#zero the lobby boy

[prismaticxchromatics]

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) Director: Wes Anderson

"Rudeness is merely an expression of fear. People fear they won't get what they want. The most dreadful and unattractive person only needs to be loved, and they will open up like a flower."

[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

��Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

-> PART TWO HERE.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[clovermoters]

Slim Pickin’s

☕️ ln4 x bestfriend!reader

☕️ where your childhood wish becomes a reality

☕️ warnings - none !! just some fluff and kisses

☕️ word count 1.5k

☕️ a/n : so i heard sabrina carpenters song that’s gonna be on short n’ sweet and then this was born two days later !! enjoy <33

“Maybe I'm gay.”

your best friend, lando, looks at you, confused. “what?” he asks through a chuckle.

you were fed up. The number of douchebag men that you have in your phone and not one of them has ever made it to a second date. That fact makes you want to rip your eyeballs out.

“maybe god just forgot my gay awakening and that’s why i can’t find a boyfriend! maybe i just don’t like men.” you throw your head back on the couch in lando’s living room in monaco.

“i doubt that he just forgot,” lando giggles

you knew this wasn't true. you knew you liked men and only men. because you definitely liked the man sitting at your feet, and you have since you were both 15. you’ve just never ever told him.

And you planned to keep it that way.

you groaned. “No, Lando, you don’t get it! it’s slim pickings around here. half the men in my phone don’t even know the difference between there, their and they’re!” quiet giggles from the man sitting across the couch from you filled the room.

Lando knew you were only joking, yet he can’t help but feel bad at your lack of dating life when he has models flocking toward him at all hours of the day. granted, the girl he wants isn’t even a model. In fact, she’s sitting right in front of him, sprawled out on his couch, complaining about boys. but she didn’t know that.

And he planned on keeping it that way.

—

Throughout your week-long stay in Monaco, you decided to set yourself on a mission to meet a guy and go on a date. On the fourth day, you were successful!

During a coffee run while lando streamed, you met a guy who asked you out to dinner the following night. You were so excited since given your history, the chance of a guy asking you out was close to zero. When he asked you even scanned your surroundings to make sure he was talking to you specifically.

you were getting ready in the guest room of lando’s apartment, since you were staying there during your visit.

while applying your lip liner and gloss, you heard a knock on the door. “Hey, what are you thinking we do for din- woah.”

the curly haired brunette stared at you in awe. you were always beautiful in his eyes, yet right now he was looking at you like you were the only girl in the world. it then clicks in lando’s head that you’re not dressed for him. “Why are you all dressed up?!” he teases, a mischievous smirk on his face.

“oh i have a date!” you hum with a smile.

he looks at you confused, like he doesn’t believe you fully. leaning against the doorway “what happened to slim pickings?” he pokes, crossing his arms atop his chest.

“can’t a girl meet a guy and go on a date? gosh.” you scoff, slightly annoyed that he’s teasing you over this. you’d hoped he would be happy you’re crawling your way out of this slump of being single. it was one of the things you loved about him — how he always treated you with nothing but kindness and support.

“Fine, fine, whatever. have fun, i guess” he turns around and ducks into his office, closing the door harsher than you expected. Just as you make a mental reminder to have a talk with him about it, your phone chimes — your date is waiting in the lobby.

lando watches you from the cracked doorway of his office, as you do a final check of your makeup in the mirror of the mud room. he thought you looked beautiful and was silently raging at the fact he isn’t the man you’ve dressed up for tonight. he’s liked you since you both were young kids running through the suburban bristol streets while your parents sat on the patio of his childhood home socializing over cocktails.

You were always there to support him through his racing career and you were the first person he called after McLaren chose to extend his contract. While he doubted himself and everyone told him to leave, you told him to follow his heart and do what felt right to him. Now, he’s a race winner with the team he calls home. To him, it’s always been you. You have always been the girl he pictured his life with.

But his gut always told him you’d never return these feelings back to him.

—

your date went horrible. All the guy did was talk about himself. and once he found out you were friends with some celebrities, the date had ended there for you. although you got some free drinks and a meal out of it. it only made you fall further into this loneliness.

the elevator dings, signaling you’ve arrived at the floor of lando’s apartment. you stumble to lando’s door. the alcohol takes effect and makes you trip into the door, startling Lando who’s standing just on the other side, waiting for you. He throws the door open, finding you standing there with slightly messed up hair and a frown on your face.

“c’mere,” he says quietly, taking you to the couch. sat on the coffee table in front of you, he gently took your foot into his lap. you feel his soft touch as he gently removes your heels from your feet. sending shivers down your spine.

“It was horrible. all he did was talk about himself,” you say frustrated. “I also accidentally let it slip that I knew you, oh, and don’t even get me started on his horrible taste in just about everything.”

He helps you up, taking you to the bathroom and sitting you down on the counter. He rummages through your toiletries bag, before taking out your makeup remover. As he starts removing your makeup, you study every inch of his face, counting every freckle and watching the way his jaw muscles clench as he focuses.

god he was beautiful.

you feel a lump in your throat as tears begin to fill your eyes.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Lando asks, halting his movements.

“it’s just- i'm pretty sure every good man in this world is either taken or dead and its not fair.” you say letting a stray tear fall. in your head you knew you were being dramatic, but the three glasses of wine you had to get through that date have taken full control of your emotions.

Lando chuckles lightly, folding with the used makeup wipe in his hands, he looks to you “well, i’m neither of those things.” he says softly, almost as if he’s upset.

fuck. shit.

“no, no, wait, lando- i didn’t mean it like that, you're a great guy. an amazing guy actually.” you say quickly. he smiles at you as you continue to ramble “i mean, shit, i’d date you in a heartbeat-“

“what?”

you slap your hand over your mouth. holy fuck, did you really just say that? and Lando not saying anything just solidifies that he doesn’t return your feelings. Lando is staring at you like you’ve got three heads coming out of both of your ears.

you start to panic “i’m sorry, i don’t know why i said that, forget i said any-“ you’re cut off with the feeling of lando’s lips crashing into yours. his hands gently cup your face as he kisses you. you instantly return the kiss. The world slowly falls away leaving just the two of you. your hands moving to find home in his curl, slightly pulling on them. Lando releases a quiet groan. His hands work their way down your body to rest on your hips, gently pulling you closer to him.

Lando pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. “I have literally loved you since we were 16.”

you smile at him, “i love you, too.”

The two of you find yourself in Lando's bed watching your favorite movie, wrapped up in eachother. Lando turns his head to look down at you resting on his chest. Admiring your sleepy state as you attempt to stay focused on the movie he gave up on watching. How can he focus on anything else when you were sitting next to him?

the girl he's wanted since the two of you sat on his porch on a late summer night, eating the ice cream his mother tried to hide. giggles filling the air while you pointed out constellations to lando, chatting about where you wanted to be in 5 years.

“Well I hope to be in formula 1” Lando admitted. “You'll be there, I'm sure of it.” you added giving lando a smile he swore was brighter than the stars sat above.

He gasps slightly “don't move”

you freeze as he reaches a hand to your cheek, softly swiping a fallen eyelash holding it in front you.

“Make a wish” he breathed.

You shut your eyes tight, emphasizing the wish you were making before taking a big breath and sending the eyelash into the air. Followed by the sound of giggles coming from the brunette, he asks what you wished for. “If i tell you it won't come true!” you gasp faking offense.

who knew that after 8 years, your wish would finally came true.

🤍☕️.

AYAYAYAYAY ALL DONE !!

big thank u too my lovely friend who edited this and helped me <33

[livelaughloveluffy]

imagine luffy confessing his admiration and love for you after seeing each other after 2 years, before being separated the two of you were becoming more intimate with each other and seeking one another out during downtimes cuddling, holding hands, or just wanting the comfort of one another

confession - monkey d. luffy

a/n: thank you for the ask!!! it literally came at the perfect time!! i was planning on writing a confession series with the boys and i love your addition to the prompt!! since you specifically said two years, i think you know exactly where i'm going with this, so luffy's confession will take place post-time skip!! these will definitely be longer fics, but know that there will definitely be similar fics in the future!

a/n: i did proof-read, however it was more like proof-skimmed if im being honest

enies lobby // paramount war spoilers under the cut!!!

ngl, there's a little bit hurt here... but there is also plenty of comfort and fluff to make up for it 😭💀

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the first thing you learned about your captain was that he has zero concept of personal space. this wasn't something that particularly bothered you.. however it was definitely an adjustment from what you were used to.

as one of first few members to join the straw hat pirates, you and luffy had lots of time with just the two of you, giving you more than your fair share of opportunities to get to know each other. the captain really enjoyed your presence, as you seemed to just get him. it was one of the many reasons he asked you to join his crew in the first place. but in actuality, he was always drawn to you from the second he first saw you.

something about the way you carried yourself, so elegantly but so sure of yourself, even in combat you were a wonder to his eyes. when he finally got a chance to talk to you, he suddenly just had this overwhelming feeling that he couldn't imagine a life without you in it.

many days and night on the going merry were spent making sharing jokes and obnoxiously laughing at them, sneaking way too many snacks from the kitchen until sanji caught you both, and tons of crazy and fun adventures were shared together.

the countless times luffy would run up to you with a huge smile on his face, grabbing your hand in his, exclaiming "you have to see this!! come on!!" before he would whisk you away to some small silly shenanigan of his was a frequent occurrence, but one that you had become to enjoy dearly.

the second his fingers interlocked around yours, everything just felt better, even for just a second. and you could've sworn he felt it too. he'd smile just a bit wider, laugh a bit louder, and pull you a little bit closer.

•♡•

it wasn't until the shock of losing robin and breaking into enies lobby to rescue her that had finally bonded you two even closer than you already were. watching luffy being unable to move after defeating rob lucci had to be one to the scariest moments of your life.

it wasn't until the whole crew was back together on a new ship ready to conquer your next adventure, that you finally got some alone time with luffy. you and chopper had to beg him to rest and recover from his injuries. but he only agreed to do so if you kept him company.

"lu, are you awake?" you whispered, walking into the dark shared boys room, finding luffy laying down on his cot. "chopper said it's time to take your meds, so i brought them for you."

a tired and groggy luffy rolled over to greet you, taking a seat at the edge of his cot, you smoothed down his crazy bed-head before handing him is meds. "do i have to take them?" he pleaded, eyes wide in hopes he could make you pity him enough to say no. "i'll get sanji to make you an extra dessert if you do" with that being said, he took his meds without any more hesitation or fussing.

you began standing up from his cot, ready to sweet-talk your way to a special dessert made my sanji (he didn't need to know who it was really for anyways), when luffy grabbed your hand stopping you in your tracks. "where are you going? i thought you'd stay here with me?"

"i was just going to get sanji to start on-" but before you could finish your sentence, your captain pulled you into his arms and cot. "i don't want you to leave yet.." he said, whining with his face buried in the crook of your neck "stay for a little bit longer.."

who were you to disobey the captain's orders?

•♡•

cuddling with your captain was truly a special event. it wasn't nearly as common as you had hoped, since luffy often refuses to sit still long enough for it to happen.

warm rubber limbs wrapped two times too many around your body, his soft dark brown hair tickling your cheek as he buried his face in your neck and shoulder. luffy smelled like the ocean breeze, sweat, and sunshine (which sounds crazy, but if sunshine had a smell, it would smell like luffy), a scent that you had grown so extremely comforted by, it felt like a warm hug, or just getting home after a long day.

"lu, don't you want me to get your dessert?" you whispered. his soft tired voice only had enough energy to mumble out a soft "later.." before he drifted off to sleep.

and just for tonight, you would stay. soaking up this opportunity and holding onto it for dear life.

•♡•

when your crew had initially stopped at sabaody, you truly thought you were in for a fun time. yes, you always expected a little hitch in the plans, that's just natural considering your captain, but nothing could prepare you for what was to come.

•♡•

as per usual, you're running for your lives from government officials, and countless other enemies, this time the stakes higher than they had ever been before, with crew members disappearing right in front of your eyes. before you knew it, it was just you and luffy left. tears welling in your eyes as luffy lets out an ear-shattering scream for you to just run.

you swear you didn't even see bartholomew kuma in front of you, but the next thing you knew you were shooting through the sky, heading god knows where, separated from your crew and your beloved captain.

•♡•

the island you ended up at was less than ideal. between fighting for your life daily, attempting to find some sort of civilization, and being separated from the people you loved the most in the world, you really couldn't imagine anything worse.

that wasn't until the day you finally found a town, hordes of people were crowding a newspaper stand, after making your way through the crowd, and grabbing a paper to see what all the fuss was about, did your heart finally break into two.

the headline read: portgas d. ace - died in action during paramount war

your eyes began to overflow with tears, just imagining the amount of pain luffy was in, and you could do absolutely nothing to help. you momentarily lost yourself in the grief of it all, the man you loved, separated from the people he loved and trusted the most, witnessing the death of his brother right in front of his eyes, all alone.

and the shock didn't end there. when a couple days later, a pit of dread inside your stomach when you heard the same crowds out again huddled around the newspaper stand, only to find your captain on the cover.

at first, knowing he was safe and somewhat okay made you drop to your knees with relief that you almost overlooked the drawing on his arm: 3D2Y

•♡•

the only thing that got you through those 2 years always from luffy and the crew was keeping extremely busy. if you weren't constantly training in combat, practicing new techniques with your devil fruit, reading anything and everything under the sun from history to medicine to stupid trashy romance novels, learning new languages, and a thousand other skills. you hardly had time for sleep, let alone time to think, because if for a second you stopped, you would fall apart.

•♡•

it was by sheer luck you managed to avoid the hassle that caribou and his crew had caused, turns out you made the right call to just stay aboard the sunny.

the second your eyes met luffy and his feet touched the deck, his arms were already wrapped around you so tight that you forgot how to breathe for a second. after 2 years of holding back your tears, this one hug is what finally made you come undone. you buried your face into the crook of your captain's neck, and he placed his hand on top of your head, stroking your hair as you sobbed. "i missed you too, so much more than you know." he whispered as he held you, this time he'd never let you go again.

•♡•

the voyage to fishman island proved to be the best time for the crew to finally relax and get to enjoy in each other's presence for the first time in years, truly a great reason for an over-the-top banquet on its own. and boy, what a banquet it was.

•♡•

you had deeply missed girl talk with robin and nami, all three of you sharing stories from your time apart, when a hand suddenly slipped into yours. you turn your head to the bright wide hazel eyes of your captain "um.. there's something i want to tell you...in private.." he said, with this adorable little lopsided smile with a hint of blush spreading across his cheeks that you had never seen before, but committed to memory the second you did. the girls smiled at you, gesturing it was okay to step away and you could catch up later.

he whisked you away to his favorite spot, the top of the hull, in a painful amount of silence. your mind suddenly overwhelmed conjuring up the millions of things he could possible say to you. after helping you get atop the lion's head of the thousand sunny, with luffy standing in front of you, he placed his hands hips lifting you up and letting you wrap your legs around his waist before he gently sat down, and then your mind just stopped.

the familiar warmth of luffy's chest pressed against yours, arms around your back, and cheek pressed up against yours with his chin resting on your shoulder. oh, how you had missed this.

turning your face ever so slightly to look at his, did you finally meet his eyes. with a small smile, he looked at you and with a small giggle and a tiny voice he said "hi". you couldn't help but let your heart melt right there as you shyly smiled back and returned the greeting.

with your eyes still on his, you couldn't help but ask "lu, what did you want to talk to me about?" the curiosity and suspense was starting to make you want to crawl out of your skin.

"oh! right!! i wanted to tell you that i love you!" he cheerly replied, so casual that you questioned if you had misheard him.

you couldn't help yourself but to ask for clarification "wait, what did you just say luffy?"

and with his usual luffy smile, he loudly and proudly repeated the words you thought you misheard "i said i love you!!"

for a second, your heart stopped. "you love me? lu, are you su-"

but before you could begin to question him, he put a hand on the side of your face and pulled you in for a small kiss. once his lips finally left yours, you looked at him with wide eyes and bright red cheeks, searching for an explanation.

he softly began to explain "i couldn't wait to tell you any longer... after these past two years.. i just... i want you to know that i love you."

your eyes turned glassy, and with your captain's wide waiting eyes, you couldn't stop yourself as the words "i love you too, lu." poured out of your mouth. pulling your captain as close as you could to you, you held him knowing this time you'd never have to let him go.

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a/n: ahhhhhhhhh, i live and die for calling luffy "lu", its truly my favorite pet name in the world for him 😭😭😭 hopefully i was able to do your ask some justice!!

a/n: i just checked my activity center on tumblr and !!!! omg thank you so much for 100 followers!! the amount of love and support i've been receiving on my fics genuinely means the world to me!! so if you're new, or just now finding my blog, thank you for being here!!!

a/n: enjoyed this fic? you can find my masterlist here!!

[drgnflyteabox]

Malewife Gaz comes back from deployment desperate for his mean, office siren gf <3

MDNI / dub con-ish / public sex / overstim / anal play / grinding / Kyle is kinda gross lol I luv him / he eats it from the back :D / they're both switches / squirting

Reader works in an office, but it's not clear what she does. She does have her own private office though ;) you go girl!

You're ignoring him.

Your phone isn't turned off, it's not even on silent, but you haven't flipped it right side up despite the near constant buzzing. Kyle has been texting, calling, but you're cross at the moment and don't feel like having it out with him on a work day.

You should turn your phone off. It's distracting, and a little inappropriate to have it making so much noise even through the walls cushioning your personal office.

The thing is, it's a little gratifying that he's desperately trying to reach you. Part of it is the satisfaction that he's a little anxious and wants to make it up, and part of it is wanting him to be extra sorry when you gets home.

Kyle had been able to call you all through the past month despite being on deployment. At least twice a week, you'd be laid up in bed or tucked away on lunch in your office telling him about your day. A rare treat for someone of his vocation, and something you appreciated greatly. The expectation you always set for yourself was zero contact - something to keep you from being hurt or placing more stress on him. Truly, your workaholic tendencies made you perfect for somebody that spent so much time deployed. When he came back, he made you take a break. There was a balance.

Typically you'd get a window of time for when he'd be back home. Your favourite thing to do was to cook a British classic for the occasion, usually bangers and mash - his favourite. You always had his preferred beer too, a brand you noticed he copied from Price. So cute. Yesterday morning he'd sent you a message that he'd be home for 9pm, a little late for dinner but the boys wanted to catch up at their favourite pub before they separated.

Only last night you'd sat at the table waiting for two full hours by yourself before giving up. His meal was packed in the fridge while you'd eaten yours by yourself on the couch with a glass of wine, texts going unanswered.

The worst part wasn't that he hadn't shown up. Sometimes that happened, when missions ran long or he'd gotten too into his cups with his team. It was annoying, but your tradition was to spend the day together when he got back, and you didn't mind having breakfast with him instead. You just didn't appreciate that he didn't even call or text about it, and that in the morning you found him sprawled on the couch with just his boxers and a mess of clothing tossed on the ground from the door to the living room couch. Socks, pants, his tank top.

So, petty as you are, you go to work and forego the tradition. Ignoring him. You dressed nice, too, black stockings and as tarty as you could without getting a call from HR. He hadn't seen you leave, but you wanted to get home and remind him what he was missing.

Your office phone rang once, twice, "hello?" The secretary at the front of the building was a nice enough lady, but she rarely called you directly. "Your lunch is here - the deliveryman is just waiting."

"Deliveryman?" You say skeptically. You hadn't ordered lunch. You'd brought Kyle's leftovers.

"Yep. Should I send him up?" Though you probably know who it is, you tell her you'll be down in the lobby instead. You'd prefer to be safe than sorry, in case it isn't Kyle.

It is.

He looks like a kicked puppy, holding some kind of takeout bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. He knows you love Los Vaqueros, the little coffeeshop next door. It's probably a macadamia nut latte, your favourite.

"Babe," he starts, sounding a little rough. Probably battling a hangover. He's wearing your favourite shirt, a tight black compression shirt that shows off his tits. Grey running sweats. Oh, he's good. "Is your phone dead?"

"I've got a pretty busy day today, Kyle," you're a little snotty about it. Your hip is cocked to the side. You want him to work a little. "I was in the middle of a meeting."

"You can't be that mad at me. I brought you macadamia and a caesar wrap. Come on, baby." He shifts the bag into the same hand as the coffee, using the other to show you his palm in apology.

You peer at him a little warily. It's times like this you wish he wasn't so tall, so that you could look at him all judgemental secretary like. You settle for arching a brow and squinting. "Go away now, I'll see you at home. I better not see any dirty socks on my floor, either."

"I cleaned them this morning, I swear."

"Good. Now scram, and give me that coffee." You reach for the coffee, but he intercept and grabs your elbow. Pulling you closer. "What- kyle--" his hands slides up to your upper back, making you shiver. When you don't pull away, he grins like a schoolboy and starts steering you down the hall. "I have work -!"

"I know, baby, but I really wanna make it up to you. Let me make it up to you." He's speaking quietly as to not alert the secretary a few feet away. He's leading you to the bathroom.

"No! Kyle, I'm at work. Goddammit, I have things to do-"

"No you don't." When you've turned the corner and are out of sight, he slides his hand from your back to your ass, squeezing hard, making you squeak. "And I need you. I woke up so hard. I need your pussy." He's close to whining, tucking his face close to your ear, smelling your hair.

Your voice goes high pitched, flustered, not expecting him to try and cajole you into fucking in a public bathroom. At your workplace no less. "We can't!"

He used to do this when you first started dating; get needy, corner you in some barely secluded place and get you both off one way or another. Quick and dirty. He swore he never fucked anyone else while deployed, and if it wasn't the trust you had in him it was how desperate he seemed to get when he got back that assured you of his faithfulness. Sometimes it was your favourite, just how whiney and flustered he would get. As a treat, if he'd been very good during dinner, you'd wake him up by sucking him off the morning he got back. Surely he had missed that this morning, what with how fast he'd led you to the employee bathroom. Good.

He locks the door behind you, and you let him kiss you a little. You don't see him put your food down, but he must because both his hands squeeze your waist. You rub your thighs together to soothe the pulsing arousal building in your belly.

You hand goes to his chest, pushing him. He's so strong, it takes you slapping his chest and shoulders to move back, panting. "We can't, I'm serious. Do you want me to get fired?"

He licks his lips, not even looking you in the eye. "You won't get fired, baby. Just be quiet. Let me take care of you-" you interrupt him by grabbing his face and squeezing his cheeks hard, making his lips pucker up.

"Can you not think with your cock? Couldn't you have dropped lunch off and waited for me back home like a good boy?"

He slides his big hands down your waist to your hips, tilting his hard cock so its pressed against you. Despite you holding him, he walks you both forward until your back hits the wall and he can grind against you hard. "Kyle- I'm not kidding," you say sternly, but don't move away. His cock rubs deliciously against your mons, not quite where you want it, but a good enough tease that your breath shudders out in a moan.

"Please, please, let me," he begs, grinding. Pressing his body right up to yours. You acquiesce a little, moving your hand from his face to down his pants and into his boxers. "Hrmmn-nn fuck, fuck," he whines. Bypassing his dick, you feel him start to hump desperately, like a dog. He shudders hard and you're squashed against the wall as you palm his balls, playing with them a little. You feel wetness drip down your wrist.

"Did you just come?" Honestly, you're delighted, but you make sure your tone is disappointed. Mean. Your pussy squeezes, wets your panties a little more. "Bad boy. I thought you were going to make it up to me?"

"Oh fuck, thank you baby. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you still. Just give me a second."

"No way. Get to work." It's easy to bully him a little when he's so fresh from his orgasm. You push him onto his knees and lift a heel to rest it on that big, muscular thigh.

Your tits feel squashed in your bra as you breathe hard, looking down at him. He pushes his forehead against your stomach, pushing your skirt up while murmuring something into the fabric. You palm yourself, pinch your own nipples through the fabric. Feeling empowered, your hand goes to his hair and you grind your panty covered pussy right on his nose.

"Go on."

He licks you through the fabric, long laps of his tongue. Sucks on where your clit is, wetting the fabric. Kyle grips your thighs and pulls them wider apart, making you teeter dangerously on one heel, the other digging into his leg. He mouths at your panties and bites gently at you while your scratch his scalp and neck.

He moans, and finally pushes your underwear down. You clench as your wetness is exposed to the air, cooling you. Your clit stands up, peeking out of your hood. He gives it a little lick, directly on the underside where you're most sensitive. It makes you jump, not expecting it. He doesn't let you move away, instead wrapping his lips around you and sucking, hard.

"Oh Jesus--" your knees buckle a little, "Kyle, fuck," he pulls back and turns you around forcefully, making you arch. His hand finds your ankle and lifts your leg up and out, tongue finding your cunt once again. He eats you out like he's making out with you, like a sloppy kiss. His other hand squeezes where your ass and thigh meet, spreading you open.

"I missed you so much," he says. "I missed this pretty little cunt. Oh, jesus, I'm hard again." Of course he is - his refractory period has always been quick. This is a new record, though. "Can I fuck you, baby?"

You have to really force your words out, with how he spreads your asscheeks and licks your other hole. "Nn- no. You haven't - haven't earned it yet."

Kyle doesn't say anything to that, just curls his tongue in your ass and let's your ankle go to pinch your clit between two fingers, twisting it. You shout, then go still, remembering where you are. "Kyle --!" It sneaks up on you, how fast your orgasm comes. From your toes to your nipples, electricity shoots through you and tightens your skin. You tremble violently, soaking his fingers and his face. He stands up while you go through the aftershocks, hands stroking your belly and holding you from behind, crowding you and making you feel safe.

Kyle kisses your nape, sucks your earlobe a little. Waits like a gentleman. You lean back against him and squeeze his fingers.

"I'm gonna fuck you now." He's not asking anymore, and you're boneless, so you just spread your legs and let him push his cock into you slowly, enjoying the stretch. It makes you rise onto your tiptoes, letting him take your weight. He rocks into you slowly at first, hands roaming from your stomach to your tits to your throat. Pinching and squeezing, having earned your submission.

"I missed you too," you admit finally, breathily. "I love you, big boy."

Kyle hums, sucking a mark into your neck, picking up his pace. "I love you too." He nibbles on you a little. His thumb finds your asshole again, pushing in, making you whine high and thin. "You gonna be a good girl and come all over my cock? I've been waiting for this, you know. Your pussy feels like home."

Your cunt drips on him, making wet little sounds while he fucks you hard against the wall. You're still sensitive from coming earlier, so you squirm on his cock, squeezing around him. "Come inside me, please," you beg. You need to feel it. He uses his free hand to push your face into the wall, bucking into you once, twice, then holding himself taut as a bowstring. His hips grind minutely against your ass while he comes, flooding your pussy.

Kyle doesn't let you go, just pulls his cock and thumb out quickly, taking advantage of your stupor to cup your pussy and roughly squeeze your clit. You yelp, jumping, but keep your legs spread. Your peak is building again, and he knows it. Two of his big fingers find your stretched hole and push in, curling and rubbing viciously until the pressure builds and builds and your pussy contracts, pleasure slicing through your abdomen painfully. You cover your mouth with your hands just barely in time to shout, knees buckling with your orgasm.

If not for Kyle holding you up, you'd have fallen down to the floor. You shake, feeling cored. He nuzzles you sweetly, licking your ear. His hand pets your pussy gently until you push him away, way too sensitive.

"Can I take you home, babygirl?"

"Yes please," your voice is a croak.

Kyle is a little inconsiderate in this but I hope it didn't read as angst and more playfulness between established partners <3<3 I feel like Kyle is a very noble character and he puts a lot of pressure on himself. Always worrying about what the right thing is. I figure with reader he can let go a little :') reader is a little miffed but she's soft for her man <3

Also I wrote this on my phone between shifts during a 13 hour day so please forgive any typos or grammar mistakes

[rodentluvrr]

A helping hand

Pairing: Law x reader Summary: When you're rushing to submit your university application on the last possible day, an unexpected encounter with a tall, tattooed surgeon at a hotel makes everything a bit less/more complicated. CW: Anxiety, procrastination, swearing, college mentioned Word count: 3k+ words Tags: Modern AU, romance, enemies to lovers lowkey, slow burn, humor, surgeon/medical A/N: YOU FREAKS IM BACK‼️‼️ This fic literally happened to me in real life like it's inspired from personal experience —well, unfortunately without the Law part—but it felt like something straight out of a movie/fanfic and it NEEDED to exist out there. Anyway so if any of you want a continuation perhaps....it could turn into a series????😏 I had so much fun writing the dialogue between law and reader. Hope u enjoyyy. Let me know what u think :)

Returning from a short vacation at your parents’ house should have been easy. But today, it felt unbearable. The heat was suffocating, the city streets felt endless, and none of it compared to the real problem at hand—the fact that today was the deadline for your university application.

You had plenty of time. You knew this was coming. And yet, you spent the past week lounging on your parents’ couch, ignoring the looming deadline in favor of doing absolutely nothing. Now, in a desperate attempt to salvage your future, you were running through the city, searching for any open internet café.

Most were closed. They had small hordes of nerdy teenage boys loitering around, waiting for them to open and idly waste the afternoon on video games. When you asked, they shrugged, saying the cafés wouldn’t open for at least another hour.

You didn’t have an hour.

Panic clawed at your throat as you checked the time. If you didn’t register for your third year, you’d be disqualified—or, at the very least, your life would become infinitely more complicated. Your stomach twisted at the thought. Every step you took through the crowded streets felt heavier, more hopeless. You weren’t going to make it.

Then, you saw it. A hotel. It wasn’t fancy—probably a budget-friendly place for travelers passing through. It was your last hope.

You pushed through the glass doors without thinking, zeroing in on the man behind the reception desk. He had been talking to someone when you entered, but their conversation stopped the moment you rushed forward. You didn’t even spare the other man a glance. You didn’t have time for that.

The receptionist listened to your rushed, panicked explanation and, to your surprise, nodded in understanding.

“Actually, the hotel has a computer room available. You can use it,” he said.

Relief flooded you. “Thank you—seriously, thank you.”

He led you to the room, and the moment you stepped inside, your heart sank. It was small, cluttered, barely more than a glorified storage closet. And the computer—God, the computer looked ancient, a relic from the 90s covered in dust.

But you didn’t care.

You sat down, powered it on, logged in, and started filling out your information. Everything was going fine. Until the screen suddenly froze.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No, no, no. Fuck- You have to be kidding me.” This cannot be happening right now. Someone must’ve cursed you. How could you be so unlucky?

Frantically, you clicked the mouse. Nothing. You pressed a few keys. Still nothing. The whole system had locked up.

Swearing under your breath, you stormed back to the reception. “The computer froze. Can you help?”

The man frowned, following you back into the room. He sat at the desk, clicking a few things, but it was clear he had no idea what he was doing. The more he fumbled, the worse you felt.

Then, sighing in defeat, he stood. “I’ll ask someone.”

You barely paid attention as he left the room and called out into the lobby. “Law?Do you know anything about computers? Come help.”

Heavy footsteps approached. A second later, another man entered the room. It was the man the receptionist had been talking to when you came.

And just like that, your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason.

He was tall. His presence filled the room instantly, suffocating in an entirely new way. He barely glanced at you as he moved toward the desk, but in that fleeting moment, you took in everything. Dark eyes. Tattoos, sprawling up his arms and chest, creeping beneath the open collar of his shirt. And his hands—his fingers were long, marked with the word DEATH, and it was ridiculous, truly ridiculous, how your mind wandered for a second too long about what those hands would feel like around your throat. Something about his presence made it hard to look away.

Your body felt too warm. You blamed the heat.

He sat in front of the computer, working quietly. He moved with precision, like he already knew the problem before even touching the keyboard. The other man had to return to the reception desk, leaving you two alone in the small room.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “What’s your name?”

His voice was deep. Slow. You hated that it sent a small shiver down your spine.

You told him.

He finally glanced at you, shaking your hand. His grip was firm, warm fingers enveloped your hand.

“Trafalgar Law,” he said simply.

You raised a brow. “That’s a mouthful.”

“You can just call me Law.”

Your fingers slipped from his, but he didn’t move away, still focused on the computer.

“So,” he said, “what exactly were you trying to do here, young lady?”

Young lady? You bristled.

“Trying to submit my college application,” you muttered, arms crossing.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Left it for the last minute, didn’t you?”

You scoffed. “Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Perfect.” Your irritation flared. He didn’t know you. He didn’t know anything about you.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head before his eyes flicked back to you. “What are you even doing here, anyway? You don’t look like a tourist.”

You shifted, hesitating for a moment before answering. “I was visiting my parents. But I’m leaving in a couple of hours.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second, so quick you almost missed it.

“I could say the same about you,” you added, tilting your head.

His smirk widened just slightly. “I’m here for a medical convention.”

That caught your attention. You blinked. “Wait—you’re a doctor?”

His gaze met yours, unreadable. “Surgeon.”

You didn’t know why that information made your stomach flip. Maybe it was the way he said it. Or the way he was still looking at you, like he was waiting for something.

The computer’s screen was dark now. The man—Law—tried to turn it back on, but nothing happened. Neither of you spoke.

He held your gaze for a second too long, as if deciding something. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out. You were left with only the hum of the old computer.

You exhaled sharply.

What the hell was that?

Before you could make sense of the moment, he returned—this time carrying a sleek, modern laptop. He set it down on the desk in front of you, flipping it open with one hand.

“Use this,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“The hotel’s computer is ancient. You’re wasting your time.” He leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Use mine.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered.”

His tone was dismissive, like you were wasting his time by questioning him. Rolling your eyes, you sat down and pulled the laptop closer. It was fast, responsive—so much better than the dinosaur of a computer you had been struggling with.

You started typing, fully aware of his presence hovering nearby.

After a minute, you glanced at him. “Are you just gonna stand there?”

“In case you need help.”

You scoffed. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on university applications too?”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “No, but considering you waited until the last second to do this, I’d say you could use some supervision.”

You shot him a glare. “I don’t need supervision.”

“Debatable.”

Your fingers tightened around the mouse, and you forced yourself to focus on filling out the application instead of arguing with him. But it wasn’t easy, not when you could feel his gaze lingering, watching your every move.

After a minute, you glanced up, noticing the tattoos creeping out from under his sleeves.

“Seriously?” you said, cocking an eyebrow. “Trying to look mysterious with all that ink? You think that makes you intimidating?”

His eyes flickered to his tattoos before returning to yours. There was something a little smug about the way he smirked. “Maybe I like it,” he said, a glint of challenge in his voice. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

You laughed, leaning back slightly in the chair, eyeing him. “Oh, I’m sure you think it makes you look all tough. But what’s the deal with all of it? Some kind of ‘bad boy’ aesthetic you’re going for?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, unamused. “It’s not about looking tough. It’s about expression. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Expression, huh?” You smirked, your fingers moving faster over the keyboard, trying to focus. “Looks more like a cry for attention to me.”

His lips curled into a darker smile, the playful tone shifting into something more intense. “Maybe I want people to notice. Maybe I don’t care if you understand.”

“Yeah, I bet. Probably trying to distract everyone from your actual personality,” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you’ve got some deep, brooding backstory to go along with all this art?”

He gave you a flat look, but the smirk never fully left his lips. “If I did, I wouldn’t be sharing it with someone who can’t even bother to apply to university on time.”

Your head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Oh, you’re gonna bring that up again?”

He shrugged, uncaring. “What can I say? I’m just pointing out the obvious. You seem like the type to talk a big game but can’t back it up when it matters.”

“You’re full of yourself, huh?” You leaned forward, looking directly at him. “Maybe you’re just mad because you’re too busy getting tattoos to actually have any real emotions. Trying to hide behind your ink?”

His eyes narrowed, an edge to his voice now. “You don’t know shit about me.”

You couldn’t help the challenge that rose within you. “Yeah, well, you don’t exactly seem like the type to open up to anyone.”

The tension between you grew, charged and thick, but neither of you looked away. The air was filled with a sharp sort of energy, the kind that made everything feel slightly out of control.

He broke the silence first, his tone still steady but carrying an edge. “What makes you think I want to open up to you?”

You shrugged, lips curling into a taunting smile. “Maybe because you're not as tough as you act. You’re just scared of someone seeing through your bullshit.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze flicking over your face like he was sizing you up. Then, without a word, he turned his attention back to the laptop and leaned against the desk again, his posture rigid, as if you’d pushed him too far.

For a few beats, neither of you said anything.

Silence stretched between you, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, he spoke. “You said you’re leaving in a few hours?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My bus is later today.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, but he didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to settle in, as if this was exactly where he intended to be.

Curiosity got the better of you. “So, what exactly do you do?”

He glanced at you, then exhaled through his nose, almost like he wasn’t planning to answer. But after a beat, he did. “I’m a surgeon. I told you, didn’t I?”

Your hands paused over the keyboard. “…Wait, seriously?”

“No, I’m lying for fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no mistaking the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. So he wasn’t lying? He didn’t seem much older than you—mid-to-late twenties, maybe—and yet, a surgeon? That explained the quiet confidence, the sharp, assessing way he looked at things.

“Huh.” You returned to typing, still processing the thought. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What does?”

You hesitated, then smirked slightly. “That you act like you know everything.”

He chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “I don’t act like I know everything.”

“You kinda do.”

“And yet, I was right about you needing help.”

“Wait,” you said, still reeling from the revelation. “How old are you, anyway?”

He paused, clearly considering whether he should answer. “Twenty-six,” he finally said.

You frowned. “And you’re already a surgeon? That’s… impressive.”

He didn’t seem to care much about the praise. “It’s just a job. You’re the one who’s in university, right? What are you studying?”

You stopped typing for a moment, taken off guard by the question. “Psychology,” you said, not quite sure why you were suddenly sharing so much with him. “I’m thinking about specializing in clinical psychology or maybe counselling. Something to help people.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his expression serious now. “That’s noble. But it’s not an easy path.”

You smirked. “Well, if it’s worth doing, it was never meant to be easy, right?”

He looked at you, his gaze softening for a second before he turned his attention back to the laptop. “True. But it can be frustrating. Surgery is like that too—people think it’s all glory, but it’s hard. It takes more than just knowledge. There are lives on the line every day.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t really thought about it like that, especially not from someone who was actually living it. “Sounds intense.”

“It is. But you learn to manage it. You have to.” His voice was quieter now, almost like he was lost in thought. “That’s why I’m here, actually. A medical convention. I mentioned it earlier.”

You blinked, still processing what he had said. “A medical convention? Here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s in the city for a couple of days. Most of it is boring, but it’s part of the job.”

You couldn't help but laugh a little. “It sounds like the kind of thing you’d be more interested in than, I don’t know, enjoying the city.”

He gave a rare, genuine smile. “Maybe. But I’m not really here to sightsee.” He looked at you again, his expression softening for just a second. “I don’t usually get time to myself, honestly. The job’s demanding.”

There was an unexpected vulnerability in his words, and for a moment, you saw a side of him you hadn’t expected.

Before you could respond, your screen flashed—confirmation. Your application had been successfully submitted.

Relief crashed over you. “Oh my God. I did it.”

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It was done. You wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of your own procrastination after all.

Law glanced at the screen, then back at you. He seemed disappointed. Time passed too quickly. “Guess you got lucky.”

You groaned. “Can’t you just let me have this win?”

“If you wanted a win, you shouldn’t have cut it this close.”

You gave him an unimpressed look, but before you could fire back, he pulled out his phone and handed it to you.

You blinked at it. “…What?”

“Your number.”

Your breath caught for a second.

He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t even looking at you, as if this was just an afterthought to him. But the way his fingers gripped the phone—just tight enough to betray the fact that maybe it wasn’t as casual as he made it seem—told you otherwise.

You raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’ll give it to you?”

He finally met your gaze again, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Call it a gut feeling.”

Damn him.

With a small huff, you took the phone from his hand and started typing.

Law watched as you typed in your number, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. When you handed the phone back, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips.

“You’re planning to call me? See me again?”

He scoffed, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Oh? Then why’d you ask?”

His jaw tightened for half a second—so quick you almost missed it. Then, with a slow shrug, he muttered, “Maybe I like to keep an eye on people who make dumb decisions.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Right. Because procrastinating an application is a crime now?”

Law tilted his head slightly, studying you. “It’s reckless. But I guess you enjoy living on the edge.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced at the time and felt the reality of your departure settle in. Your bus would be leaving soon.

Pushing your chair back, you stood up, adjusting your bag. “Well, guess I should get going.”

He cleared his throat, as if dismissing the moment, and straightened up. “Anyway, I guess it’s good you’ve got this sorted. You’ve got your bus to catch and all.”

You stared at him, unsure of why you suddenly didn’t want to leave. Something about the conversation—about him—was making you rethink everything.

You hesitated, before speaking. “Yeah. I’ve got to go. But… thanks for the laptop. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without it.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though his eyes followed you closely. “No problem. Just don’t make a habit of waiting until the last minute next time.”

You shot him a look, but he was already watching you with that unreadable expression again, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move, either.

For a man who had spent the last 45 minutes teasing and judging you, he looked… hesitant.

His fingers tapped against his phone in an irregular rhythm, like his body was betraying the indifference he was trying to project.

You tilted your head. “What? No sarcastic comment? No parting words of wisdom?”

He exhaled through his nose. “…Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

There was a pause, a hesitation so thick you could almost touch it. Then, just as you turned toward the door, you caught the slightest movement—his fingers twitching, like he was about to reach out. But he didn’t.

You bit your lip.

Something about the way he held himself, rigid and unreadable, sent a strange, conflicting feeling through you.

You took a step forward, then stopped. Looking back at him, you said goodbye.

You turned back toward the exit, feeling his gaze still burning into you as you walked away.

You left, but that feeling didn’t. Something about the way he’d been so close, his gaze lingering, made you hesitate for just a second.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if you’d ever see him again.

[namism]

lost | seishiro nagi

➳ categories: canonverse, breaking up, angst, communication problems, gender neutral reader

➳ word count: 1.7k

➳ summary: Nagi breaks up with you nonchalantly and you're wondering where it all went wrong.

➳ notes: this may or may not have been based on experience and i may or may not have gone through war flashbacks while writing this but it's a-okay!

➳ cross-posted on ao3

You got up from bed 28 hours ago. Nagi broke up with you 5 hours afterward.

Now that the clock strikes 1 in the afternoon, you can't tell whether or not the substance you're drinking out of your personalized coffee mug—which, by the way, was given to you by Nagi on your sixth monthsary—is water, coffee, or Red Bull. You have been officially up for 28 hours with nothing but this mystery substance to fuel your brain, but even not-water, not-coffee, or not-Red Bull can take your mind off the sinking anxiety that floods your system.

Thus comes the sudden urge to walk to the nearest convenience store and buy the first alcoholic drink your eyes land on. Although best boy Yoichi Isagi is already on speaker as he talks you out of doing so, in fear that your insomniac body will crash in the middle of the street with no guidance or a merciful civilian around to rush you to the hospital. He speaks in a hurried tone, almost panting, like he's on his way to your flat so that he can stop you before you ride the elevator four floors down to the building lobby, where the exit doors await your presence—but the sad truth is, he's in München, Germany, for work-related reasons, so all he can do to lend a hand is to stop whatever he's doing and focus on talking you out of doing silly things.

"I just need to sleep, Isagi," you tell him weakly, clutching your wool blanket closer to your chest as you lay on your couch in a fetal position. From the looks of your ongoing FaceTime call, Isagi is in his apartment, well-groomed and dressed in simple house clothes, and fresh out of the shower after a morning gym session. He has an AirPod in his left ear, while the other is probably somewhere in his apartment, wedged between tight spaces or buried under heaps of laundry. You wiggle your toes as the air conditioning restarts, feeling the cool air blow on your feet. "A Strong Zero will do it. They also have a new flavor, ha-ha."

"No, it won't. Sit tight and wait until Chigiri comes," he advises sternly. He called your mutual friend Hyoma Chigiri ten minutes ago upon FaceTiming you and learning about the terrible news that he never would have seen coming. Isagi was terrified by the sight of your bloodshot eyes, deepened eye bags, and unruly hair that spread on your couch pillow. When you began to cry, he knew that calling for backup was the best route. "I just… don't understand. Why did you break up?"

"He broke up with me," you correct. He mumbles a passive apology. "I don't understand it either. I mean, I kinda do, but my brain isn't making any sense of it, or maybe it just doesn't want to."

"Nagi is unreadable. I get it."

You groan.

"You see, it's not even that."

You turn on your side and lay flat on your back. You situate the phone on your chest, so that Isagi has a rather unpleasant view of your chin. He mimics your actions by flopping on his bed and lying on his back, inclining his phone perpendicular to his torso.

"Most people can't read him, but I can. I can tell if he's bothered or hungry, if he's annoyed or upset. We were doing okay until yesterday."

"Maybe there's a part of him that you can't read after all," Isagi suggests, then he realizes his indifferent tone. "Crud. Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine," you mumble with a frown. "I might as well get used to reality."

You fear that Isagi might be right. While you were always confident that Nagi was more loose around you (save for his childhood friend Reo), there could have been some part of himself that he kept hidden.

In that case, you wonder why. As far as you can remember, Nagi never had any trouble voicing out his feelings to you.

"What did he even say?" asks Isagi.

"He said some things," you answer.

"I'm going to assume that he didn't elaborate." He sighs, disappointed in the turn of events. "How did it sound to you?"

You think about it deeply. Nagi, a man of a few words, in fact, did not elaborate much on his breakup speech, but from the many years you knew him, you caught on to his reasoning. The way it happened and how it turned into a breakup just didn't make sense.

"Let's break up," he said out of nowhere as you were getting yourself a glass of lemon tea. Your eyebrows furrowed, and you put down the glass on the counter. "Sorry. It's random."

"Are you serious?" you asked quietly. When you turned around, Nagi was already looking at you.

He nodded.

"I think," you begin, "I think he fell out of love."

Isagi stares at the virtual image of you on his screen, jaw slightly ajar as he finds the right words to say. You beat him to it, though.

"He didn't say much, but he could have been embarrassed to admit it because all this time, I've-I've been..."

"You've been loving him for God knows how long," Isagi finishes.

Tears well up in your eyes, and you turn to your side again. Your whole body hurts as you're hit with a new wave of emotions. Falling out of love? It happens to couples all the time, for many reasons. Usually one gets fed up by the other, or one ends up not being good enough for the relationship to move forward in the long run. Your heart sinks.

Suddenly, you're finding certain moments in your relationship with Nagi that can support this thought, and they don't stop coming even when Chigiri is knocking repeatedly on your apartment door.

Isagi is the one who alerts you of your friend's presence, but you're bundled up under the blanket as the shitty feeling resides in you. You need alcohol. Badly.

Chigiri manages to break into your apartment using a key that you have hidden on the upper ledge of your door. When he finds you rotting on the couch, he embraces you in a warm hug and uses a couple of back pats to snap you out of your senses, but they don't work.

Isagi has to go to work, so he hangs up the call after bidding you goodbye and giving an empathetic look that you don't notice. Chigiri sits with you in silence until you're ready to speak.

"Chigiri," you croak.

"Hm?" he hums.

"Did Nagi ever think I was horrible?"

He sighs.

"Of course not."

You snuggle your head into your hands.

"Then why are we in this situation right now?"

"As much as I want to help, you're the only one who can truly answer that," he explains.

"Could it be because I don't play the games he plays?" you mutter. Chigiri is quiet. "Or maybe because I wasn't too big on football when we met?"

He shakes his head.

"That's stupid. Nagi didn't even get into football until high school."

"But when we started out, I learned that we were much more different than I thought we were, so I was always catching up with him and his friends," you admit. "I didn't know how to play his games, so I tried to get into them just so we could spend time together even though I sucked and he looked happier playing with Reo and his girl. I couldn't understand football language until a few months of dating, either. No offense, Chigiri, but I couldn't understand any of your lingo and I would just sit and stand in your celebrations while nodding my head just to fit in!"

"You can't doubt your relationship because you don't game the way he does," Chigiri reasons, "and Nagi never expected you to know football like that."

"But wouldn't those be reasons to get tired of someone?" you ask. "What if... just what if he thought that it would have been nicer if he had someone who had the same interests as him?"

Chigiri sighs.

"Look. You've been awake for more than a day, so your brain isn't braining correctly. How about you get some sleep and we can talk about this again when you wake up?"

"But—"

"No buts!"

Standing up from the couch, Chigiri tugs the wool blanket off your body to force you up on your feet. Once successful, he drags you to your bedroom, where your pillows and comforter are sprawled on the mattress, just the way you left them a day ago. He forces you under the comforter, which you obey pretty quickly.

He fetches your water bottle from the kitchen and cranks up the room temperature. He doesn't leave until he's sure that you're asleep, but your mind stays running long enough for Chigiri to doze off first in your mini sofa bed by the door.

With the background sound of Chigiri's faint snores, you're left with even more time to think about what went wrong with your relationship with Nagi and how you can possibly move on. Every aspect of your life for the past few years that you've been together has had Nagi involved in it in some way. With the presence of the man you're no longer with appearing in every recent memory you have, how is letting go anywhere achievable?

By the looks of it (and your personal gut feeling), perhaps Nagi did get tired. Although the extent of this certainty falls a little below 50% because he didn't explain his reasons as well as you wanted him to.

Using the strength you have left in your drained body, you grab your phone from the nightstand and open your messages. You type a message that comes to mind as soon as you see his contact.

You hey, can we talk? Read 1:43 PM

Nagi reads the message fairly quickly. You're nervous upon realization. A few minutes pass, and the read receipt stays as it is until a small bubble pops up.

Nagi okay can we talk later?

The same nonchalant Nagi that you love is the same person who just replied.

You sure. as long as we get to talk, please

Nagi mhm of course

Whatever is about to happen, will happen. If he can explain as well as you want him to, then you're happy to accept it and move on. If he's sure of losing you, then maybe you should, too.

[lovelyahoy]

Haikyuu: One-Shot. Word Count:4,184.

Warnings: lowk cringe ending i can't lie but idc😭, fluff, and Kuroo being everywhere. PS idk shit about animal crossing new horizons, blame google for anything i got wrong.

Summary: Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, [Y/N] and Kenma are the prime example of this, except the hate wasn't exactly...hate.

TL: @akiqvq💖

Pairing: Kenma Kozume x Fem!Reader

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[Y/N] hated Kenma.

Hated the way he always beat her in every game, smirking to himself when she'd groan loudly and kick an empty can away.

Hated his effortless factual rebuttals on anything gaming-related, leaving her stumbling over her words like a headless chicken.

Hated how she always made sure to berate whoever tried to mock him, if looks could kill—they'd be further down than the Titanic.

God and worst of all? She absolutely hated the way she couldn't look away when he'd blush from a simple brush of her finger on his hand, when his lips quirked up in a soft smile, and when his eyes would widen slightly, giving her a better view of the pretty cat-like pupils.

Hated. Fucking hated that she was whipped for him.

"How the fuck did you roll another six?!"

"Luck."

[Y/N] held the Nintendo tighter, talking herself out of throwing the damn thing against the wall. You'd think she'd have a better chance at winning on Mario Party, except no, because Kenma was a god when it came to video games.

Sneering as he got another star, bringing his total up to four stars while she had zero. Finishing up the rounds, [Y/N] turned off the device and avoided gazing at his victory scene.

Kenma smiled, seeing her childish pout from the corner of his eyes. He gently took her DS and turned it back on, opening super bomberman and inviting it to a lobby he made.

[Y/N] took it back, blinking up at him.

"Let's team up."

And that was the first time she had won.

"Kuroo, what does he say about me?"

The tall rooster head stopped whistling, twirling a volleyball on a finger, and side-eyeing her. They crossed paths near the park and now he was walking her home.

"Not much, think he talks more about that orange crow he met." [Y/N] fidgeted with the melon bread in her hand, taking a bite and grumbling incoherent sentences. "Why are you asking?"

That was a question she didn't have an answer for, wondering the same thing herself. She hated him, right? So why did he plague her mind like a pretty persistent parasite, consuming her every thought, messing with her sleep by making her think of what he could be doing at times. Was he playing that new god of war game he bought last week, or did he go back to replay monster hunter?

"The quicker you accept that you like him, the easier your days will be." He chuckled, feeling her fist weakly hit his shoulder, glaring up at Kuroo like he had just exposed her.

"I don't. I hate him."

"You hate him because of how he makes you feel." Kuroo didn't miss a beat, dropping his teasing smirk and settling his lips into a very tender smile. [Y/N] sighed, crumpling up the wrapper in her hand and throwing it into a nearby bin.

"The last time I liked a dude, he fucked my best friend. I had to move schools because whenever I'd see their disgusting faces in the hallways, I'd be plotting their deaths and my own." He knew she had past troubles with boys, but he never thought it had that much lore, he made a mental note to ask for more gossip information later.

Kuroo tossed the ball from hand to hand. He understood why she felt so hostile when dealing with her feelings, however, comparing Kenma to that guy was not even remotely the same thing.

"Have you seen him talk to any girls who aren't you?"

"No, but that's not saying much, considering Kenma is very reserved."

"Okay, well, how many people does he let use his gaming consoles?"

That made her stop. Kuroo followed suit, his teasing smirk came back, and the girl looked up at him with her lips parted, face blushing slightly.

"Just me..."

"Just you."

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Kenma wiped the sweat from his forehead. This practice match had been going on for far too long, and he needed out. Now. The gym was unbearably hot, and the third set was not helping.

His only saving grace was knowing [Y/N] had stepped out a few points ago, yelling out that she'd be right back. She always did the same during hot days, watch him play for as long as she could stand the heat then leave, going to the nearby store and getting them popsicles.

"Kenma, just two more." Yaku patted his shoulder reassuringly then got back into position. The whistle was blown, and everyone moved accordingly. Kenma's eyes sharpened, hands in the air waiting to touch the ball and guide it towards an awaiting Fukunaga.

The moment it came in contact he decided to simply tap it over the net, hearing the whistle confirm the point and he breathed out—doubling over in pain when Kuroo smacked his back with an obnoxious laugh.

"A setter dump, good timing."

"HURRY UP!" They all turned to look at an impatient [Y/N] holding a plastic bag with the cold goodies. Knowing they were about to receive a treat had their blood pumping, and they scored that last point like their lives depended on it.

"Thanks." After saying their goodbyes and changing into their regular school uniforms, Kenma took the popsicle she had handed to him. The rest of the boys walked further, leaving the pair to stray in the back in silence.

A very comforting silence to him, but [Y/N] weirdly longed to hear his voice. She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks heat up when he tilted his head to the side, observing her while biting into the cat-shaped treat.

"Can I come over today? My dad got me the Nintendo Switch and I...I really wanna play Animal Crossing with you..." She whispered the last two words, Kenma looked away from her pretty [E/C] eyes, and felt his own face turn red.

"You can come over whenever you'd like, [Y/N]."

Her name feel from his lips like sweet honey and she quite literally melted on the spot.

"Ah! It's getting on your hands—"

...

...

Kenma softly snored into the pillow he had clutched to his chest. Next to him lay a focused [Y/N], determined to get the last 5k bells they needed for the house upgrade. Tom Nook was a greedy little man, but she needed the extra space to decorate, and no way in hell could she sleep right now.

His body rolled onto his back, head lolling to the side and facing her. [Y/N] confirmed the selected items to sell and smirked in victory as she ran to Tom for the long-awaited upgrade. She sighed quietly, saving the game and setting the console on the bedside stand.

[E/C] eyes shifted to the side, observing Kenma's peaceful expression, she lifted a hand to brush the pads of her fingers on his cheek, softly dragging them down to pass her thumb over his lips. A strand of hair loosened from behind his ear, [Y/N] reached to tuck it back.

Half-lidded yellow eyes fluttered open, and Kenma didn't move an inch, just observed her. Her warm hand rested on his cheek, cupping and caressing.

"[Y/N]?" Whispered groggy words, [Y/N] smiled and scooted closer to rest her head on his shoulder, looking up at him, she could feel her heart race. "You're lucky it's the weekend."

"You only fell asleep early because of the volleyball match." His gaze trailed from her eyes to her lips, to Kenma, [Y/N] was a dream. A dream he didn't think could ever be real, a dream he didn't have a chance with.

It hurt him to like someone like her, funny, kind, and beautiful. They had become friends when Kuroo lost to her in a sandbox fight, and Kenma stepped in to help his friend get sand out of his nose. He remembered that day so clearly, especially her very humored giggles.

For this night, he'd risk it a bit, mind still half asleep. Kenma adjusted her head to be on his chest instead, arm wrapping around her shoulder, and chin resting on her hair. When [Y/N] hugged him in response, Kenma hoped she wouldn't worry about how shaky his breaths had gotten.

"Will you stay today too?"

"I'd love to."

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Kenma loved [Y/N].

Loved the way she'd never shy away from anyone, speaking her mind and keeping everything in control.

Loved when she smiled brightly during his volleyball games, screaming the loudest and buying him victory treats.

Loved her pouty lips, red cheeks, and especially her [E/C] eyes. They were clear windows to him, knowing how she was feeling in that moment with a simple look-over.

The best part of it had to be those late nights when they'd play together, shoulders touching, munching on junk food and energy drinks, whispering to avoid waking up his parents. When she'd muffle her laughs into his sweater, clinging onto him like he was her lifeline.

Loved. Absolutely loved everything about her.

"Where's [Y/N]?"

Kenma scanned the sitting crowd, and he saw her friends, but no sign of the girl. The whistle rang out, and he was forced to tear his gaze from the people, settling into his position on the court.

She promised she'd never miss a game, no matter what, and he believed her. Recalling the day she had gone down with a severe flu, wearing three sweaters and two facemasks, cheering for him while coughing.

"Sorry I'm late, I had to bring along a stray." Coach Nekomata rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the grin on his face, Kenma's frown slowly quirked up into a cute smile—[Y/N] waving from behind the old man enthusiastically.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Smiles. Blushing faces. Something he loved and she hated.

"Alright, alright, stop drowning in each other's eyes. Sit down and you get into the setter spot." Kuroo playfully patted their backs and dragged Kenma to start the game.

[Y/N] took her place on the bench, fidgeting with her fingers above her shorts, a little nervous to watch the game this closely. She wasn't allowed to enter the gymnasium, having lost her entry ticket and clinging to the poor coach trying to get a drink nearby.

The world around her went mute, not even the annoying squeaking of their sneakers could penetrate her concentration this time. Everything but Kenma blurred out, his slightly long, cute, pudding-colored hair, his focused yellow cat eyes, lips set into a thin line, and cheeks red with adrenaline.

He was perfect in her eyes.

[Y/N] didn't hate Kenma, she hated what she couldn't have.

"Careful where you spike!" A meek boy on the opposing team shrieked and quickly bowed to Kenma, as he had almost hit the ball into his face.

"Don't mind her, she goes a little cuckoo when it comes to him." Kuuro offered a gigantic smirk, sending not-so-subtle glances towards the duo, who blushed in unison.

The game continued on smoothly, both teams giving their all and keeping a balanced score. First set was given to the opponents, in the middle of their second, a time out was called.

"Their middle blocker is good, but gets sloppy when you all charge in. Keep an eye out and track him, bounce the damn ball as many times as you can." Coach Nekomata received a loud 'hai' from the group, proudly smiling at how they all contributed more ideas to increase their points.

Kenma separated from the group, needing a breather. Walking up to [Y/N], who held out his water bottle, he thanked her and took a much-needed sip while sitting down. She gently took a folded towel to wipe away the sweat dripping down his forehead and neck, knowing Kenma hated sweating above all else.

Could she really live on like this? Acting as if this weird situationship wasn't happening? She wanted something more, something clear. [Y/N] finished and placed the towel to her side, she turned back to look at him already with his eyes on her.

"Think we can win?"

"Of course." She cackled. "Can't lose when I'm over here cheering for you."

Kenma laughed quietly. She hadn't seen him lose yet, and he was not going to let today be that day. He stood up when the referee mentioned the fifteen minutes were up, as he bent down to leave his bottle, [Y/N] snatched up the collar of his jersey, bringing him down further, in turn making him need to place a hand on the side of her thigh to balance himself.

"If the winning point is a setter dump, you can make me do one thing. If it's not, then I'll make you do something. Deal?" Her [E/C] eyes were filled with a mischievous sparkle, wanting to spice the game up. Kenma blinked from the close proximity, the words got caught in his throat, but he made sure to nod, already knowing what he'd like to ask of her.

"He looks locked in." Lev stood tall with his hands on his hips, observing the way Kenma's face was blank, no trace of the usual complaints, only utter silence. Kuroo had noticed their little interaction and swore by everything he loved that they had kissed.

Kenma set the ball like a precise hawk, earning his team the second set without a hitch. Coach Nekomata had never seen him so focused, he needed to know what had been said.

"[L/N], what'd you say to him?"

"Uh, nothing in particular..."

"I'd like to know, maybe with those words I can make him take matches this seriously every time."

[Y/N] held in her laugh, turning to look at the older man with a smile.

"I don't think it'll work if you say it."

"Ah, young love. I understand."

He looked away and monitored his players, purposely ignoring the shocked girl next to him. Great, now even this dude was teasing her.

...

...

"The poor thing didn't even see it coming." [Y/N] skipped over the cracked lines on the cement, chuckling when she remembered the shocked faces of everyone, including his teammates.

"Yaku almost tackled me, he was very amused with it."

The sky had gotten dark, leaving them to walk under the lamp posts and hurry on home, aka his home, because she lived further away and he didn't want her walking alone at this hour.

"So, you won. What are you gonna make me do?"

Kenma stuffed his face into his sweater's collar, hiding the bottom half from her. His eyes darted to the side and avoided meeting her curious expression.

He wanted a kiss. When he was dragged down to her level, her words almost didn't reach him, wanting to lean closer and connect their lips. Kenma wanted to ask for it, but now all his confidence had dissipated like the petals of a withered flower.

What if she thought he was some sort of pervert after this? Would it ruin what they had built together?

"Kenma, don't overthink it."

They stopped walking, standing underneath a light. [Y/N] was expecting him to ask for a game or make her play that scary one she refused to even touch.

He breathed in, feeling goosebumps take over his covered arms. Countless times, she had mentioned hating past relationships, and anyone who confessed to her was shot down quicker than a bullet. Why'd he go and fall for her despite knowing this?

"[Y/N], you can say no."

"Tell me then."

Now she was beginning to feel nervous, giving her the option to decline was starting to look like a red flag. But this was Kenma, her sweet little pudding angel, there was no way he'd ask for anything she considered bad.

"A...k..."

"What?"

"Uhm, a k..."

[E/C] eyes blinked rapidly, straining her ears to try and decipher his low mumbling. She took a step forward and squinted when he looked away shyly, k? k what. Kenma suddenly began walking again, [Y/N] matched his pace with confusion building up inside of her.

"Never mind, you don't have to do anything."

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"K-word that causes embarrassment? Why would I know?"

"Well, I can't exactly ask him, now, can I?" Kuroo threw a pencil at her face, scowling playfully at her blatant sarcasm. [Y/N] told him about the silly deal, needing feedback on this matter before going straight to the source.

"Just because he's my best friend doesn't mean I can read his mind."

"No duh—okay, sorry, find out for me please? I'll set you up on that date you wanted with Claire." Kuroo's eye twitched at the stupid puppy look she was making. He hated it so much because it worked, plus the reward was something he wanted.

"Fine, get out of my face and classroom."

"Awww, you're the best." This time, the pencil hit the back of her head as she ran away.

He sighed. Of course he knew what Kenma wanted to ask. The boy had mentioned it multiple times at every damn sleepover or hanging out time they had. How these two were so oblivious to each other was a greater mystery than the Bermuda Triangle.

Kuroo and Kenma were practicing alone in the gymnasium, [Y/N] was needed at home, so the others were sent for drinks. The tall boy ruffled his black hair, wondering how he should bring the topic up, stressing out slightly until he realized this was Kenma.

"You chickened out."

"Huh?" The volleyball Kenma had thrown in the air landed at his side, startled by his friend's sudden words.

"If you ask her to kiss you, she'd do it in a heartbeat...actually a bit longer cause she's as dumb as you when it comes to this." Kenma pouted when Kuroo laughed, walking closer to him.

"[Y/N] says she hates you, and she does, but not you in specific. Hates you because she has feelings for you, someone she doesn't think would ever like her back." He yawned into his palm. "See why you're both dumb?"

"I can't ask her...and I can't do it either."

"So you're going to let the girl who likes you back be a missed opportunity?"

"I can't do it Kuroo..."

Well, he didn't need to. His best friend had a plan set in motion, going straight to [Y/N], standing in front of her locker the very next morning. Holding her there until all the students left the area, once the coast was clear he grasped both her shoulders.

His 'plan' wasn't much of a plan per se, but it'd work nonetheless...he hoped it would at least.

"[Y/N] kiss Kenma. Next time you're alone with him, grab his school tie and pull him in for one."

She frantically blinked at his hushed words, feeling heat rise to the tips of her ears. K, k as in kiss? Kenma wanted a kiss? From her?

"Is that what he wanted?"

Kuroo nodded with a serious expression. He needed this interaction over so he could plan his date with Claire instead of playing cupid for these two airheads.

"...I'll tell Claire to text you..."

"Pleasure doing business with you." With that, he finally let go of her and ran away into the halls. Now it was her turn to think things over, Kuroo would never lie about something like this, and that scared her a bit.

Oh wow. Okay. A kiss, pretty straightforward and easy. She lost the deal, and that was okay. Okay. Okay. Oh my god. She looked redder than the color red itself, fanning her face at the mere thought of kissing Kenma.

"You okay?" Claire jumped back when [Y/N] freaked out. "Damn! Okay calm down."

"Okay? It's not okay, Claire help."

"Okay....?"

"Stop saying okay, okay?!"

"...alright?"

"I need to kiss Kenma." [Y/N] rushed her words, "Well, not need, want. Both actually, need and want."

"Then just...do it?"

Claire was severely confused. She thought they were dating already, there is no way you look at someone the way they look at each other without being together.

[Y/N] activated her puppy look once more, adding a pout this time, Claire's specific weakness.

"Ok—alright. We'll talk about it during lunch."

...

...

[Y/N] spent the entire school day mulling over the pros and cons of the kiss, the kiss itself? check. The embarrassment after? cross. She kept going back and forth, annoying both Kuroo and Claire, mostly Claire, who found out she was trapped in a date she did not want. She did.

"Are you two sure he likes me?"

"Noooo, we want you to make out with a dude who doesn't like you—shut up and do it!" Kuroo pushed her out of the school gardens, guiding her towards the gate where Kenma was waiting for her—they'd be playing more Animal Crossing today.

He lowered his head, whispering. "All jokes aside [Y/N], if you don't make the first move, you two will be stuck in a state of limbo. I promise it'll be fine."

Kuroo ruffled her [H/C] hair and once again pushed her forward. She gulped and walked up to Kenma. He noticed her from the corner of his eye, so he saved the game and put his console away.

"Let's stop by the store first." [Y/N] nodded, and they began their walk in silence. The streets were a little crowded, leaving them to bump shoulders every now and then, hands brushing by one another.

If she planned on kissing him, holding hands wouldn't be that big of a deal, right? Kenma felt his nerves rise, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the amount of people near him, almost suffocating.

Before his 'flight or fight' activated, the soft, warm feeling of her hand holding his dulled all other senses. Kenma turned his head to see her looking directly at the ground, gnawing at her bottom lip. He didn't dare say anything, worried he'd make her let go.

Kenma didn't let go, not even to try and hold more snacks, paying at the counter, and holding the heavy bag. He couldn't, and he wouldn't. This continued all the way to his house, [Y/N] unzipping his backpack to get the key out and unlocking the door, walking up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

"..."

Yellow met [E/C], both glancing down at their joined hands and then up to each other again. Hesitantly, she let go, shrugging off her bag and lying on the floor. Kenma did the same, settling himself right next to her. The bag of snacks was set in front of them, Nintendo Switches turned on, and they loaded up their save.

"It kinda sucks that you can't build on my island, that'd be fun."

Kenma made an 'mhm' sound, collecting anything he could and fishing nearby. He watched her character zoom past him multiple times, decorating the outside of her house.

An hour into the game, [Y/N] got the trade offer from Kenma, said boy didn't mention anything, not even looking at her. She clicked accept, and in her inventory was a desk, the yellow cute DIY table she had been trying to get.

Her [E/C]'s were wide. Giggling, she ran into the house to place the pretty little thing in her bedroom.

"If only we could get married in this game."

That made him flustered, and he continued his fishing. His hands were a bit shaky, and he found it so silly he was this affected by the thought of marrying her in a game.

"Stardew Valley lets you marry villagers...and other players..." He awkwardly coughed when she turned to look at him. This time, he didn't shy away, meeting her gaze. Subconsciously darting his yellow eyes to her lips, like always.

[Y/N] didn't miss the change of attention, not this time. She never hated Kenma. Who was she trying to fool?

"Kenma, close your eyes." His attention snapped up to see her serious face. Did his staring make her feel uncomfortable? He complied with her ask, eyelashes brushing by the top of his cheeks, and he stayed silent, anxious for what came next.

A million possibilities ran through his head, but nothing could've prepared him for the mellow kiss she had initiated. Pleasant, soft, warm, and more words came to mind, but the best one for this situation was perfect.

[Y/N] pulled back, watching him flutter his eyes open and gaping slightly at her. She smiled nervously, scanning his face for any sense of rejection.

"I'd like to be your girlfriend and marry you in Stardew."

Kenma felt like his chest was relieved of all the worry that had built up, feeling fresh air fill his lungs, and a wonderful bliss taking over. He leaned back in, giving [Y/N] a quick, shy, chaste kiss.

"I'd like you to be my girlfriend too...and my Stardew wife..."

Animal Crossing was quickly forgotten, both of them buying and downloading Stardew Valley the next day. (They clocked in 80 hrs in a mere week.)

︽❀═══❀═══⌘═══⌘═══❀═══❀═══⌘═══⌘═══❀═══❀︾

"How do you die that much in a farm game?" Kuroo had googled the game on his phone. If Kenma never died in those dragon RPGs he loved, how was this farm more difficult?

"[Y/N] kept making our characters kiss, I couldn't attack the bats coming for us."

"Hey! We're rich enough for the medical bills already." She grinned, scrolling through screenshots she had taken of them in the game, passing by an occasional selfie.

"No more kissing in the mines, I lost the sunflower decoration I was going to give you."

"We'll get a new one. By the way, let's have a baby today."

"Have to visit Robin so she can put back the crib you exploded."

Kuroo packed up his lunch and left them alone on the rooftop, tired of the weird conversation.

︽❀═══❀═══⌘═══⌘═══❀═══❀═══⌘═══⌘═══❀═══❀︾

[nguyetdahuong]

They would be bestie is all im saying 🫣

Oh wait 🫷hear me out actually🤌

Cardinal Lawrence resigns, just as he wanted after ****** becomes the new pope. Now no more cardinal Lawrence, only Thomas (doubting™). He travels to Zubrowka and stays at a nice hotel for once (his friend Aldo insists "God forbid you to enjoy the luxury of a real vacation").

Thomas loves the Grand Budapest Hotel at first sight: the alluring building reminds him of some prestigious dollhouse come to life. Not to mention there's a church nearby, convenient to drop by and light some candles.

He's welcomed by a well-mannered blonde man. The man looks like in his forties and oh he aged well, in fact he aged like fine wine. Blonde hair styled neatly. Kinda makes Thomas miss his younger days with full hair on his head, oh he wishes he had those hair. The man wears a purple suit tailored perfectly to his body, really compliments his waist (thank God that waist hasn't been tampered by wine yet). The bow tie stays neatly on his neck. What can he say, "neat" is the best described word about this alluring man. There's something fresh about him, Thomas concentrates on the air. Oh right, the man uses perfume, something Thomas can't name.

"Your eminence, it's our pleasure to serve you here. I'm Gustave, if you need anything please let me know".

NOTE: Oh fuck it we ball, I'm just trying to shove some ideas for the crossover and here I am writing a ficlet 🤦 whatever here's my 3 cents 💡

Thomas and Gustave recite poems together. They become poem-friends (idk is that what they call?). Occasionally Thomas would reference something from the Bible.

Gustave accompanies Thomas to the church. They pray together.

Zero (our beloved lobby boy) sees them spend too much time together and wondering if Mr. Gustave has changed his type. Since the new guest is neither blonde nor superficial 👀

Aldo frequently calls to check on his friend, sometimes bitching about his colleagues but most of the time insinuates that he misses his friend (very much) and hope they can have juicy tea like the old time 🫖

Too bad now Thomas has a new bestie who is so charming, has a sweet mouth that always knows what to say ☺️

Do they have a fling or not? 🚬 well let's look at the canon to decide. Mr. Gustave "I go to bed with all my friends" or Mr. Lawrence who sleeps like a vampire to keep celibate 👀 idk I'm curious af too 😭

[prismaticxchromatics]

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) Director: Wes Anderson

“I must say, I find that girl utterly delightful. Flat as a board, enormous birthmark the shape of Mexico over half her face, sweating for hours on end in that sweltering kitchen, while Mendl, genius though he is, looms over her like a hulking gorilla. Yet without question, without fail, always and invariably, she's exceedingly lovely. Why? Because of her purity.”

[lucydarkrain]

Zombie Apocalypse/World War Z AU

Rapunzel Corona

Rapunzel is the most knowledgeable about medicine and pathology among the survivors. Before the virus outbreak, she was a clinical intern at the San Francisco School of Medicine. Initially, after the outbreak, she was determined not to play the hero. However, after witnessing countless innocent lives perish before her eyes, she decided to uphold the Hippocratic Oath. From that point on, she vowed to help anyone she could save. While she appears full of survival instinct and often encourages others to keep going, deep down, she has long been prepared to face death calmly. Rapunzel embarks on this journey to reach Chicago, where she hopes to find an old friend of her mentor, Dr. Gothel, and uncover the origin of the outbreak by identifying patient zero.

Rapunzel’s First Day

On the first day of the outbreak, Rapunzel witnessed chaos at the hospital. She saw medical staff hurriedly wheeling patients out of the elevator, their faces pale with fear. Passing through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of the grotesque appearance of a patient, the strong scent of blood making her stomach churn. While taking the elevator to leave, she saw the same patient violently attack the doctors. Thankfully, the elevator doors closed just in time, sparing her.

Back in the lobby, Rapunzel struggled to process what she had just seen. The hospital still appeared normal, but she recalled her mentor, Dr. Gothel, mentioning a contagious disease that had recently surfaced in Panama. While running to the attending physician’s office, Gothel appeared, urging her to leave immediately. She handed Rapunzel her notebook, explaining that the disease had already reached California and was spreading rapidly. Suddenly, an ambulance crashed through the hospital’s glass walls, causing widespread panic. Gothel told Rapunzel to leave California and go to the address recorded in the notebook to find her.

As zombies overran the hospital, Rapunzel was saved by her EMT colleague, Cassandra, who helped her fend off the undead. The two managed to escape the hospital in a car. Though they initially planned to stick together, Cassandra was attacked by zombies shortly after their escape. Realizing her imminent death, Cassandra sacrificed herself to protect Rapunzel. Devastated, Rapunzel drove into a deserted countryside where she finally allowed herself to grieve. Wiping her tears, she began planning her next steps for survival.

Encounter

On the fifth day after the outbreak in San Francisco, Rapunzel encountered Jack sitting on a highway fence, smoking a cigarette. Covered in blood, he looked infected at first glance. Initially planning to ignore him, she remembered Cassandra’s help and her own oath as a doctor, eventually deciding to stop and ask if he needed a ride.

Items/Weapons

• Medical Kit: Contains disinfectants, iodine, bandages, antibiotics, sedatives, etc., scavenged from a pharmacy.

• Frying Pan: Her signature weapon. Unskilled with firearms and warned about their recoil by Jack, she once saved herself with this pan and gradually became proficient with it.

• Notebook: Dr. Gothel’s pathology notes, containing information about the virus and theories about potential sources. It also includes the Chicago address of Gothel’s old friend.

• Axe: A relatively effective weapon after learning zombies’ weak points.

Jackson (Jack) Overland Frost

Jack is the melee combat expert among the survivors. After graduating high school, he served in the military for a year, giving him strong physical and reflexive abilities. Before the outbreak, he was just an ordinary boy working part-time at a Dairy Queen. As the virus spread, Jack quickly learned how to fight off zombies and, for a time, even found a grim sense of enjoyment in the violence. Initially, he planned to exploit Rapunzel’s kindness to take her supplies, deeming her idealism naive in this cruel world. However, her repeated acts of kindness and her story eventually led him to trust her and believe in her theories. Over time, his personality began to revert to its original state, and he started trusting her. Jack’s goal is to reach Washington, D.C., where he hopes to reunite with his former commanding officer, North. Believing North, who once worked at Homeland Security, might have a solution to the outbreak, Jack is determined to find him.

Jack’s First Day

On the first day of the outbreak, Jack was on his way to pick up his younger sister, Emma, from school. Noticing panicked parents rushing to take their children home, he felt an ominous sense of dread. Taking Emma, he hurried back home, witnessing people fleeing in terror and infected individuals attacking others. The chaos triggered Emma’s asthma, but Jack couldn’t find her inhaler. He drove to a pharmacy, where people were looting supplies in a frenzy. Grabbing essentials, he and Emma fled the scene.

Back home, Jack thought they could escape with their parents, only to discover his mother had already been infected by a neighbor. She attacked him and Emma, forcing Jack to grab a handgun from a drawer and shoot her. Only later did he realize she was no longer his mother. Emma, frozen in shock, revealed a bite on her wrist. Tearfully, she begged Jack to end her life before she turned into one of them. Overwhelmed with grief, Jack carried out her final wish and vowed to survive in her honor.

Encounter

A week after the outbreak, Jack ran out of bullets. His car, damaged during previous attacks, broke down on the highway. With no will to live, he sat on the roadside fence, smoking and waiting for the end. Hearing a car stop, he looked up to see a young blonde woman asking if he needed a ride.

Items/Weapons

• M1911: A handgun from his parents’ bedroom, used to kill his infected mother and sister. It played a key role in his early survival.

• .45 ACP: A handgun obtained from a gun shop during his journey with Rapunzel, which he now carries at all times.

• Shotgun: A weapon stored in his car, frequently used in battles.

• Gold Necklace: Originally Emma’s, containing family photos. After her death, Jack has worn it constantly.

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III

Hiccup is the brains of the survivor squad. Before the virus outbreak, he was a university student in Los Angeles. During his freshman year, he was hazed by a fraternity, which led him to successfully hack into all their members’ computers as revenge. Before the outbreak, he was quiet and reserved, but the absurdity of the situation turned him into a chatterbox. His destination during the escape is Minnesota, having heard it’s a peaceful place to retire.

Hiccup’s First Day

It all began when Hiccup was on his way back to his dorm. He noticed several helicopters flying overhead and an accident at a nearby intersection, with police and ambulance sirens blaring. Growing uneasy, he quickened his pace. In the park ahead, he saw someone being attacked, and though he didn’t want to believe it, he realized he was witnessing a scene of cannibalism. Glancing back, he saw people at the intersection abandoning their cars and fleeing in panic. Without knowing what they were running from, Hiccup instinctively joined them. Turning his head, he saw someone emerging from a nearby restaurant being chased and bitten by a grotesque figure. This horrifying sight prompted Hiccup to count how long it took for the bitten person to transform—it was just fifteen seconds.

As more and more infected appeared, Hiccup fled into a dark alley, where he desperately pried open a manhole cover and climbed into the sewers, narrowly escaping death.

During his escape, Hiccup encountered a stray black cat with only one ear. He initially wanted to name it “One Ear,” but the cat clearly disliked the name. The cat stared intently at Hiccup while he ate, and though he first mistook it for a zombie, he relaxed upon realizing it was just a hungry animal. He shared some food with it, but whenever he tried to touch the cat, it reacted with hostility. Once, it even bit his hand with its still-growing teeth. Hiccup didn’t resist and let the cat vent, which led to the cat eventually following him everywhere. Though he initially wanted nothing to do with the cat, Hiccup found himself saving it from a horde of zombies. Later, when he injured his leg and thought he was doomed, he told the cat he would never eat it and urged it to leave him behind. However, the cat refused to abandon him. Realizing his wound was just a scratch from metal debris, Hiccup named the cat “Toothless” and decided to find a home for both of them.

Encounter

Hiccup and Toothless were eking out a living in a supermarket on the outskirts of town. On the sixth day of the outbreak, Hiccup woke to the sound of movement. Gripping a baseball bat, he cautiously approached the pharmacy aisle, where he saw golden hair trailing on the floor. Following the hair, he found Rapunzel scavenging for medical supplies. Startled by the noise, Rapunzel grabbed a frying pan and faced him defensively. Jack, hearing the commotion, quickly located them. After confirming everyone was human, Jack relaxed but remained vigilant, questioning Hiccup about the wound on his leg. Hiccup assured him that if he had been bitten, he would have turned already.

Seeing signs of infection, Rapunzel gave Hiccup antibiotics. Since Minnesota and Chicago were on the same route, she decided to bring Hiccup along to prevent his injury from worsening.

Weapons and Equipment

• Baseball Bat: Originally his roommate’s, it was Hiccup’s first weapon but proved ineffective, forcing him to rely on hiding during the first week.

• Spiked Club: A homemade weapon made by driving nails into a wooden bat.

• Fire Crossbow: A self-made crossbow modified to light its bolts with alcohol, enabling effective ranged attacks.

• Glock 19: Hiccup’s backup weapon, meant for either defense or ending his own life if necessary.

• Prosthetic Leg: After losing his leg in the Chicago incident, Hiccup crafted a prosthetic limb using available tools. With Rapunzel’s help, he adapted to it and eventually regained his ability to walk and run.

Merida DunBroch

Merida is the survivor squad’s long-range support. Before the outbreak, she worked as a horse-riding instructor at a Southern California ranch owned by her father’s old friend, MacGuffin. As a Scot, she would often revert to a thick accent or use slang when agitated, which her clients couldn’t understand. Hoping to reunite with her family in Virginia, she began her journey. Another goal was to retrieve her father’s firearms, stored in a hidden armory near their family farm, to better protect her loved ones.

Merida’s First Day

Merida was leisurely riding her beloved horse, Angus, across a plain when they neared the forest. Angus suddenly stopped, uneasy. Sensing something was wrong, Merida returned to the stables, noticing the other animals behaving restlessly as well.

Shortly after, she received a call from her mother, urging her to lock the doors and windows, mentioning that rabies outbreaks from East Asia had reached the U.S. The call became choppy, and several helicopters flew overhead. Her mother’s final words before the line cut off were to get home immediately.

Merida stopped by MacGuffin’s mansion to find out more. His son pulled her aside, saying his father was acting strangely, and asked her to wait in the living room. Moments later, she heard glass shattering and a struggle upstairs. Investigating, she was attacked by a rabid MacGuffin and his son. Grabbing a decorative sword, Merida defended herself. Guards burst in to help but were quickly overwhelmed and infected. Realizing the infected could only be killed by destroying their brains, Merida used a crossbow from the estate’s armory to put down MacGuffin and his son.

Returning to her ranch, Merida found Angus had fled but eventually reunited with him. Her attempts to warn neighbors were met with fear or disbelief, with one person even stealing her gun and ammunition. Cornered by zombies, Merida watched Angus distract the horde, giving her a chance to escape in MacGuffin’s car.

Encounter

Ten days after the outbreak, WHO declared a global crisis. Jack, Rapunzel, and Hiccup took shelter in a Beverly Hills mansion. While exploring, Rapunzel admired a painting when an arrow narrowly missed her, embedding itself in the artwork. Turning, she saw a red-haired girl aiming a bow at her. Jack, alerted by Rapunzel’s scream, pointed his gun at Merida, who claimed she had staked her claim on the house.

The standoff ended when Merida was startled by Toothless. Jack wanted to tie her up as a precaution, but Rapunzel later brought her food and a blanket, suggesting she join the group. Merida escaped that night, warning Rapunzel that kindness could be deadly in times like these. However, when zombies attacked the mansion, Merida returned and used her crossbow to save Hiccup, ultimately helping the group escape.

Weapons and Equipment

• Metal Bow and Arrows: Merida’s personal weapon, highly accurate and effective in close combat when necessary.

• Crossbow: Taken from the MacGuffin estate, it became her primary weapon.

• Carbine Rifle: Lightweight and effective for medium-range combat, often used to cover Jack’s blind spots.

• Shotgun: A last resort, cumbersome but reliable.

Plot Outline: Virginia → Chicago

After a long journey, the four finally arrived in Virginia, only to find that the virus outbreak in the state was not as severe as in cities out west. Perhaps due to the vast rural landscape and lower population density, there were plenty of zombies, but the situation wasn’t as catastrophic as they had feared.

Merida quickly found her family home but discovered it in complete disarray. The windows and balcony glass were shattered, and the kitchen bore evidence of a violent struggle, with knives and bloodstains scattered around. After thoroughly searching the house and finding no sign of her family or their bodies, the group realized that the DunBroch family, apart from Merida, had likely perished. Merida silently stared at a shattered family photo lying on the ground for a long time. She then led the others to break into her father’s armory. Inside, they found most of the weapons intact, except for her father’s beloved Remington 700 rifle and MAC-10 submachine gun, which were missing. The group scavenged all useful items before continuing their journey to Chicago.

During the journey, Hiccup wrestled with whether to leave the group and take Toothless to Minnesota to build a home for themselves. While staying overnight in an abandoned hotel in the countryside, the group held a simple farewell ceremony for him. After drinking, a tipsy Merida and Jack even joked about tying Hiccup to the passenger seat of their car to prevent him from leaving. Once Merida and Jack had fallen asleep, Rapunzel, who was on night watch, handed Hiccup the address of her destination in Chicago and told him he was welcome to find them anytime if he changed his mind. That night, Toothless rested on Rapunzel’s lap, seemingly sensing the tension in the air.

The next morning, the group said their emotional goodbyes. Hiccup and Toothless set off for Minnesota, while the other three continued their journey to Chicago.

According to the notes they carried, Rapunzel’s late friend had mentioned someone with the codename “Pitch,” whose address pointed to Chicago City Hospital. The group fought their way into the hospital and found Pitch in a private room. Pitch explained that the hospital’s pathology lab contained blood samples from Patient Zero, the first documented case of the outbreak, and recounted the events of the outbreak’s first day in Chicago.

Believing that information about Patient Zero could help develop a cure, Rapunzel insisted on retrieving the blood samples. Jack and Merida initially dismissed her plan as reckless but ultimately decided to join her. Pitch, amused by their determination, agreed to help. He drew them a map of the hospital and marked the location of the pathology lab.

The three braved numerous obstacles to reach the lab, only to find its door secured by a fingerprint scanner. As panic set in, the door suddenly opened on its own. They quickly locked it behind them, keeping the zombies outside. Just as they were trying to figure out what had happened, the intercom inside the lab crackled to life—it was Hiccup’s voice. He and Toothless, after deciding to rejoin the group, had successfully infiltrated the hospital’s control room and hacked into its systems to assist them.

With the blood samples in hand, the group reunited with Hiccup in the control room and returned to Pitch’s room, only to find it overrun by zombies. Before they left, Pitch revealed that the safest place in the world was Jerusalem, which had prepared extensively for the outbreak even before it began. He mentioned a massive wall called “Limbo” that successfully kept the zombies out. Rapunzel urged Pitch to join them, but he refused, explaining that he had lost his daughter and no longer had the will to continue fighting. The group reluctantly left as the zombies poured in, and Rapunzel, glancing back for a brief moment, was shocked to see the zombies ignoring Pitch entirely.

As the group fled in their vehicle, zombies attacked before the door could close, and Hiccup was bitten on the lower leg. Once the car was secured, Jack immediately amputated Hiccup’s leg to prevent the infection from spreading. Rapunzel quickly wrapped his leg with a cloth to stop the bleeding while counting down the crucial 15 seconds. Merida placed the hilt of her sword in Hiccup’s mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue in pain. As the seconds passed, Jack, trembling, held a gun to Hiccup’s head, ready to end it if necessary. When the 15 seconds elapsed and Hiccup showed no signs of infection, the group breathed a sigh of relief. Rapunzel disinfected and bandaged his leg, while Jack, still shaken, muttered that perhaps Hiccup shouldn’t have come back. Hiccup, pale and weak, stroked Toothless and replied that he felt safer with them.

Shortly after, Jack managed to contact North, attempting to negotiate safe passage for the group. Sensing hesitation in North’s response, Jack revealed that they had blood samples from Patient Zero and that his experience in the field made him an asset. In exchange, he demanded transport to Jerusalem’s Limbo. After a brief pause, North agreed to contact them within an hour.

An hour later, North instructed them to meet his team at Cleveland’s Terminal Tower at sunrise.

Upon arriving in Cleveland, the group prepared for the final sprint, using thick magazines to reinforce their arms and legs and carrying all remaining weapons and supplies. At sunrise, they fought through a relentless horde of zombies toward the helicopter. Hiccup fired his flaming crossbow to signal their position to the pilots. During the battle, Merida accidentally ingested zombie blood, and once aboard the tower, she prepared to leap to her death if she showed signs of infection. Rapunzel, panicked, tried to stop her, but Merida refused, counting down 15 seconds with her eyes closed. When no infection occurred, she finally boarded the helicopter.

The group finally escaped and arrived within the walls of Limbo in Jerusalem. Rapunzel and the blood samples were handed over to surviving WHO virologists. Jack was assigned to the defense team protecting the walls, Hiccup and Toothless received further treatment for his amputation, and Merida, to her surprise, was reunited with her three younger brothers, who had survived.

—— TBC.

[cafecourage]

Speaking of sleepy, caring for sleepy Chain

-Softie

We worked on this on stream long ago. I also made this also one bed. Part 1 has Time, Twilight, and Warriors

_____________

There was a common issue among some of the chain where most all of them have the fatal flaw of not being able to sleep. Some had issues waking up like Sky, Wind, Four and Wild. You quickly found that Legend was among that group but given the incident he went into the latter issue. Which was annoying when dealing with. It was completely opposite problems.

Time:

It was always hard to tell if the Old man was tired as he seemed to be always absolutely exhausted. Which was fair enough since he was dubbed the dad friend in the group thus making him the main person to go to for everything. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t just slept for 7 more years yet.

Still the Hero of Time was probably 3 days in without sleep and thats what you observed. Granted you should have stopped him by day 2. But you weren’t sure if he slept on the days you seen him take first shift and wake up with him being on last shift.

The other boy’s notice it too and while they all appreciate the extra sleep it’s unfair for Time. Warriors is typically the only one that speaks up about it since he isn’t phased by the Older Link’s tough exterior. While it would be embarrassing in hindsight you had to drag Warriors aside to push for you and Time to be in the same room. “I have a plan” is what you tell the captain not letting him know that you in fact, dont have a plan.

Truly the plan is fist fight the old man until he actually sleeps, or lecture him whatever you feel like. At least you will be here in town for a few days to gather supplies and information. So you can at least fix Time’s sleep schedule.

You’re plotting came to an extreme halt as you step into a room with one bed. “This can work.” You say out loud as you dropped your stuff in a corner of the room. “We can share the bed.” It’s not even up for debate at this point.

“Can we?” Time asks as he closes the door “wouldn’t that be uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable?” That wouldn’t be the word you would use. “Nah. Unless it makes you uncomfortable. Then I can take the floor.”

The hero gives you a look, one to even dare you to say that again. “If you don’t mind, then I don’t see why fight over it.”

“It I am being real.” You stand up and stretched “you do need it more.” It has been decided. You are lecturing him. “When is the last time you slept a full 8 hours? Heck 6 hours I would accept.”

An eyebrow was raised as he heads inside “I have been fine with the sleep I’ve been getting.” He takes his armor off putting each piece down carefully before finally sitting on the bed. He pats the spot next to him.

You follow his lead as you prepare a long argument. “Ah, yes the zero hou- Ack!” What you didn’t expect was Time to drag you into his lap and lay down.

Your face exploded in a blush as you were now basically his teddy bear. “Don’t you think I haven’t noticed you also have trouble sleeping.” He whispered as he was already in the process of wrapping the both of you in the blankets. “Let’s take a nap for now…”

Well… This backfired successfully.

Twilight:

Twilight was one of these Links which, made sense but also didn’t when you found this out. He tries to older brother everyone, he makes sure everyone is asleep before he does. Which takes forever to do and your patience for this man is thinning.

After stopping in a town from a long trek. The group decides to go to the Inn to set up shop. You were already on Twilight to take a nap before dinner. “No. We are going to eat in like 30 minutes.”

Ok.

No.

He isn’t getting out of this and you don’t care you’re in the middle of the lobby. There was something that the chain has yet to learn about you.

You might be short.

But you are strong.

So you marched up to Twilight and despite his struggling you throw the hero over your shoulder and went directly to the room angrily. “Let me down!” Twilight demands of you. However you couldn’t care about it as you open the door kick it close and threw him on the bed. “That was unnecessary.” He said getting up.

“It was very necessary!” You argued back crossing your arms. “When is the last time you properly slept?”

Twilight stays quiet and looks away. He looked like a kicked puppy. “I get enough.”

“According to who? Because everyone else can make an argument that you’re barely getting any to function.” You let out a huff as you should probably be more lenient with him because it’s not really like he is doing something bad. You know from experience that the body could function with little sleep if it’s used to it but it’s not healthy! You didn’t go through classes with a clear mind but you should have! “We are just worried about you.”

The Hero stays quiet but sighs “ok. I understand.” He seems to give up at this point. But he reaches out to take your hand finally letting himself looked exhausted “but… can you stay with me?”

Your eyes soften as he seemed to be more tired than you thought. “Of course I will. Someone has to make sure you stay put.” He teases you.

Warriors: 

After a long day of traveling an inn was a welcoming sight. Since there were ten of you now each room had to have 2 people. Which was sometimes unfortunate for some, but for you in this current moment?

You couldn’t ask for a better opportunity since you (forcably) asked to be Warrior’s pair, only to have there only be one bed. 

Perfect.

Wonderful.

Amazing.

It was instant that you had grabbed Warriors tunic and almost thrown him on to the bed. “Didn’t know you wanted me on the bed that badly, doll.” He was laughing. This man was laughing and he looked like hell. Probably felt like it too as the ever polished captain was showing dark circles under his eyes. His smile was sluggish and his eyes weren’t as sharp as they normally were.

“Very funny.” You rolled your eyes as you headed towards him again to help him out of his armor. “You should take better care of yourself. 3 days of barely any sleep? What were you thinking?!”

“That the other boys need some sleep.” There was no hesitation as the stubborn man is proud of himself for killing his sleep schedule. “It’s fine.” “It is not fine.” You didn’t mean to throw his shoulder plate on the carpet. “You better take your chainmail off before I do it for you.”

“What if I rather you do it for me?” The captain fire back without missing a beat. Instantly his face paled “wait-“

“Nope to late come here.” You take his tunic and just… thew it off of him. “Do you want to continue?” This was a threat.

“no…” Warriors voice was silent as he finally got out of what armor he had left. “I should sleep on the floo-“ that suggestion was instantly silent as you glared at him.

Finally when both of you were ready for bed you had put your self on top of him. Cuddling but also if he was going to escape he will have to wake you up first. “this is so you don’t escape.” You said.

“I wont. I wont.” Warriors was a bit hesitant to wrap his arms around you “Thank you.” He whispered as he finally started to relaxed.

“Don’t rely on me to fix your sleep habits.” You said poking his cheek “good night Captain.”

“Good Night Sweetheart.”

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

⚡️ Too Nice

Too Nice: Y/N’s boyfriend thinks she is too nice to people, so he teaches her how to throw a punch. Not exactly a normal response to being ‘too nice’, but the skill does come in handy when Team Flash becomes under attack.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Blood, Death, Mind-Fuckery.

To Note: Harry Wells x Reader.

Word Count: ~2.7k

Harry Wells

“Cisco, if you steal another one of my curly fries I am going to throat punch you,” you threaten, pulling your Big Belly Burger fries away from his reach. Cisco gives you a smug look and kicks back where he sits.

“You and what muscle, Y/N? We both know that you have zero self-preservation,” Cisco snickers at you. You shoot him a glare and stuff more fries into your mouth, stewing in the fact that someone keeps stealing them. At least Cisco hasn’t gotten his mitts on the BBB takeout bag you’re currently protecting with your life. He would no doubt try to eat the food in the bag if given the chance. But you’re determined to make sure that Harry’s order makes it to his hands and doesn’t fall to the burger monger hungrily eyeing it just feet away. You move it further out of his reach.

Cisco huffs and rolls his eyes—right before the monitors in front of you start beeping. You both straighten up and look at the alarms flashing on the screens. There’s a drop in barometric pressure at the North City Bank on the far side of Central City.

“Mark’s up to no good again,” you mutter, your fingers working quickly to pull up the traffic and bank camera live CCTV footage. Cisco leans over to the mic.

“Head’s up, looks like Weather Wizard is looking to make an unauthorized withdrawal from North City Bank,” he says into it.

“Just finishing up with this car crash, I’ll be there in a second,” Barry responds. Your eyes flick over to Barry’s blinking tracker dot, watching as it speeds across the city map toward the bank. You turn your attention back to the footage of the bank lobby and spot Mark Mardon standing in the center, hand raised as the air tears around him and lightning crackles overhead.

“I will never get used to that,” you mutter, pulling up the police channel. “CCPD is on their way, but I doubt they’re going to be able to do anything with Mardon slinging lightning like that.”

“Yeah, but he’s no match for our boy,” Cisco chirps just as Harry enters the Cortex with Caitlin following behind him. You automatically hold up the last Big Belly Burger bag, which he takes with a grunt.

“You got extra curly fries?” Harry asks, sticking a hand in the bag.

“With extra sauce too,” you reply with a smile. Cisco snaps his head toward you in utter betrayal.

“Why does Harry get special treatment and not me?” Cisco exclaims. You raise an eyebrow at him while Harry starts munching on his fries smugly.

“That’s because she likes me more,” Harry says before turning and heading for the labs. Cisco throws a dramatic tantrum while you and Caitlin both roll your eyes.

“Oh yeah, because you’re a totally approachable person with an award-winning personality!” Cisco yells after Harry. “She has better taste in friends than you!”

Harry disappears from view and you turn to Cisco with a look.

“Stop picking fights with Harry,” you chide as he pouts.

“Well then stop being so nice to him when he’s so mean to us,” Cisco snips, crossing his arms.

“Who said he’s mean to me?” you ask in confusion, not understanding why Cisco thinks Harry would ever be mean to you. Cisco gestures in the direction Harry just went.

“It’s Harry!”

You make a face that basically says ‘and?’ You still don’t get it. Cisco snorts and shakes his head.

“Fine, I’ll admit that he’s marginally always nice to you, which is weird because Harry is mean to everyone. But me? He likes picking fights with me.”

“That’s because you fall for it every time, Cisco,” you remind him dryly. You remember Harry once telling you he loved pushing Cisco’s buttons because Cisco always got so worked up. It’s like a big brother-little brother dynamic—though Cisco has no clue Harry sees him that way.

“Hey guys?” Barry’s voice breaks the tension in the room. Caitlin drags the microphone over to her.

“We’re here, Barry,” she says. You refocus on the screen and pull up the CCTV feed of the bank lobby. Mardon is still wreaking havoc, and Barry isn’t having much luck getting close.

“So… we’ve got a problem. Mardon’s kicking up a fuss, but all he’s doing is tossing lightning around. He hasn’t even tried to get into the vault,” Barry explains. Cisco tilts his head and shrugs.

“Then just tag ‘em and bag ‘em,” Cisco says into the mic. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry tonight.”

“Copy,” Barry replies, and you watch as his red streak flashes across the screen. You wince every time Mardon manages to throw him.

“He’s not on his game tonight,” Caitlin comments as Barry takes a lightning bolt straight to the chest and flies back. Cisco snorts and slurps his drink.

“I’ll say. It’s like watching a cat toy with a mouse.”

“Cisco, we’re supposed to be helping him, not giving a play-by-play on his fight skills.”

“I’m just saying,” Cisco protests, holding up a hand. “It’s like Mardon’s not there to rob the place—he’s there to mess around.”

That makes you frown. You lean in closer to the screen.

“Cisco, you might be right about that,” you mutter, brows furrowing. “I— I don’t think Mardon is actually there to steal anything…” You drag the mic back over. “Barry! I think Mardon is trying to—”

Caitlin and Cisco vanish.

You’re suddenly alone in the Cortex. The files you had open are gone, the screens blank, the live feed footage replaced with nothing. What the hell?

“Barry? You there?” you ask into the mic again.

Static. Silence.

Drumming your fingers nervously against your thighs, you glance around. If you can’t reach Barry, the others must still be around.

“Cisco? Caitlin?” you call, pushing back from your desk and getting to your feet. The Cortex is a ghost town. No way they could’ve just vanished. You start down the hall, calling out again. “Harry!? Harry, are you here?”

The lab is empty, devoid of projects, tools, life. Your breath catches in your chest as panic builds in your veins and you turn on your heel, frantically searching for signs of life.

"Harry!" you shout, your heart racing. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening—but it is, and you have no idea what to do. Spinning around again, your eyes wild with fear, you finally catch sight of a pair of legs sticking out from behind one of the tall cabinets where tools are stored. You rush over and feel your heart stop in your chest.

"Harry!"

Dropping to your knees next to him, you reach for the spot on his abdomen currently oozing blood like a chocolate fountain. Fast. Your hands are quickly stained red as you press down on the wound and look around for something—anything—you can use to stem the blood flow.

"How did this happen, Harry!" you cry out, yanking open a drawer where Caitlin keeps a stash of gauze for emergencies. Thank God. You rip out a bunch and shove them into the wound while looking up at Harry’s pale face. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow.

"Harry!" At your call, he opens his eyes, revealing dull, glassy blue irises that lack focus and are quickly draining of life.

"Come on, Harry! Stay with me, okay? Stay with me!"

Harry coughs a few times, blood leaking from his lips. You press down harder, wiping at the blood as your eyes dart around, desperate to understand what happened. Nothing makes sense.

"Come on, come on, come on," you whisper, reaching for your cell phone in your pocket—only to find it gone. Why is this happening to you? Looking back at Harry’s face, you see that he’s managed to fix his gaze on you, weakly grabbing the wrist of your hand pressing into his wound. He coughs again, and then the light you love so much fades from his eyes.

It feels like your world is shattering, like the rug has been swept out from under you and you’re free falling, never to hit the ground. Tears stream down your face as you urgently press your fingers to his neck.

"Come on, Harry!" you half sob, half cry. "You’re not allowed to do this to me. You’re not allowed to die!"

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything. Choking on a sob, you lean forward and press your forehead to his chest, trying not to completely break. It doesn’t work. You find yourself sobbing against his body, clutching at what you have left. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. Harry can’t just die—not when everything was going so well.

You’re still clutching his sweater when you open your eyes, and it slowly hits you.

Harry isn’t wearing his usual sweater. In fact, he’s not even in the clothes he put on this morning before leaving your house. No—he’s wearing a crisp white dress shirt, the kind he only wears when he’s on his Earth and working in his lab. Lifting your head from his chest, you stare at the red-stained fabric in confusion. Your tears begin to slow.

Something’s wrong. Cisco and Caitlin couldn’t have just vanished. There’s no logical explanation for what happened to Harry. The lab is never this neat, and there’s no way someone could’ve closed out all those Cortex files so fast. Leaning back on your knees, you glance down at your blood-stained hands. Blood should feel warm. Or cool. It should feel like something.

You feel nothing.

None of this makes sense. And then your vision blurs. You jerk in place.

You're back in the Cortex. Everything is as it should be—documents open, CCTV still playing… except now there's a man with glowing purple eyes hunched over a computer on the far side of the room.

Blinking in confusion, you turn to Caitlin and Cisco—and see that they’re frozen in place, eyes glowing purple. Terror is etched into their faces, and Caitlin has tears tracking down her cheeks.

What. The. Fuck.

You knew something was wrong with Mardon. He wasn’t there to rob the bank. He was creating a distraction.

Rage surges through your veins. This man—this meta—is messing with your minds to access the lab computers. What he made you see fills you with unfiltered, unrelenting fury. You tremble from it.

He made your worst fear come to life.

He made you see Harry die.

Quietly, you push away from the desk, tears cooling in the chilled air as you rise to your feet. They cling to your cheeks, cold now, like the fury simmering under your skin. You step up to the meta, raise a hand, and tap him lightly on the shoulder.

He jumps, clearly not expecting anyone to snap out of his illusion. His glowing purple eyes meet yours—just for a second. Then you draw back and sock him straight in the chin.

His eyes roll back as he drops like a stone.

You glance down at his unconscious body. Behind you, Cisco and Caitlin stagger and groan as they regain their bearings. You grab a pair of meta-cuffs from a nearby table and snap them onto his wrists. No more mind games from him.

"What the hell was that!?" Cisco groans, bracing against the Cortex desk. Caitlin presses a hand to her forehead.

"That was us getting whammied while Mardon distracted Barry," you say flatly, spinning around to face them.

Caitlin’s eyes go wide. Cisco freezes.

"Holy crap, were you crying?" Cisco blurts.

You bite your lip and ignore him. Marching up to the Cortex desk, you grab the mic.

"Barry, Mardon was a distraction. Bag him and get back here ASAP."

Jerking your chair toward you, you sit down, fingers flying across the keyboard, trying to figure out what the meta was after. Behind you, he groans.

"If he whammied us, how did you snap out of it?" Caitlin asks as she settles back in her chair. Cisco eyes the meta and pokes him with a screwdriver.

You don’t even look away from the screen, tears still burning in your eyes. "I just did."

You glance at Cisco. "Stop poking him. Go prep the pipeline."

Cisco huffs. "Y/N, how’d you take him down?"

"I punched him."

"Oh, this I gotta see," Cisco says, grinning as he scurries to his computer, no doubt pulling up the lab footage.

You double-check the lab’s integrity as he queues the video. Caitlin pulls a pen light from her coat.

"Holy hot mama!" Cisco crows when the punch hits on screen. Caitlin blinks mid-check.

"Where’d you learn to punch like that!?" Cisco asks, spinning around in his chair.

"My boyfriend. He says I’m too nice."

"I’ll say…" he snorts.

"I didn’t know you were seeing someone," Caitlin comments as she moves over to Cisco, who’s gleefully replaying the punch.

"I take back what I said about you having no self-preservation. You, girl, are a certified badass," Cisco declares.

Commotion erupts at the doorway. Harry storms into the Cortex, glasses askew.

"Does someone want to explain to me what just happened!?" he demands, eyes locking on the meta.

Cisco jerks a thumb toward you. "Y/N here went full Rocky Balboa on a meta that whammied us. You have to see the video. It’s. Awesome!"

"Y/N did what!?" Harry growls, each word sharp enough to cut. You know that tone. You’re in trouble. But you don’t care.

Cisco queues the footage again. Harry’s jaw tightens. Then he turns on you.

"I said to stand up for yourself more often—not go around punching metas that can hurt you!"

"He made me see something I never want to see again," you snap, shooting to your feet. The screech of your chair echoes behind you. "So I took care of him."

You shove away from the desk and storm toward the exit, hot tears threatening.

"Y/N, don’t—"

You hear Harry behind you, fast. He grabs your arm, spinning you around.

"Y/N/N!"

"What!?" you snarl, eyes stinging again. "What, Harry?"

He pulls you close, hands cupping your face as his thumbs brush away tears.

"Y/N/N, what he made you see wasn’t real," Harry says softly, eyes locked onto yours. "Okay? It. Wasn’t. Real. Everyone’s fine. Nothing happened."

"What he showed me could happen, Harry," you whisper, voice cracking. "It could happen—and I can’t do anything about it."

Barry whooshes into the Cortex. "Hey, I’ve got Mardon locked—"

"Shh!" Cisco and Caitlin hiss.

Harry ignores him, focused only on you.

"Okay?" he repeats, stroking your cheek.

"You don’t know that," you whisper, lip trembling. Your eyes well again.

Harry sighs and pulls you into a tight embrace. Your face presses to his chest, into the soft fabric of his sweater. He’s warm. Real. Alive.

Your tense body softens. You clutch the back of his sweater, needing the feel of him.

"We’re a team, Y/N/N," he murmurs. "We’ve got each other’s backs."

You close your eyes and press your ear to his chest. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your cheek.

"Why does Harry get to call you Y/N/N, but when we do, we get death glares?" Cisco complains.

Harry laughs softly and glances over.

"Because I’m her boyfriend. Privilege of the position."

"Totally unfair!" Cisco protests. Caitlin chuckles.

"Fair or not, we all need a break after this," she says, eyeing the moaning meta cuffed to the table. "After we lock him up."

While Barry and Caitlin haul the meta off, you remain in Harry’s arms. You bury your face in his sweater to hide the tears still falling.

Eventually, he guides you to his room, settles you on the edge of his cot.

"I’m teaching you how to use a gun," he mutters. "Next time, you won’t have to get close."

That makes you laugh.

"So I can surprise Cisco again?"

Harry smirks. "I like keeping him on his toes. But seriously, Y/N/N… don’t go punching metas. Come get me."

"Okay," you promise.

Date Published: 26/7/22

Last Edit: 29/4/25

Harry Wells

[deliciouskeys]

Cozy Corner Domaystic prompts #16: Going through immigration and #24: Identity theft.

Guys. Guys, I’ll be honest. I have no idea what possessed me. I think I found these two prompts as some of the most challenging to imagine as a domestic fic, and… my thinking got a little bit too outside the box.

This fic will have an intended audience of about 1 (me). But I want to give major major props to @olliveolly who introduced me to this game and was the one who came up with this That’s Not My Neighbor / Boys crossover AU (with a couple lovely art pieces on the theme). The “lore” of this horror game is very simple. Tell me you don’t see it:

Butchlander. That’s Not My Neighbor crossover/AU. Rated E (why). 3.3k words (why). 2nd person to allegedly reflect the feeling of first-person gameplay (why). Is this domestic fic? Welllllll. It takes place in an apartment complex so it counts, right? Lax interpretation of ‘going through immigration’ but honestly that’s what this game really reminds me of 😂 AO3 link

Another day, another interminable shift working as the concierge in the dreary lobby of this apartment complex. It was exciting at first, sure, what with getting to play the first and last line of defense against the doppelganger monsters that attempt to sneak in every single day. But you’ve just gotten too good at noticing discrepancies. Nothing gets past you anymore. You know every single feature- hell, every single freckle! -of every single resident in the building. By this point you’ve got all their phone numbers memorized, for no better reason than there is simply too much tedium to this job. You find yourself wishing you could actually watch the D.D.D. ‘decontaminate’ the lobby, as they so euphemistically put it, instead of just sitting there twiddling your thumbs behind a pulled down rollup metal shutter after summoning them. You could still make out screams without seeing the brutality, and you knew the D.D.D. employed flame throwers and other serious weapons to deal with these monsters. Sometimes you caught yourself feeling just a little bit of sympathy for the doppelgangers, even though their main goal in life appeared to be to imitate people to blend in and then feed upon human flesh, and your main goal in life was supposed to be to ensure none of them would ever get let in through the locked inner door.

John Gillman comes in through the first door and gives you a tired, nominal wave before fishing around in his pockets for his documents to gain entry. He might be your favorite resident— always polite, always in that clean-cut milkman uniform at least when you happen to see him, because no one really leaves the apartment building outside of work obligations. There’s no nightlife in New York anymore, not with everyone nervous of dark alleys or being alone on the street, especially after dark. When you came over here from London, you certainly didn’t expect to get stuck here during a worldwide apocalyptic event like this that has resulted in curfews and lockdowns. You certainly didn’t expect to get zero action and get a mindnumbing job just to make ends meet. It was probably still more interesting than your gig working as a bouncer back in London, but at least you got fresh air there, and sometimes a date to go home with after closing time. Maybe that’s why you’ve started hyperfixating and daydreaming about one of the residents— the involuntary celibacy is getting to you.

John just always looks uncannily attractive. Maybe it’s that silly uniform that’s easy to fetishize. Maybe it’s because his tired eyes also look like bedroom eyes, or the dark circles function the same way eyeliner would. Why is he always so tired anyway? You know he lives alone up there in F03-02. He never gets any visitors either. How much can a person masturbate, really? There’s a rumor around the building that Becca Saunders’ tyke might be his, but you don’t really see the resemblance, and have your doubts that this didn’t just start as a “sleeping with the milkman” joke that got out of hand. People just like to gossip about single mothers. Things like this shouldn’t be considered scandalous. It’s 1955 for god’s sake!

“Sorry, William,” John says, hurriedly shoving his ID and entry request form underneath the glass so you can take take a look. “Almost thought I left my ID at work.”

“Long day, huh?” you ask without expecting a reply, pretending to scrutinize the documents while making small talk. You know this is John. You’d know him from a mile away. But it doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun. “Looks okay, and you are on the list of people authorized to come and go today. But can you take off your cap?”

John grabs his milkman cap off his head, exposing a mop of blond hair, looking mussed after being under the hat all day. You really wish you could test him, see how far you’d be able to take things before he refused to cooperate. Take off your shirt, John. Gotta make sure it’s really you. You never know these days. But of course you don’t. All you’ll have is your fantasies about breaching every code of ethics and using your master key to gain entrance into his apartment, seducing him, ravishing him right in the middle of what must be a depressing bachelor pad. Give him much darker undereye circles by keeping him up all night. Give this apartment complex a more interesting rumor to spread about the milkman in their midst.

“You’re good to go,” you say and press the green unlock button to let him in. He gives you a wan smile and walks out of view, and you listen to his footsteps ascending the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, only a few people coming and going, and a couple of doppelgängers with laughably strange appearance or bad credentials being dispatched quickly. Or at least it’s uneventful until John walks in, just a little bit past curfew.

“Hey William,” he says, sounding distracted, rummaging in his pockets for his documents as a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. This better be a doppelganger, you think to yourself. But he has both his ID and the entry request filled out correctly. He looks identical to the John that passed by here a couple of hours earlier. This can’t be.

You start dialing John’s number, not taking your eyes off the man in front of you.

John’s eyes widen with alarm when he sees that you get an answer from the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello? John here. I’m not expecting any visitors.”

You hang up pretty abruptly, staring at the John in front of you, searching his appearance for any subtle defect or inconsistency but finding none. Your finger is hovering over the alarm button.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you think I’m someone else? It’s me, William! I swear to god it’s me! I don’t know who you let in earlier, and who’s answering the phone now, but it’s not me up there!”

And shit, you believe him. You must have fucked up. Gotten smug and sloppy. Maybe the doppelganger handed you a fake ID but you didn’t notice because you were too busy daydreaming about fucking him.

“William, please believe me, please!” John is pressing up against the glass at this point, clearly scared that you’re going to quarantine him in the lobby and sic the D.D.D. on him. They don’t tend to ask questions. You’ve never had it happen, but you’ve heard of innocent people getting snuffed out on the mere suspicion of being doppelgangers, the D.D.D. rarely admitting to such mistakes even after the fact.

“Alright, alright, I believe you. I just have to think…” you mumble. “I’ll let you in, but don’t go up to your flat. We have to figure this out.”

John nods frantically and slips into your office after you buzz him in.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, and if you weren’t scared shitless at the moment, you’d probably get a kick out of how vulnerable and scared his expression is compared to his usual tired, impassive one.

“I should call the D.D.D. and get them to go up there,” you think out loud.

“Won’t you get reprimanded?” John asks, and oh how sweet of him to worry about your job when you’ve fucked up so royally and almost gotten him killed with your negligence. Maybe already gotten some of his neighbors killed.

“I just don’t want you losing your job over this— you’re the best concierge we have,” he says and then looks down shyly, as if realizing how strange that concern is.

What is this? Are you dreaming? Maybe you’re just out of your mind with adrenaline, but John sounds like he’s got feelings for you.

“Let’s just go up there and see what’s going on,” he says, and damn he’s persuasive as fuck. You want to go and deal with the mess you made, and protect him.

“I’ll go up there and just check,” you say, hardly believing yourself as you grab the fire extinguisher from the wall as a makeshift weapon. Everyone who was scheduled to return to the building has, so you shouldn’t get any more legitimate people coming through, but you still tape up a note that you’ll be back at your post in a few minutes. “Right then. You just stay down here and wait. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. If I’m not back in five, call the number on the post-it.”

John shakes his head and follows you up the stairs. “I’m not letting you go up there alone,” he says in that quiet irresistible voice and you start to wonder if there’s something strange going on. Why are you going on this potentially suicidal mission to deal with a doppelganger on your own? So what if you get fired? No job is worth your life, right? But you probably wouldn’t see John ever again if you lost this job and that’s clouding all your judgment right now.

Knocking on John’s apartment door is probably not a good idea, and will just give the monster inside time to prepare or hide. So you take out your master key and turn it in the lock as quietly and quickly as you can. The door swings opens with an ominous creak, revealing a dark living room with no sign of anyone there. Did he hear you coming up the stairs? You try to keep John behind you and shield him in case anything sudden happens from within the apartment, but then you feel a strong push from behind and both you and John are in the flat now.

You’re so stupid, so critically, fatally stupid. The John you let in earlier was the real one. You’ve let a doppelganger convince you that you made a mistake, and now you did let one in. You whirl around, try to hit him upside the head with the fire extinguisher you’re brandishing, but he blocks the move with little effort.

“I thought we agreed,” he says, and you realize he’s speaking not to you but past you to someone else in the room.

“Thursdays are my days,” an identical voice answers from behind you and you step back and try to make sense of what you’re seeing. Two John Gillmans, both in the same uniform, neither one looking the least bit spooked, both looking mildly irritated if anything.

“Since when,” the John who came up behind you asks of the other one. “I get to be here every other day, doesn’t matter what day of the week it is.”

“So now what are we going to do about him?” the John who was in the apartment asks, pointing to you. “Why didn’t you just leave once he called me? Are you stupid?”

Your heart may be racing, but your thinking feels as slow as molasses. They’re …. both doppelgangers?

“What have you done with the real John Gillman?” you whisper hoarsely. The twins turn to look at you and you’re creeped out by the very similar smirk that spreads across both of their faces. They’re really impeccable facsimiles of the real person, but this is an expression you’ve never seen on John.

“You’ve never met the ‘real John Gillman’,” one of them says.

There’s enough cold sweat that’s broken out on your back that it starts to trickle down as drops.

“We like you William. It would be such a shame for our friendship to end.”

You hold up the fire extinguisher in front of yourself defensively, but you’re not sure you can really do anything against two of them. You’ve never noticed before, and maybe the real John’s teeth didn’t look like this, but the two doppelgangers have sharp looking canines when they’re grinning. It’ll serve you right to get devoured in this dark flat for making so many mistakes and bad decisions in a row today.

“So you’re just going to kill me then?” you ask.

“We’d really rather not,” one of the twins says. “A murder would bring a lot of snooping law enforcement if not the D.D.D. Itself.”

“And it’s so hard to find good lodging to spend the night.”

They must be joking. “You really expect me to believe you’re not just here to eat people?”

One of the twins rolls his eyes. “Eat people! Yeah, that’s why we’re here, clearly.”

“Has anyone in this apartment building ever disappeared in all the months you’ve worked here?” the other one asks.

“How should I know?” You’re beginning to feel like this has to be some sick nightmare. You can’t possibly be having a civil conversation with a couple of cannibal monsters. This thought has a strange calming effect on you. “If I didn’t know you lot were masquerading as John Gillman, how am I to know how many other residents are real people?”

The twins turn to each other, still smiling and shrugging.

“We’ve been on a vegetarian diet for a while,” the other says and you can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” the other one says, spreading his hands in concession. “But milk is more than enough to sustain us. We do think people are delicious, but there’s one thing we like much more than eating them.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, emboldened by the possibility that you’re just in a ridiculous, paranoid, bad dream of a worst case scenario at your job.

“We’ve been watching you William. We think you’ve been interested in us.”

“We’ve never fucked anyone from this building, and never fucked together, but there’s a first time for everything, right?”

You just stand there, fire extinguisher still raised up defensively. No question about it, this must be a nightmare that’s slowly but surely twisting itself into a sexual fantasy.

“Come on, William. Let’s make you comfortable.”

You can hardly protest as one gently pulls your makeshift weapon out of your loose grip, and the other one sweeps you off your feet with preternatural superhuman ease and carries you over to the couch in this sparsely furnished apartment.

Gentle but insistent hands undo the buttons on your trousers and then maneuver you so they can pull them off completely and free your legs.

“Humans are such fun creatures,” one of the Johns comments when he sees that despite your fear of the situation unfolding right now, you are sporting a half-hearted hard-on. It somehow only gets harder when you hear them talk about people as another species.

Both Johns are still fully dressed, situating themselves to kneel on the floor on either side of you. It’s wild. You must be dreaming. And as you watch both Johns lean forward, extending their tongues and licking your cock up and down from opposite sides, you realize that if this is a dream, you never want to wake up.

They know what they’re doing. They bring you right up to the edge of orgasm and then pull away, leaving you feeling desperate and even annoyed. You’re not annoyed for long though as they both strip down, and you see that their human-mimicking powers are perfect, down to the most minute details that would never be seen under clothes. Granted, you don’t know what John Gillman looked like naked, so maybe they’ve taken artistic license and embellished. Whatever it is, they’ve compared notes, because they still look indistinguishable to you.

“Like what you see?” one of them asks and you realize you I’ve been staring, maybe even with your mouth hanging open. You never imagined you’d hook up with a doppelganger, let alone two of them at once. But you have imagined foisting yourself on John in this very flat, and you’re about to live that daydream.

You end up doing things with the two of them beyond what you’ve ever dreamed of. You fuck one of them, and at the same time get fucked by the other one from behind, the cheap bed’s metal joints creaking and moaning from the motion of three bodies rocking against each other. You let them suck your cock and rim you to get you back in the mood for another round, trying not to think about how unsettlingly hungry they both look, and who they really are underneath the human-looking exterior. The exterior slips periodically when they’re in the throes of pleasure. You wince when they betray just how strong they really are, whenever they flip you over or change positions, as if you weigh nothing. You try not to pay attention when their eyes start glowing red when they’re particularly turned on, but it’s impossible to ignore in the darkness of the bedroom.

“William, you are fucking delicious,” one of them declares, licking his lips obscenely after swallowing down your cum, and all you can do is emit a short nervous chuckle, and think that even if they do decide to eat you at the end of all of this— either to cover their tracks, or just because they might start feeling peckish after all this is over— it will still have been worth it.

You don’t get eaten. In fact, you’ve had the time of your life, and as you get up from the bed and mumble that you have to get back to your post before your shift is over, the two Johns lie languid, naked on the bed watching you, each enjoying a post coital glass of milk (that’s all they have in the fridge— you saw when they opened it), like perfect mirror images.

“You won’t be making any unnecessary phone calls, right William?”

“We can count on you to be discreet and keep a secret, right?”

Through the combined haze of being scared for your life and then having the time of your life, there’s still one thing that bothers you, and you ask about it, against all your best self-preservation instincts.

“So what have you done with the real John Gillman?”

They turn to look at each other, not exactly conspiratorial but it still makes you uneasy.

“Oh, John Gillman never existed. We’ve been around a lot longer than you humans think. Many of us never tried to replicate and replace real humans.”

“Yeah, and a lot of good that did when some of us started! The ones who are doing it are the reason we’re being hunted now. Unoriginal hacks. And so bad at mimicking too.”

“So many embarrassing ones out there.” They both nod at each other.

You’d like to believe them. You really would. “So why choose this persona?”

“The milkman gets free milk and gets around in your society! And humans seem to like this look,” one of them says, grinning and gesturing with his hand over their naked bodies.

“But we only ever get to enjoy bored housewives.”

“And why are there two of you?” you ask hesitantly, glancing at the clock on the wall to verify that you’re not late yet.

“Oh there’s more than two of us,” one of them says and they laugh in unison in a way that sends a chill down your spine.

~~~

You think you’ve got it all worked out. You’re letting the John Gillmans stay in the apartment undisturbed, and you let them through even when it’s obvious that there’s more than one of them coming and going. You figure it’s a win-win. They promise to protect the building from any rogue doppelgangers who infiltrate and intend to harm the residents, and in return get a place to stay the night peacefully. You get to visit apartment F03-02 after your shift ends and have mind-blowing sex. They seem to enjoy the orgies as well. They know your shift hours and try to only come and go during those times. There doesn’t seem to be a problem with this arrangement.

Or at least not a problem that you’re going to make into your problem. When one of the Johns walks in, visibly smeared in blood, you do give him a hard time.

“Come on, John. Just because I’ll let you in, doesn’t mean you can just stop trying to look decent. God forbid I call in sick and someone else is here.”

John shrugs and goes through the formality of pushing his ID and entry request under the glass window.

“And get a new ID…” you tell him when you see bloody fingerprints all over the worn paper.

John shrugs, doing his usual tired act, despite how ridiculous it looks to be so bored and nonchalant when he’s smeared in blood.

“Whose blood is that, anyway?” you ask, wondering why you’re not more disturbed.

“Someone who was of no consequence and who won’t be missed,” John replies, terse and cool as a cucumber.

“I thought you said you were vegetarian?”

“I’ll take a cheat day if I run into a wifebeater,” John says, shrugging.

You buzz him in, telling him to get washed up before someone sees him, wondering if you’re being colossally naive to believe his story, and wondering if you’ve got a death wish because you’re still looking forward to going up there once your shift ends in a few hours.

(What in the world. 💀)

ETA: now with another art piece by @olliveolly

[theposhsworld]

Introverts Finish Poor- Learned Extorverts Finish Rich

If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it does it make a sound asked Joshua Flagg - in other words if you don’t market yourself and network, babe you don’t exist. Unless you stop being shy, start networking with both genders like a business woman, you will meet only bottom feeders. Most high value gentlemen are not on dating sites but you meet them in industry events, conferences. If you are delivering a key note speech in a male dominated industry trust me it’s easy to meet the best ones. Elite gentlemen don’t want to be taken advantage of so they prefer pre-qualified women, as in women they meet through networking.

How did the Jordanian queen and crown princess meet their husbands? By going to an expensive hotel lobby alone at night? No they met their husband through networking. Queen Rania worked at a bank and networked. There is a story that she was her future husbands banker or another that she met him at a party introduced by a mutual friend.

How did Amal Clooney & Princess Rajwa meet their husbands? Through friends. You meet quality husbands through meeting their mothers on a charity board for the arts, be it theatre, opera, classical music, ballet or jazz or restoring some monument, etc. Or through your work.

Don’t be an introvert stuck in your comfort zone because success dies in the comfort zone. The comfort zone is for poor unsuccessful losers where dreams come to die. What do all losers have in common? Not facing their fears and staying in their comfort zone.

I know a girl let’s call her Monaco Monica who lives where many millionaires live but has zero luck because she is a shy introvert who sticks to dating apps and doesn’t address mental blocks to why she is scared of networking in therapy. So she only gets the left overs. Monaco Monica has a job where if she hustles and keeps putting herself out there, tolerating rejection she will meet the elite.

Monaco Monica is a smart scientist or engineer who is working on a technology. If she lived in a less expensive part of the world she would be doing well financially but in Monaco she & her male colleagues don’t make enough for a family to live on one income due to the high cost of living. She can only do 50-50 with male colleagues who she hardly sees working in a lab. Her job allows her to limit socialization and focus on her job, which is why she loves her job.

Monaco Monica is a late bloomer. She used to be bullied for being smarter than the other girls and laughed at for being a nerd. She didn’t live in an affluent neighborhood or town so learning wasn’t important there. Then when her figure blossomed girls in her class bullied her harder now that boys started looking at her. The few female friends she had when she was a stick turned on her when puberty hit and she got a C cup.

Monica started wearing bulky manly clothes and hanging with nerdy boys who accepted her but never fully trusted them because many were not as eager to be her friend before puberty hit and she got her chests.

Monica was traumatized and scared of dating and watched from the sidelines and saw how boys were using girls. She finally agreed to date a boy in her science lab who asked her out who then pressured her to sleep with him because now they are boyfriend and girlfriend. Why was she so weird not doing girlfriend stuff?

She slept with Ned the Nerd then immediately the next day heard from the lab boys how he had bragged how big her “jugs”/“honkers”/“balloons something unflattering & dehumanizing in equal measure were. Monica was completely crushed. She dreamt of a romantic prince and realized this was only in fairy tales.

In college she was smarter and tried dating apps. This way they would not brag to the lab. She noticed the girls dressed more feminine than her on them but gave it a try. She got used for sax by broke dusty losers from other universities limiting the age bracket. She got a job kept trying with a bit older but still males who made the same or less than her in 50-50 relationships.

Monica gave up on relationships and focused on her career. And then she saw an Anna Bey video. Finally what she was doing wrong made sense. She was being a romantic fool giving her body for free just because they ask. Monica then joined Anna Bey and Facebook suggested similar hypergamy groups. She found my writing in one of them. Monica is a silent reader who doesn’t comment on my posts but messages me.

She moved to a city like Monaco with her job, invested in a makeover, coaching, therapy, etiquette, bought Anna Bey courses. Take into account she had a good salary for where she lived before she moved to Monaco. Yes Monaco Monica did inner child therapy to make sure she is confident and regal around gentlemen. She healed that trauma. What she didn’t heal was her trauma with women and fear of networking. Since she was listening to Anna Bey before me, yes Monica has plastic surgery to look like a perfect Instagram beauty and looks natural.

Monaco Monica is very smart, relying on her brains & new looks alone. And she has one bad date after another. She messaged me on her situation and allowed me to post this - and asked me what was wrong with her. I asked her did she go to conferences and promote her work.

What I found out that Monaco Monica has a fraction of the salary and career growth she would have if she went beyond her fears and networked. She made every excuse why she couldn’t hustle and network to meet gentlemen. I told Monica “see your therapist to deal with your woman, people & networking trauma and maybe take socialization classes.”

“But I am an introvert.”

“Monica being an introvert is not cute among the rich. Many are self made or forced extroverts. Money is allergic to shyness. Maybe shyness is cute in a three year old but is a worse handicap than a broken leg in an adult. Treat it.”

She wrote to me that all gentlemen she met capable of providing were jerks again.

I said “it’s because you are not prequalified you are dating leftover

m👕n. So did you deal with overcoming your fear of networking in therapy? Your fertile years will dwindle away if you don’t put yourself out there. Why do you invest so much money making yourself the best product but find marketing that product so people who want to buy it know it exists it’s beneath you.”

So she told recently she finally got off the dating apps and is seeing a therapist finally for her fear of networking. She said it will take at least a year to develop confidence but she is happier. Not going on dates with jerks on apps greatly improved her confidence. She started volunteering for something and is too shy and quiet for it to be networking. Her therapist has been telling her controlled exposure is a good step to begin to network. Monica is terrified of women in person, and had structured her career to avoid them as much as possible.

Monica says her therapist is helping her gradually feel safe around women first without expecting it go somewhere. She has been doing inner child therapy and affirmations, gradually increasing her confidence. She says it’s going to be two years until she meets quality suitors but she is happy to not be around jerks and learn more how Monaco works. She said it is a very painful and slow process to work through her school trauma and limiting beliefs it resulted in.

She says the next step would be to feel comfortable and speak up volunteering, offer to do a task without over volunteering and trying to audition as I warn people about over volunteering. Monica said she went to a movie screening of a small independent film with a question and answer period. She stood in line, terrified and asked a question she researched on her phone. It was well received. Ladies and gentlemen went up to her after this, saying what a good question. She made a female friend with an older film enthusiast this way and got a date. She said the date isn’t what she is looking for long term and not compatible but a much kinder more considerate gentleman than she met online.

Monaco Monica wanted me to tell her story that progress from being an introvert to learned extrovert is slow but worth every second of this hard work.

You meet people through being excellent at hobbies, jobs in the professions where high value gentlemen are and go to industry conferences and say something smart while looking pretty.

When it comes to dating quality network is networth.

If you are shy and don’t want to die poor, invest in a therapist who teaches you how to overcome it. If you don’t get out of your comfort zone and go to high value places and befriend people.. you are going nowhere.

@Katharina was saying how level up girlies will go to a Starbucks in affluent area but not to get a cappuccino at an expensive hotel which is still affordable but the later is better for networking. A friend had coffee at the Fairmont or Ritz or this sort of a hotel and met a lady from where she was like Toronto or London UK or New York City or Palm Beach or San Tropez or etc when she was travelling. They struck a conversation and this lady has a nephew she wants to introduce to my friend. My friend brought a fascinating book with her to read that caught this lady’s eye. Let’s see what happens when she returns.

The key with networking with elite is reciprocity and fairness. Don’t try to grab their contacts but offer how you can better their life like fun positive mindset joyful cheerful company. If you have Instagram following or contacts or anything that will make the life of the rich person you are talking to easier offer it. Don’t ask for anything. Share some common experiences, build rapport. Be chill don’t suck up and have fun. Be different enough to be interesting and similar enough to build trust and rapport.

Affluent women are used to give give give me user moochers. So if you offer first with the little you have and try to be fair and reciprocal, they will respect that. They don’t want to be used. I know this Ukrainian immigrant now citizen that when she was new to the country because of how learned, cultured and educated she was about European museums, local affluent women kept trying to pay for her hotel and ticket to travel with them as a guide. She refused and said when she has her own money she will travel as an equal. And later she did just that.

The pre-approved dating pool is much better than the online dating pool.

Find where the gentlemen are. Now many autists are affluent so if you develop a geniune interest in science fiction and gain prominence in a Sci fi convention you could meet successful affluent gentlemen. Obviously being an opera singer or classical musician is a great way to meet billionaire or multi millionaire sponsors.

Working for a bank then networking at events. Think of it.

Get out there and try to network up as a hobby, not looking for results. Remember fairness, adding value and reciprocity is key. Send thank you notes. Make people feel appreciated never used.

Credit Maria Al Masani

[bad-at-living]

A petekey timeline theory

WARNING!!! this post is a big one so hold onto your horses (or unicorns)

aka... maybe the masterdoc was wrong *gasp*

aka we might have even less photos of pete and mikes from warped tour 2005 :(

aka a hotel in new york city

aka... you get the picture, this shit's about petekey. Big time. rise petekey nation or whatever. I've been thinking about this theory for a while and letting it stew in my brain, so here I am FINALLY making a post about it for all zero people who asked. So lets get into it.

Both the petekey masterdoc/post and video essay claim that these two photos:

of pete and mikey are from warped tour 2005...... Buuuuttt we can tell from the jacket and shirt pete's wearing along with mikeys clothes that they are pics from the party pete references in this:

ICONIC post from february 2006. Earlier, at 4 am the same day pete posted this to his Fueled By Ramen blog:

i feel like howl from howls moving castle embodies every single feeling that goes through my head. that is all. i am in the lobby of a hotel in new york city waiting for something that isn’t ever going to happen. i am calculating all of the legs and drunken stutters. i am precise. i am a machine. i am a hot mess.

- petey

we can infer that pete was at the hotel in new york because he had to travel for the party mentioned in the post and needed somewhere to stay for the night.

one thing to note is the line: "i am in the lobby of a hotel in new york city waiting for something that isn’t ever going to happen."

what are you waiting for pete? are you waiting for mikey to see you as more than just a tour fling? just a thought.

that post also sorta reminds me of this post from july 2006:

the fraternal order of the handsome boy. ive been watching you from afar. my breath on the inside window as you walk in from the carcandy caned lies in red and white against clashing patterns bending in and out of understanding. ”youre the stranger ive been dreaming of”, stranger than any ive ever known. love through a telescopic lens. when the air is clear i can see how perfect you are for me. late at night when the city sleeps i cast a spell on you to make you think of me the very same way i think of you. i only love how the words feel in my head when i write them. fireworks over the valley. how can i tell you i gut people for a living. that everything you say is likely to end up as evidence when i rewrite history. over and over again. how everything you do reminds me of something else, someone else. how i get paid to be humble and arrogant at the same time,to be chased and never caught. that i just want to stay up late and wake up early to talk to you. that i want to show you all of my jealousy and insecurity and have you not care. youre like a light switch and i just want to turn you on and watch them all shrink away. the words come out of my fingertips on impulse. it is instinct. my head cant keep up. i envy the comatose. i admire the bedridden. i am addicted to the way i feel when i think of you. ”im blowing smoke rings around the moon….” i wish i was the exact opposite of how the world knows me.

at least in terms of rhythm and the lines: it is instinct. my head cant keep up. i envy the comatose. i admire the bedridden. i am addicted to the way i feel when i think of you. ”im blowing smoke rings around the moon….” i wish i was the exact opposite of how the world knows me.

definitely parallel these lines: i am calculating all of the legs and drunken stutters. i am precise. i am a machine. i am a hot mess.

and we all know "Fraternal Order of the Handsome Boy" is about mikey because of this Q&A pete did:

Now here's where things gets interesting... the song Twin Skeletons by fall out boy is alternatively titled "Hotel in NYC" and I can literally only think of one time pete has mentioned a hotel in new york city, and that was directly before pete and mikey are confirmed to have saw eachother.

i think ya'll know where I'm going with this...

IT'S SONG ANALYSIS TIME!!! (yay)

Twin Skeletons (Hotel in NYC) lyrics (btw highlighted things are my notes):

There's a room in a hotel in New York City That shares our fate and deserves our pity I don't want to remember it all The promises I made if you just hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on

My running theory with this song is that its about pete and mikey hooking up in new york after warped tour 05/when the "relationship" ended. Pete knows the relationship is over and he can't fix it even though he desperately wants to, and he doesn't want to have shitty hookups be all that is left of him and mikeys relationship

I just need enough of you to dull the pain

This lyric reminds me of this line: it’s easy to say “i only need 5 seconds with you than a lifetime with someone else” than it is to live it. to be honest, i’m dying from it. “kiss me electric” vs “kiss me at all.” and when you do it’s just a kiss off. 

from one of petes blog posts in november 2005. pete wants mikes so bad that he'll take the only kind of intimacy he can get even if its not what he truly wants aka hookups.

Just to get me through the night 'til we're twins again 'Til we're stripped down to our skeletons again 'Til we're saints just swimming in our sins again

This is a reference to the line "I'm in love with my own sins" from water buffaloes. I think this is pete reminiscing on warped tour 05 and wishing for that eternal summer back where they were immortal and the outside world couldn't touch their relationship, not even mikeys shame surrounding the relationship. in several blog post from directly after warped tour 05 and summer 2006 pete mentions missing summer and warped tour.

And there's a jet black crow droning on and on and on Up above our heads droning on and on and on

Crows represent death, maybe the death of a relationship in this case. or maybe its more complicated than that, maybe pete feels like this weird hookup thing him and mikey have going on is worse than death, but he loves mikes, he cant just leave even if it hurts. Keep making trouble 'til you find what you love I need a new partner in crime and you, you shrug

This is small but mikey is known for shrugging a lot. also pete feels heartbroken over mikey leaving and feels like he was used for mikey to figure out his sexuality.

That there's a room in a hotel in New York City That shares our fate and deserves our pity I don't want to remember it all The promises I made if you just hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on

A birth and a death on the same day And honey, I only appeared so I can fade away I wanna throw my hands in the air and scream

This lyric reminds me of the line: I wanna scream "I love you" from the top of my lungs but I'm afraid that someone else will hear me

Which totally screams "i love you but if we came out it would put us both in danger due to homophobia"

And I could just die laughing on your spiral of shame

The spiral of shame is a reference to how mikey hardly ever talks about the relationship between him and pete. almost like he's shameful. its ok mikes internalized homophobia is a bitch. And there's a jet black crow droning on and on and on Up above our heads droning on and on and on Hit it, never quit it, I have been through the wreck But I can string enough to show my face in the light of day

Dealing with all this heartbreak is very difficult for pete but he still manages to keep it togeather. I also think this line could be about how petes slightly more open about the relationship than mikey even if he's still hella cryptic.

There's a room in a hotel in New York City That shares our fate and deserves our pity I don't want to remember it all The promises I made if you just hold on

Pete desperately wants mikey to stay with him, to hold on, but mikey wont. he didn't. mikey left. like he always does.

Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on

~*~

Not to mention that the song is literally named twin skeletons...

doesn't that remind you of the album cover of Believers Never Die?

which is litteraly a greatest hits album... "I'm sorry, every single song is about you"

does that ring a bell?

also one of the skeletons is visibly taller than the other which probably doesn't mean anything but its a thought.

Thats all I got for today, If you read all of it; congrats! and thank you for sticking around that long. it means a lot. i hope to post more theories soon so keep your eyes peeled like a banana

-luv kev <3