ha sentado a preguntarle directamente. tal vez es porque tampoco le interesa mucho, cuando chica todavía parece que se puede permitir vida de lujo. su padre le ha dado información puntual, le ha enseñado un par de vídeos de la rubia y le ha puesto como misión que la lleve a la disquera, que los presente incluso. él, por supuesto, ha tomado el reto y lo trata de cumplir de manera mediocre, tal vez un poco insensible y descarada, porque no es la primera vez que la chica evade darle una respuesta precisa, pero puede decir que le agrada bastante cuando decide bromear de aquella manera. suelta una risita, alzando las manos en señal de paz, en un no te pienso preguntar más... por hoy ' probablemente los tenemos ya pero confirmo y te aviso ' le guiña el ojo, zanjando tema cuando da una calada a su cigarrillo, manteniendo humo mientras le contesta ' lo sé, hermosa ' expresión se suaviza antes de exhalar humo y reír ' ya voy un poco borracho, así que supongo que sí - ¿tú? ' ✮ — @salovila

Sonríe tratando de no parecer tensa. No es que la incomode Otto. En realidad, ahora que lo mira, hasta piensa en compartirle el cigarrillo de marihuana que guarda en su cartera, bien pegada al vestido de Blumarine. Es otra cosa: el sentir que, en realidad, debería tomar esa oferta; que fue injusto y cruel retirarse antes de una gira, que ha hecho que sus fanáticos se depriman y que, por supuesto, Salomé Vila no sabe existir fuera de los focos pues su primera audición fue a los tres años y a los ocho ya estaba ingresada en una empresa multimedial de largos brazos. La sonrisa permanece cuando habla: —Soy compasiva—le explica—, no quiero hacerte pasar por eso. Aunque si tienes una red de psicólogos que me atiendan, quizá me la pienso. —Y se lleva el vape de vuelta a los labios, fumando antes de echar el humo con un movimiento hacia atrás de la cabeza. Es sombría y lo sabe, a lo mejor un poco tétrica, pero no puede evitarlo. Además, la vida no ayuda: desde su retiro, Salomé llena el espacio con Investigation Discovery, lo cual sólo empeora el estado. Lo cierto es que no tiene gran cosa que hacer. Han llegado ofertas para convertirse en escritora fantasma de las artistas pop que la reemplazarán prontamente, más no encuentra la voluntad para aceptarlas. —Era un chiste. —Avisa por si acaso. — ¿Lo estás pasando bien?

[v1nsmoke]

𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐘 // 𝐂𝐎𝐏!𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

oneshot - cop!shanks x fem!reader

tw: age gap (both are adults though), mention of guns, smoking

summary: when your cop dad brings you to his promotion party at the police station, you don't expect to meet a red-haired coworker of your dad

fandom: one piece

a/n: remember that zoro oneshot i wrote back in 2023 october with a tiny cop shanks cameo at the end? and how i mentioned that i might make it a full length oneshot? yeah, this is it! I never wrote romance oh lawd and this feels new…

tags: stargirldelight 

wc: 1.2k

notes: modern au, first person pov. 

Dads with daughters - if they don’t despise them - usually threaten boyfriends or suitors with something along the lines of “if you cross my daughter or make her cry, i’ll break your jaw,” and mine was no exception. Unlike most of those dads, he actually could. His ultimate, go-to threat was that if any boy hurts me, he will take them to jail. He did once. That guy was involved in some illegal marihuana deals and owned a gun without any permission, so he went to jail for actual reasons. 

With my single dad being a cop, I used to spend my free time at the police station where he worked whenever he couldn’t find anybody to babysit me. Luckily, his co-workers didn’t mind, and often took care of me while I was there. The last time I visited that station was when I was around fifteen, after that I was allowed to stay at home alone for days. Up until that, I had to be supervised at the station. It wasn’t as boring as it may sound at first, there is lots of exploring to do and many gadgets to ruin. I didn’t do the latter. Maybe once, as an accident, but it got fixed up real quick. My dad’s colleagues taught me how to shoot a gun, which my dad disapproved of. I was seven years old back then, of course he did.

It’s been almost a decade since that happened, and now, I’ve been invited to a get-together to celebrate my father’s promotion at the station. It was well-deserved, he’s done many great deeds and had been working hard, harder than anyone. I was tasked with the food. I thought that the best would be to make pizzas and something sweet for dessert, maybe some of those mini pretzels for a snack, but there was no way I’d make the latter. There are shops for that.

“How’s the progress?” My dad asks, sneaking up on me.

“Almost done,” I answer, adding the finishing touches.

“Hm, they look good,” he says, taking one of the freshly prepared cupcakes.

“You’ll get them at the station, until that, no more!”

I load the two boxes into the car, dad sitting in the driver’s seat picking the music while he waits.

“I could use a hand here,” I call out.

“Grow a third one,” he replies calmly.

I hop into the car. Dad revs up the engine, and the vehicle finally gets moving.

“Lots of things have changed since you were last there,” he starts the conversation. 

“Like what?”

“I got some new coworkers, you’ll like them. We also renovated some rooms.”

“You mentioned the renovations before. I remember that you ruined most of your jeans because of it, we had to throw out like ten pairs because they all had paint on them and I couldn’t wash it out.”

“The good old times,” he sighs. “It’s been real lonely since you moved away. Feel free to move back if you feel like it.”

He parks the car in the tiny parking lot of the police station. He sits in the car, immersed in the song playing on the radio.

At the ripe age of twenty, I moved to my own tiny house. Up until that point, I didn’t even stop to think that he might feel alone. I made a mental note that I’ll make sure to visit him more often now.

“You’re not going in?” I ask.

“Do I need to? There’s gonna be lots of people,” he whines.

“I thought you were my dad, not my son.”

“Go, get the food out from the trunk, in the meantime, I’ll mentally prepare myself,” he instructs.

With a sigh, I get out of the car, and lift the trunk open.

“You need help with that?” an unknown voice asks.

I turn around to find a man leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers. Light smoke swirled around him as he stepped forward.

“I think I can handle it,” I nervously answer.

“Here, let me,” he says, taking one of the boxes from my hand with a gentle move.

My dad gets out of the car.

“Shanks, good to see you!” He greets the man next to me. “I see you already found my daughter.”

“This fine lady is your daughter? You better watch out, then,” he smiles at him mischievously.

“Don’t you dare, Red Hair!” Dad replies.

“At least he helped me with the boxes,” I intervene.

“Your pa didn’t?” 

“He told me to grow a third arm.”

The red haired man chuckles, looking over to my dad.

“Not too nice of you, Hank,” he says, walking off with the box.

Inside gathered a swarm of people. Some people I knew, some I didn’t. Dad did say he got some new coworkers, and I assumed this red-haired man was one of them. Most of them wore their regular uniforms, some, who were off-duty that day, had casual clothes on.

I place the box on one of the tables, the red-haired man following suit. I take the food out of the said boxes, placing them onto separate trays and plates.

“Where can one get this food from? Looks delicious,” he speaks, picking up a slice of pizza. Luckily it was still fresh enough.

“From me,” I answer.

“Thank you, it’s nice to hear someone appreciating it,” I reply.

“You made all this? Impressive, I might just move to your house only for the food,” he says before taking a bite of the dish. “No, not might. Definitely.”

I chuckle at his statement.

“Your dad doesn't? He should, it’s amazing,” he says, his mouth still stuffed.

“Even if he does, he doesn’t say it out loud.”

“Are you a chef or something? Or is this just a hobby of yours?”

“More like a hobby. I work in an office, I hate it. I want to see the world or do some action, y’know.”

“Of course I do. I wanted action too, that’s why I’m an officer. They still give me paperwork, but when there really is some action, it’s worth it. We can teach you some things if you want.”

“You really would?” I enthusiastically inquire.

“Why not? I’ll do it in exchange for more food of yours. Deal?”

“Deal,” we shake hands.

“So first, I really want to teach you how to shoot a gun. You did that before?” He asks, walking back and forth in front of me.

“A few times, many years back.”

“You remember how to do it?”

I hold the handgun firmly, bringing it upwards. I lock my eyes on the target, an old soda can that he likely got from the trash, and I pull the trigger. The bullet was close, but flew by the can. I lower my hand in defeat.

“Mostly.”

“Here,” he says, handing me a handgun, “aim at that can right there.”

“Give it another try,” he encourages.

I lift my arms back up, aiming again. This time, the bullet made a dent into the can.

“That’s it! Off to a good start,” he speaks, patting my shoulders. “Maybe your posture is the only problem I had, though really minor.”

He comes closer, behind me. He gently places his hand on my arm and adjusts my shoulders. 

“There you go,” he whispers next to my ear. 

“Officer,” my dad interrupts.

“Yes sir?” The red-haired man turns to him. “Keep the posture,” he instructs me.

“Is that my daughter?”

“Yes sir.”

“Please don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old,” my dad grunts, walking closer. He comes to a halt next to me, observing me. Please don’t take the gun away, please don’t take the gun away…

“Keep up the good work. Teach her good, officer,” says my dad, walking back to where he came from.

red-haired shanks belongs to eiichiro oda.

© v1nsmokes 2024. Do not modify, translate or rewrite.

[jamneuromain]

Addictive Chapter 1

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x PhD Candidate!Reader (You)

Warning: Unconventional Sugar Daddy!Santiago Garcia, Implied age gap (Santiago is in his late 30s, reader in her mid-20s), first meet, fluff, TW: conversation over drug abuse

Summary: The beginning of an unconventional sugar relationship.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I solemnly blame @innorogers for indulging me with sugar daddy!Santiago Gargia thoughts, and in addition, my thanks to @bigtreefest with her help on med school experiences.

Prologue< | Chapter 1 | >Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Sober

I do medicine.

>

*

Brown.

There’s a small bowl of brown powder right next to the coffee machine.

You retreat a couple of steps to observe the bizarre object.

The coffee machine, that one you know from the bottom of your heart. Someone specifically duck-taped the signage of “Cold” and “Hot” in ballpoint over the original buttons because they were worn out. The black crispy paint fell from all edges and corners of this crappy machine since it was moved around a lot. Legend has it that this machine nearly retired from the shared common room of the Physics Department and the Chemistry Department before it was rehired for the Med School.

The application for a new coffee machine was delivered to the Head of Pharmacology over a year ago, and some grad students were waging over whether the paperwork ended up in the Head of Pharmacology, Professor Yovanna Castillo’s private lab as nest materials for her rats.

No, that’s old news. This is new … You watch the brown powder cautiously, giving it a careful whiff.

You know someone on this level is doing a project that includes marihuana extractions, you honestly hope they didn’t leave their product here.

The strong spice knocks your brain dead for a minute before you can hastily put it back down and sneeze in the other direction.

Nutmeg?

“Oh, I’d probably not touch it if I were you.” Diego swoops into the breakroom, smooth as always, grabbing his mug from the counter, his eight white teeth on display as he spreads into a big smile, “Is that the marihuana product Professor Parker and Drew and their grads were working on? Gosh, I hope they don’t just leave this stuff around unattended.”

Diego got into the Pharma PhD program the same year as you did. He swoons every woman, from the age of eight to eighty with his warm, affectionate smile. Your friendship bonds over the shared catastrophic studying experience and your failed experiments. Although he looks into a different research field, that doesn’t stop you from helping each other now and then, from looking after lab rats to picking up his drunken ass in clubs you have only heard of.

You cough and wave in front of your nose to clear the smell, “No. Just spice. Nutmeg.” You frown, heavily, and ask in disbelief, “Who puts nutmeg in their coffee?”

Diego gives the brown nutmeg powder a whiff and pours a lethal dosage into his porcelain mug before placing it under the machine. His mug has that funny PhD joke on it that makes you smile every time.

I study famarcology phamacology pharmacologee I do medicine.

Diego shrugs behind his funny mug, “I do.”

“Lucky you.” You murmur darkly, grabbing your lukewarm coffee and gulping down as much caffeine as possible.

Diego downs his nutmeg coffee – a pure abomination, in your opinion – and frowns too: “You didn’t bring the nutmeg.”

“’ Course I didn’t.” You look taken aback, deeply offended, “I don’t want anything to ruin the coffee!”

“So, who did? And nutmeg coffee is brilliant. Chef kiss to whoever came up with this idea.” Diego looks pointedly at you making your second cup of coffee with milk and sugar and no nutmeg, “Milk ruins coffee, honey.”

You make a gasted expression at his mug, clutching yours tightly to warm your numb fingers. It is too early to be called winter, but the morning wind did a number of things that are close to getting your hand frost-bite. You have never been so grateful that your ugly university-issued mug conducts heat faster than the metal handles of almost every door on the campus.

“So … who brought the nutmeg. That’s the question.” Your gaze floats between the small bowl of nutmeg and Diego, the latter one shrugs again.

“I did.” Professor Castillo, Head of Pharmacology, clicks her heels on the ground at the door, “Kindly advise you both against occupying this break room because we have a potential donor who would be coming in …” She raises her wrists to take a look at her iWatch, “Fifteen minutes.”

You and Diego exchange a look.

Diego mouths, “Money’s on the lab rat nests.”

You chew on your lower lip from smiling too hard.

“Don’t you have a TA session in ten, Mr. Martinez?” Professor Castillo purses her perfectly lined lips, her eyes narrowing like a sharp dagger, her hair in a ponytail, soft and smooth, and not a single hair out of place like a conditioner commercial, “You know how the faculty views tardiness for undergrad courses.”

“Yes, Professor Castillo.” Diego dumps his mug into the sink and flees the scene.

“I have … my rats to attend to.” Bullshit because all your rats died yesterday. Your research is a total bust. You need a few new ones, that’s for sure. But it’s a good enough reason for you to escape the piercing look from Castillo.

“One second -” She stops you by the door.

“Uh, yes, Professor?”

She examines you with her disapproving look, from head to toe.

Lab coat, check. Jeans, check. White sneakers, check. Bright orange sweater with crimson ketchup stain, check.

You button your lab coat with flames flaring your cheeks, hoping that this will cover the stain. It must have gone up there when you had your breakfast earlier this morning.

“Never mind.” Professor Castillo huffs with her slit nostrils, “Just a reminder to be more careful of laboratory regulations of no food and drink allowed. Off you go.”

You slip from her claws as if your sneakers turned into roller skates. Your heartbeat is in a frantic state from the breakroom to the shared lab where you and a few other grad students cohabit. The beating remains for a few minutes as you pick out new rats for your experiment.

From the transparent glass walls of your lab, you see that Professor Castillo storms out of the breakroom and swipes her keycard on her way out.

Your phone pings as you drug the rats with heroin.

Diego: Is it just me or the faculty seems empty today?

Diego: No one bothered to come to work besides phds?

**

Three hours of watching mice getting stoned and recording data passed. Then an hour lunch break. Then it’s your TA sessions for Biochem 101 and Introduction to Microbiology, which would last three hours and a half.

By the end of your TA session, Professor Castillo nearly blew up your phone with five missed calls and a very polite but restricted “Please call back, it’s urgent”.

“Professor Castillo? Sorry, my phone was silenced because I was -”

“Yes. Yes. Doesn’t matter.” Professor Castillo cuts through your explanation curtly, “Our donor wants to speak with you.”

“Now?” You pause a second to look at the clock at the far end of the wall, “I - I think I have a couple of minutes. I have another … thing … elsewhere, at six thirty.”

Castillo clears her throat over the phone, “Not now. Our donor wants to have dinner, with you.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t, my part-time doesn’t finish until nine.” Your throat tightens at her not-so-subtle command.

“I’m sorry too, but I’m afraid this donor is bigger than your part-time.” Castillo repeats coldly, “This is a chance you wouldn’t want to pass up.” She hesitates before giving away further, her tone grows softer, “He wants to contribute to your work. Your funding, more specifically. Think about your personal LC-MS, microdialysis probes.”

“But -”

“We’re talking about hundreds of thousands. And possibly much more to come if your research yields results.” Her voice sounds tempting, slow but seductive – not sexually, God forbid, “What I’m about to say is blunt, but please, think about your TA stipend.” Which is a very pathetic eight hundred dollars per month, as you and Professor Castillo are both aware of. “Times that by fifty. Our donor is thinking about investing forty grand. On you. On your PhD.”

Your own grant.

That sounds extremely tempting.

You can’t help but hold your breath. Forty grand. You don’t think you have ever seen that much money in real life. And such a grant isn’t for academic-only. It would certainly help your budget, and your finances.

“It’s a now or never chance,” Professor Castillo calls out your name softly on the other end of the phone, “Talk to our donor, tonight. Reschedule whatever you have in mind. Go have dinner with him. Talk about how much you love biology and pharmaceuticals. Being a PhD isn’t all about research, you know.” Her unspoken words linger in the air. It’s about connection, persuasion, and asking idiots with a suitcase of wads to fund your passion.

“Professor, I-”

“Oh,” She chuckles to the speaker, sounding more pleasant and friendly than she has ever been during the past year, “Yovanna is fine. Six thirty. A place called Jean-Georges, I’ll text you the address. Don’t be late.”

Your fist clenches and unclenches on the podium.

“Oh, and uh-” She pauses for a brief moment, “I was told that Jean-Georges is a high-end restaurant. Wear something nice.” Before quickly hanging up the phone.

You check the clock again, three minutes to six. Great.

With the ping of your phone, Professor Castillo – Yovanna texts you the address for Jean-Georges. Luckily, it’s about a ten-minute walk from your campus to the restaurant. Unluckily, it’s in the opposite direction of your apartment. There is simply no way for you to head home, change into something fancy – which is another problem because your wardrobe lacks anything that could be labeled as “high-end” – and head to that restaurant.

There is only one thing you can do now.

You call Diego.

***

You should be grateful that this donor guy gives you a chance to prove yourself.

You really should.

You tug the hem of your tight black dress in all discomfort, and can’t help but get a teeny tiny bit of annoyance in the back of your head.

As stated, you have two formal outfits for such occasions. One is a nice, cute, white shirt, and a black suit to go with it. Quick flashback, Diego did not find your dress pants. Which you were fairly sure that the pants were hanging just by the shirt. So, it left you with the only other option. Option number two, the tight black dress stuffed at the back of your closet. You once hoped that you would never use it again, but, well, here you are.

You are very grateful for Diego living right next door and being able to find your dinner outfit plus heels on such short notice and deliver it to you. It spared you a few minutes to apply lipstick – you really need to stop scraping its bottom with a toothpick and buy another one instead. You borrowed foundation and concealer from a girl in the lab down the hall. You are also thankful for her helping you with the concealer before you risked smudging the colored ointment over your black dress – the only thing that you could wear at this point. She also did your hair with a small comb that she carried with her make-up pouch at all times, taming it and styling it as much as she could.

She also wanted to help with your eyebrows, ready to pluck some of them off with a pair of tweezers before you gasped in horror and claimed that you had to leave.

Very nice of a girl. You think her name is Jessica.

Yet here you are, in front of the restaurant as the wind grows chilly by the minute.

“Do you have a reservation, Miss?” The waiter in a tux at the door asks with a smile.

“Under the name, Mr. Garcia, I think?” You take out your phone from your stark-white canvas bag. Yeah, you see the waiter subtly checking out your canvas bag. Not your fault that high heels hurt so much and you need to take them off and change them into sneakers the second you say goodbye to Mister Kind Sponsor.

The waiter checks the sheets of reservation in front of him, quickly finding the name “Garcia”, “Of course.” He gestures to another waiter in a tux, a taller and skinnier one, “Dave will lead you to your table. I hope you will enjoy our food.”

You smile back, following the other waiter’s lead.

Strong, blinding light emits from above your head. Thick, grey carpet underneath your soles. The restaurant is decorated in a neat black-and-white style. A woman wearing tight brown skims yoga pants brushes past you, having you somewhat relieved, as this place is not strictly dress-coded.

Gentle clicking of forks, knives, and plates, and glasses. Bare whispers of people talking. Not loud. Not rushed. Au contraire to the student’s cafeteria where you choose to spend your nine dollars and twenty-nine cents every Wednesday as a reward for your hard work.

Somewhere you don’t fit in. The realization hits you like a bus. Not the first time. But the most realistic one as you know the one guy you are about to pamper, the guy who simply has too much to spend on his yacht or villa or first-class tickets or privet jets, doesn’t belong in your ranks. Doesn’t belong in your world. And vice versa.

Just how would you be able to sweet talk him into investing in your research?

Dave leads you to the table without you even realizing it. Maybe it’s that you don’t recognize the man. Or maybe the fuzzy grey sweater and his brown leather jacket don’t really fit in like the rest of the men wearing tux and suits and ties.

Two misfits. You conclude in the depth of your own mind.

He stands from the table when Dave introduces the table set for the two of you.

“Mr. Garcia?” You pronounce your name loud and clear, extending a hand, “It’s very honored to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” He shakes your hand firmly, telling the waiter to circle back with two menus before turning his attention back to you, “Please, have a seat.”

Grey curls adorn his forehead, capturing your attention first. Then it’s his toned skin, a shade tanner than most who occupy the higher-up positions in your life. A light stubble covers the lower half of his face. Although you are no expert, you realize it’s trimmed with delicacy. When he smiles at you, there are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Here are the menus.” Dave brings two thick leather-bound books back and hands you each one, “Would you like to order now or … ?”

He leans over before Dave can finish, kindly smiling, “It’s okay if you need a few minutes to go over the menu.”

You open the leather-bound book – it contains two pages. One page of the cuisines under the name “Autumn”, as a fixed set for each and every guest, and another page filled with beverages and wines and cocktails.

There’s literally nothing you need to go over with. Besides the drink.

“I’ll just have the Autumn set.”

“Same.” The charming man on the opposite side of the table pipes up after you.

“And the drinks?” Dave continues in his uneventful tone.

“A little bit of alcohol, if that’s alright with you?” He checks with you, “It’s okay if you want something alcohol-free.”

Who are you to say no when your donor wants to have a drink with you?

You chew on your lower lip as a slight hesitation takes over, before realizing his intense gaze on you. “I’d love to have a bit of alcohol, but I don’t know much about wine. You can do the honors and help me order one, perhaps?”

A toothy grin reveals his sharper canines. He seems taken aback by your blunt confession over the subject of alcohol, yet he shows no signs of annoyance or impatience.

He turns to ask the waiter Dave, “What can you recommend for Champagne?”

“Bollinger for the more traditional flavor and richness. Or Moet for light and fruitful. We now have a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée, the flagship champagne of Bollinger which I highly recommend.”

Mr. Garcia nods. “Then we’ll have the flagship one. Thanks.”

Dave collects your menus and exits quickly.

Santiago Garcia folds his arms over the table, like a pupil eager to learn, cocking his head slightly, he asks, “I think I’ve heard a lot about you from your professors, but I’d like to hear it from you. What is your current research subject?”

This is a question that you get asked countless times. Even so, you can’t help but sweat a little. “I uh- ahem, I study pharmacology. My PhD research is Development of a Novel Therapeutic Drug Mimicking Endogenous Pain Modulators for Enhanced Pain Management in Addiction Rehabilitation. Basically, I’m aiming to develop a drug that would help individuals in rehab.”

“How so?” Santiago Garcia rests his chin on the back of his hand, “Forgive me for asking, I honestly don’t know a thing about pharmacology, how would this … therapeutic drug work?”

“Well,” a moment and you seem to have returned to the podium, lecturing the students on your ongoing research, “Most people do drugs again because of the pain-reducing component in the drugs. Think of it this way: your body contains muscles, bones, and ligaments. When your body is constantly in motion, like I need to pick up my fork.” You gesture by lifting your tableware, “Your bones and muscles create friction. But you won’t feel anything, as our body produces, well, mostly endorphins to counter the feeling of minor pain from within.”

Dave pours you both a glass of sparkly wine, but Mr. Garcia doesn’t reach for the glass, and neither do you. Though you both say “Thank you” to the waiter, interrupting the conversation briefly.

“As I was saying, when you start to do drugs, minor ones like marihuana or dangerous ones like Oxy, your body captures the signal that you have sufficient chemicals to reduce the small pains, and that it doesn’t have to produce endorphins for you anymore.”

“We have very stupid bodies.” Massaging his lower lip with his thumb, Santiago Garcia murmurs.

You shrug nonchalantly, “That’s one way of putting it. Anyway, when you stop doing drugs, your body has already shut its endorphin factory down, and that’s when you start to feel itches, pains, and discomfort all over your body. It is unbearable. To a lot of drug users, it’s not that they don’t want to quit, it’s because they can’t. Doing drugs again is the only way they don’t feel the pain anymore.”

Santiago nods, chiming in, “I think I’m getting the hang of it now. What you are doing, if I summarize it correctly, is mimic a drug similar to endorphin?”

“While also boosting our endorphin factory back to life – but yes, you get the gist. It should be a non-addictive version of painkillers that would allow doctors to gradually decrease the meds subscribed to these addicted patients until they could return to their full health. At least for their endorphin factory.”

Dave comes back with your entrées.

“That sounds …” He wrecks his brain for the right word, “quite impressive.”

Your cheeks warm up per his amazement. He sounds genuine. Unlike how your professors comment on every research as “very good” “interesting”, while in fact they just mean “This is a lot of bullshit and you need to do better” before marking each work with a B minus.

He proposes a toast by raising his glass, and you take up on that offer. The sound of glasses clicking has to be one of the most musical voices you have heard throughout the year.

As you progress from entrée to the main course, your inner curiosity is killing you, leading you to drop your question, “I am very thankful for the … dinner and your enthusiasm over biology, but can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Why me?” You nervously add, “I’m not saying that I’m not a good choice. But why?”

He quirks his eyebrows, huffing a small laugh. “The short version is, I like your research.”

“And the long version …?”

Santiago Garcia washes down the food with a gulp of that golden sparkly wine. Leaning back in his seat, he responds, “Truth is, I worked for the Delta squad for over eight years, and I’ve been fighting drug lords ever since. That’s the eight-year-long version of it. If it helps with your question, I have also invested in a psychological research, a chemical one, and another one of social sciences, all related to drug abuse.” And I also have like forty million dollars I stole from the drug lord Lorea that I don’t know how to spend. So, it’s a hilarious way to spend some of that drug money, investing in research that would corrupt other drug lords’ business. He thinks to himself.

That is, in fact, very admirable. Both working for Delta Squad and now investing in such research that is beneficial to society.

“I am very much impressed, Mister Garcia.” A small smile perches up the corner of your lips.

He lets out a throaty laugh, “I think we’re beyond that. Santiago – I go by Santiago.”

“Right, Santiago.” You will never forget that name anytime soon, considering the amount he is about to invest in you.

His lips briefly graze the surface of the champagne in his glass. This man, Santiago Garcia watches you while he takes a sip of his wine.

He clears his throat, putting down his wine glass, “I think we have a deal then,” he calls you by your first name, “fifty thousand for a year. Then two or more years, depending on your research outcome.”

Fifty thousand for a year.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That amount is probably more than the wage your parents could earn in five years.

Your tuition. Your personal lab equipment. Your soup cans and tuna cans with red 50% Off stickers at the back of your cabinet.

“Is this the wine talk?” You joke, to mask the tension at the back of your spine.

“No,” Santiago says in his gravel but surprisingly warm voice, his beautiful eyes with the color that reminds you of melting hazelnut chocolate lingering on your face. The look, the gaze, it was nothing repulsive. Nothing offensive. Nothing intrusive. “I’m very much sober.”

[downtoncoquetteroach]

Summary: Reader and Fred are confused about last night, reader is a little bit too sensitive but she encounters the right person to hang out with. Neville deserves a personality so I gave him one, hope you like it.

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem reader

Fred Weasley x Fem reader

Notes:

This ended up being way longer than what I thought, sorry but I love slow burn. No smut this time just fluff and angst.

Also no Fred, just a lazy autumn Sunday.

TW: self harm, anxiety, self deprecating reader. Also not encouraging marihuana use. They wore ugly sweaters the hole time.

Words account: 2,302

Chapter One

You can also find this work on AO3 ✨

Chapter Two:

Secrets under the covers 🌼🪄

Y/n woke up at 5am not knowing what had happened, why was she half dressed half naked? A random blanket covering her, bed messy...HOLY FUCK DID SHE? Godric's beard, she did, didn't she? The muscular pain she was feeling confirmed everything.

She dressed herself before pulling the curtains and with a lot of effort, managed to get in the loo without waking up her dormates. She looked at herself in the mirror through the darkness. She saw herself confused, a mess, in and out. What happened after...? Did she just fall asleep?. Obviously Fred couldn't stay so, no reason to freak out about it, he wasn't there and that was not a bad thing, just a normal reaction to her falling asleep after giving him her virginity. Y/n decided to clean her tears and wash herself a little before coming back to bed, where she revolved, overthinking until the sun was up.

It was a Sunday so it was a relief that she didn't have to go to classes and face him in front of everyone in the great hall, that would have been a bit to fucking much given the fact that she didn't knew the state of their now relationship (?) She obviously expected him to make the first move, her dignity didn't allow her to do anything else. So she waited in her dorm for him to come and say good morning or check on her, but it was almost noon and her stomach was the only thing demanding attention. Now y/n wasn't only hurt, but starving.

Fred was awfully quiet the whole morning, internally suffering some blockage, ignoring everything and everyone around and only reacting vaguely to Lee and George. They assumed it was just a hangover but after breakfast they confronted him.

Did someone nicked your wand brother? You are acting like Hagrid's slugs after a class with Malfoy.

No, I dunno, I reckon I did something awfully stupid last night

What was it? You said no more sneaking into Snape's den by yourself

No! It's not that, it's just-

Fred's heart stopped, Y/n was coming out of the great hall, walking without any direction, slowly, lost in her own thoughts, getting dreadfully close to their spot on the grass. George followed his twin gaze and immediately knew.

No you didn't

Shut Up

You knob head! What did you do to her? She's literally an angel and you knew she was in love with you, you said you weren't ready

Shut it George!

Fred was literally screaming in whispers and that caught y/n's attention, their eyes locked for some seconds but then she turned away visibly pissed.

George hit Fred on the head.

You, me, quidditch pitch NOW!

Y/N was swallowing her tears, she couldn't let anyone seeing her like this, they would know she was a fool. An easy one. She was feeling extremely self conscious, she was ugly and naive and boring and stupid. Fred's expression was tattooed on her brain, the feeling that she wasn't wanted, ugh. Loud evil thoughts screaming all of her flaws, everyone's eyes were on her, she was painfully digging her nails on her hand to prevent public crying when she ran into on Neville.

Oh h- hi Y/n, how's your day?

She looked at his eyes, not knowing what to say, and started crying.

Blimey, y/n did I hurt you? Wanna go to Madame Pomfrey? I can carry you if you need me to! Please don't cry I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!

Neville was freaking out, his tender words making her cry even harder, all of the things she wanted Fred to say were coming out from Neville's mouth as if he knew exactly what she needed. It was ridiculous. This whole situation was rubbish.

Nev, no! It's not you, I'm sorry, its fine. I'm fine.

Y-you don't look fine. Sorry I mean

yeah I know, it's just complicated.

They stood in silence for a moment, finally Neville got an idea.

C-come with me, I'll show you something.

Y/n was cleaning her tears with her sleeve. Considering Neville's proposition. She didn't wanted to be alone on the dorm again or worse, at the common room, so she agreed.

Neville guided her to the most predictable of all places at Hogwarts: the greenhouse. She hided a smile, it was such a Neville move to assume some plants would make her feel better. She appreciated the gesture tho, he could have just ignore her or mock and leave. But she knew Neville was not that kind of guy. However, she was wrong about him, he hadn't just took her to see some weird plants moving, they were in a hidden corner of the greenhouse, looking at a blanket behind a table full of dirt and seeds.

What are we supposed to...

Shhh

Neville crouched and removed the blanket with great care and 3 small kitties appeared inside a box.

Y/n died of tenderness, to Neville's satisfaction she looked so much better than before, her energy totally shifted while she carefully tried to got closer to the sleeping creatures. They had been born 2 weeks earlier in the greenhouse, their mom sadly didn't make it through so Professor Sprout and him had been looking out for the baby's.

He sat on the ground and made a space for y/n, she followed and beamed on the little fellows.

She looked like a totally different person now, it was one of his favorite things to see. People could change so much according to their emotions, they could be totally different persons through the day, so he always had to check on them before interacting. Something inside him told him that he could trust her so, he took out his tiny can and started to roll up.

Y/n was mesmerized, she loved cats so much and had always wanted one of her own but her mother was totally against it. It took her a few minutes to look away and noticed what Neville was doing. She was shocked.

I- if it makes you feel uncomfortable I can save it for later.

She couldn't say a word. Neville was about to put his stash away when she forced herself to speak

N-No! Uhm, it's ok it's just, I never thought you-

Its just a plant, I look it up! Compared to some day use potions it's harmless you know.

I know, I've tried some back home with my childhood friends, it's just that it's kinda illegal for muggles, and very rebellious of you.

Neville laughed, he was way more confident than ever, y/n couldn't believe it, he seemed like a whole different guy. "It's always the quiet ones" her grandma has said. She watched him concentrated in the task, effortlessly rolling a joint with his long delicate fingers, such a beautiful hands made her think of Fred. Damn, remembering so suddenly only made things worst, his face while he looked at her half hour ago made her stomach turn in the worst way. Well not the worst at least it wasn't diarrhea...

Neville noticed her vibe changing, her face holding a weird expression.

Do you want to talk about it?

She stared at him, pulling her out of her dumb thoughts. How did he knew?

Are you some sort of legilimency master or something?

He just smiled

Neville Longbottom was a year younger than y/n. They were very cordial on each other, not precisely friends because he wasn't at any of her classes but, she had always had a soft spot for him, because of his family tragedy and the struggle's he had at school. He often forgot about the password to get in the common room so she was always checking on him so he wouldn't be out for too long. She hated people bullying him.

He stopped smiling and rolling, locked his gaze on her and said something that felt like a dash of cold water

You know, I saw what happened last night.

Y/n couldn't hide her disturbance, her lips parted a little bit while he carefully continued

I mean, I saw Fred following you after you left the couch, did he did something to you?

Y/n was still trying to process the sudden revelation, she felt so embarrassed, of course someone watched, probably everyone knew by now, she was feeling hot, shame crawling over her skin, about to dig her nails on her skin to prevent crying again when he put his hand on her's

I- It's ok, I didn't mean to intrude, it's just... even if I like Fred, even if he is someone I look up for, If he hurt you or anything I'll

No! He didn't, don't worry, Im fine, really.

Uhm, ok, you sure?

Yeah, sure Neville, who would have guessed you'll be such a knight on a horse, look at you, hiding all of these personality traits.

Y/n was used to mask her emotions quite well, at least most of the time and even if he make her feel safe, she didn't wanted to spoil the moment by ranting about Fred's horrid actions. She wanted to have some fun, and a spliff with Longbottom was something to tell the kids.

He observed her for a moment and carried on, getting the shit done once and for all.

After some smokes away from the kitties they got back to their sits besides them. Neville had turned on the old record player and after some minutes, a whimsical song started playing with a female voice filling the air. The greenhouse felt like it was coming more alive, the golden light of the autumn sun falling through the glass. Neville was smiling, y/n had her eyes full of sweet dreamy light, the sun hitting perfectly on them while she saw all of the things he loved revealing themselves for her for the first time.

He had always thought that there was some sort of unnamed magic on sharing the things that you loved with someone else.

You know y/n, I'm sure that one of the reasons we are alive is to be understood.

Y/n turned her head away from him and started shaking violently, hands on her face, not a sound coming out.

Hey what's wrong!

Neville was trying to pull her hands out of her face to see if she was choking or something but then she finally managed to laugh out loud and roll on the floor

Ugh, though you were dying or something

She laughed harder

"You can go on your own way" as he said, Neville exclaimed.

Y/n was still trying to recover but put some attention to the song

I don't want to shaking up you know, I wanted him to be my boyfriend, not just fucked him

Neville's face went full red

So, I'm truly the last virgin on Hogwarts? Cheers.

Oh no Neville don't say that, there are first years that haven't -

Neville laughed

Shut it you damn creep

They fall in silent again, and some fierce song filled the room.

Damn Neville that's good, what is it?

Fleetwood Mac, it's American.

I had never ever heard of them, are they new?

Nah

How did you came to have such a gourmet taste in music?

Ahm, this is my mother's, she kinda lent it to me.

Y/n felt silent, the weight of Neville's words falling over her, she knew what had happened to Neville's parents, she found out one day from professor McGonagall talking to Madam Rosmerta on the Three broomstick s. Y/n had felt so much sorrow for it all.

Neville felt the need to fill the silent

L-last nights record was mine too you know, Andromeda Black send it to my mother as a gift some years ago.

Oh wow, really?

Yeah, she's like a muggle record dealer for wizards with strange interests.

Y/n was lying on the floor looking at the clouds through the ceiling windows. Neville was such a bad ass behind the scenes, he was probably the coolest kid in the whole school

How can you be so cool? You are not even trying, it's so not fair Longbottom.

He felt a twist inside his stomach, cheeks wildly blushing. One of the things he liked the most from y/n was that she always said the things she thought about people to their faces, specially compliments, must of the people would be embarrassed to say such nice things to others, scared of what they could interpret, but not y/n. She was brave and sweet at the same time.

It started to get dark, they were really hungry, exhausted from all the laughter.

Ugh I'm so hungry but I don't want to go and have dinner with all of the Gryffindor's. I'm usually with them and everyone will notice me not talking to them.

Neville had an idea.

Why don't you go to my room and wait, I'll bring us dinner.

Really? Would you do that?

Sure

Neville stood and helped Y/n who had sleeping legs, he made her run and the laughed all the way up to the castle.

They had a great dinner, never shutting up about their favorite desserts, records and bands, the fact that Neville didn't knew that much about muggle concerts or y/n didn't knew about the wizard's society because she was a muggle born.

They pulled the curtains and made a silence spell to avoid Ron and the others, prolonging their now sleepover.

They were awfully comfortable, a weird feeling of belonging pulling them. They felt like they had known each other all their lives. They fell asleep while they shared secrets under the covers.

[mikrokosmcs]

moon  yiahn  -  humano  -  25  años  -  16  de  noviembre  de  1999  -  escorpio  -  corredor  de  carreras  clandestinas  (the  snakes)  -   fc:  choi  yeonjun

tw: sexual abuse, abuse in general, todo lo malo del mundo xq lo escribí yo.

HISTORIA

Nació en una familia caótica y disfuncional, su madre abandonó el nido desde que era muy pequeño y eso llevó a que Yiahn se criara con su padre drogadicto y alcohólico. Fue abusado física y verbalmente durante largos años de su vida, orillándolo a seguir los mismos pasos delictivos de su padre desde temprana edad.

Su padre se “juntó” con una mujer que desde que tenía diez años hasta los quince, abusó sexualmente de él. Su padre estaba tan drogado que no le importaba ver lo evidente, fingiendo que nada pasaba y solo recriminándoselo cuando le daba una paliza por “provocar” a su nueva esposa.

Yiahn fue criado por la calle, prefiriendo mil veces recibir palizas de los policías y los pandilleros que, de su propia familia, que estar en presencia de la mujer que lo torturaba. Por ende, con quince años abandonó el nido y nunca más volvió a voltear hacia atrás, sin interesarle si viven o mueren.

Vagó por varios meses, sobreviviendo de hurtar y en edificios abandonados, entre drogadictos y prostitutas, aprendiendo rápidamente el arte de todos ellos. Yiahn comenzó a venderse para costearse una cena caliente, hasta que cayó en manos de Joohyeon, líder y pandillero de un grupo llamado “the snakes”.

Joohyeon lo acogió bajo su ala, en un principio haciéndolo correr pequeños mandados para la banda, luego comenzó a montarlo en una motocicleta notando su habilidad natural, gracias a su incapacidad de sentir peligro por lo que llegar a la meta a como diese lugar no era un problema. No pasó mucho tiempo hasta que deseó compartir la cama con él, Yiahn apenas tenía 16 años y su ahora novio, le llevaba diez años más.

Actualmente, Yiahn es la cabeza de la banda y es quien compite en nombre de ellos contra otras bandas. También es quien recoge el dinero de las drogas que distribuyen, y se dedica también a escabullirse como una serpiente para conseguir información. A Joohyeon no le importa si recibe de golpes, amenazas o si tiene que dormir con las personas para conseguir los objetivos que le benefician a él, porque sabe que lo tiene amarrado de una correa que nunca podrá desatar y Yiahn lo único que desea sentir, es estabilidad.

DATOS EXTRAS

Sufre de insensibilidad al dolor y una carencia del miedo, no padece como tal un trastorno o una enfermedad, simplemente al parecer su cerebro decidió apagarse luego del trauma y los abusos.

Si hubiese podido estudiar algo, le gustaría haber sido veterinario. Los animales son su debilidad más grande y por quienes no dudaría meter las manos al fuego.

Le gusta dormir con hombres, especialmente mayores, mucho mejor si le pagan por ello.

Tiene un repudio por las mujeres y no tolera ni siquiera que lo toquen.

Es adicto a la marihuana y consume cocaína y cristal cuando es obligado por su novio.

[locobastaaa]

HAIKYUU: Mejores y Peores compas de PORRO!

Personajes: Kuroo, Tendou, Akaashi, Sugawara, Daichi, Iwaizumi, Kenma, Bokuto, Hinata, Asahi, Yamaguchi, Ushijima, Oikawa, Lev, Tsukishima, Atsumu, Kageyama

Me saco el lado argento y ecribo un headcanon q me surgio hace bastante

Tw: consumo de marihuana, algunos vomitan, chiste de deportar a Lev, son MAYORES en este fic!! (no consuman si son menores)

Mejores

1- Kuroo (ree chill arma increible y te cuenta historias y datos re interesantes, te deja apoyarte en su pecho mientras te abraza y hablan, toman pepsi fria y comen papas)

2- Tendou (muchos contactos de dealers, arma bastante bien y le agarra alto viaje mistico, le copa ver pelis flasheras bajo el efecto pero no entiende nada ni puede seguir la trama, lo babea un toque asiq menos puntos x eso, un cago de risa si lo juntas con Kuroo. Lo posee su chef interior y te intenta de hacer comida y esta god)

3- Akaashi (si no le da un brote psicótico pobre pibe esta en la suya y se pone profundo/sentimental y bastante cariñoso. Se abre de la nada y cuenta de sus problemas, basicamente todo lo q sobrepiensa lo dice en voz alta, se le borra el filtro)

4- Suga (se pone profundo y se re suelta, tal vez se nos queda dormido, le gustan los savorizados de eucalipto/lavanda, no sabe armar igual)

5- Daichi (afloja el culo fruncido y te cagas de risa, tira de la nada el comentario mas shockeante del mundo, no se acuerda de nada el dia siguiente y si se acuerda lo niega rotundamentepa)

6- Iwa (arma decente pero le agarra rapido la mano, bastante chill, no para de hablar mal de Oikawa pero se caga de risa y le gusta salir a boludear x los supers)

7- Kenma (suuper tranqui medio q le da nauseas pero no dice nada y al toque se le van, se rie a veces en voz baja pero no sabes de que, medio cagaso pero es re lindo asiq lo perdonamos, se pega la siesta de su vida casi llaman a una ambulancia xq parecia q no respiraba al dia siguiente

Peores

1-Bokuto (se pone insoportable bajate de la heladera pendejo pelotudo, no para de hablar y de reírse y se intenta hacer amigo de tu viejo con la baranda a marihuana q maneja de pedo no lo saco cagando)

2- Hinata (si no muere instantáneamente termina vomitando todo solo con el olor, lo MATO, le pega al toque y fuertisimo pobre nene)

3- Asahi (le agarra un derrame no lo vemos mas, multiplicador de depresion)

4- Yamaguchi (vomita todo flaco hiciste 2 pitadas, después se pone q llorar xq le da culpa)

5- Ushijima (no se como lo convencieron a q fume pero muy mal viaje, no entiende nada, se olvida q mide 3 metros y va tirando cosas sin querer, flashea entrenamiento en medio del viaje astral y se empieza a sentir mal de la panza, no le gusta la experiencia y no quiere hacerlo nunca más, medio q los gaslightea sin querer a los otros para q se sientan mal cuando consumen)

6- Oikawa (no para de llorar callenlo, se te tira encima pero no calcula q es pesadisimo y te aplasta, ya en el piso con vos abajo sin respirar se queda dormido y moris afixiado)

7- Tsukishima (se hace el agrandado y desp se pone del orto, mas irritable de lo normal, desp se niega a compartir colchon)

8- Atsumu (cerra el ORTO, se le infla la cabeza del choto e intenta chamuyarse a ser q se mueva, mi vieja esta casada y te triplica en edad loco para de tirarle onda te voy a asesinar)

9- Kageyama (la re mal viaja pero esta callado asiq no me quejo, se levanta una vez en toda la noche para ir al 'baño' y caldea hasta el techo)

10- Lev (otro q es insoportable, no para de cantar y gritar, te tenes q contener de darle vuelta la cabeza de una piña posta no se calla y te hace un headlock en forma de cariño pero te apreta la cabeza y te duele pero cuando le decis como esta cantando a todo pulmon no te escucha, Kenma lo hace recapacitar de el pedazo de grito q le pega, lo deja llorando. Es del tipo que dice cada 10 segundos 'estoy re ido locooo' si ya se Lev te voy a deportar).