#How to train servers better

[customprintingcups]

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[ahalliance]

an important thing to understand with qetoiles is that he made every one of his relationships feel special without ever placing the importance of a person over another . he was naturally closer to some people than others but he never had A special person, if you get me

[spookykestrel]

Chat how soon is too soon to return to a job after being thrown a goodbye celebration under the pretense of you moving across the country 🫣

[phagodyke]

love my leather boots sooo much.. polishing them at weekends is my favourite chore by far I always look forward to getting to do it :-)

[bogos-bint3d]

Watching Infinity Train is like one of the best things I have ever done

[acid-ixx]

Ya know, the lil drabble thing you did of reader being so inherently kind and doting like Martha Wayne to Bruce whenever he was injured makes me wonder if that means it was the same with the other bats, it makes me wonder if Damian would see this blood older sibling of theirs and mistake their love for cowardice at first, the image of this child soldier meeting a grown child who sees him as the child he is and chooses to adore him all the same, to teach him, so opposite to him yet so similar

for the better, for the worse. (platonic soft yandere damian wayne x gn neglected reader)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post ! ; discord server !

it's very integral to the plot (in the series) for me where there will always be at least one or two defining scenes which portray what your relationship with the family is. and for damian, to be treated gently could've only been exclusive to his mother, his grandfather, sometimes bruce at the earliest stage of their relationship, then it slowly shifts to dick, where he's closest to the eldest than he is to anyone else, finding him to be a beacon of light in all his gloomy days.

damian isn't used to affection, to being softly patted down, to gentle words uttered to him after every bruise inflicted upon his developing, scarred body, to lingering touches, to warmth. no, he's more familiar with the sounds of unsheathed swords, of clammering metal hitting each other, of the scent of freshly open wounds and the bathe of the cold night on his cloaked body.

damian wayne is not weak.

never in his life will he ever present himself lower than all the scum he's raised his sword at.

— but with them, with his mother most especially, he's aware of her maternal touch, at how, despite all the grueling training, the unsung trauma he's faced from when he was all but a mere babe, she done everything she could to train him under harsh environments. his pain was her pain, she did all she could to keep him alive amonst assassins ready to draw blood. with bruce, his determined father who helped sway him to the right path. to dick, who ever-so imminently had goodness injected into his very vains. his family, the people he's spent his time, he could at least admit that without them, he might've stirred himself into the wrong fate.

and in all those kind moments, there lays a pattern: they are considered family to him, the people dearest to his heart, beyond surface level labels. to him, they helped shape the compassion in his heart.

to him, you are nothing less than dirt.

at least, that was what his first impression of you is. a stain to the wayne legacy, an obstacle to eliminate, a competition where he's already announced the winner the moment he's stepped into the manor. all eyes were on him, none were on pathetic, little you. all his first thoughts of you were nothing short of negative, filled with misdirected hatred, with jealousy whose origins he couldn't pinpoint.

and i think that in your softness, in your gentle touches, he'll all but interpret mockery instead, cowardice, prey who thinks that just because they lower their head at the monstrosities before them, they wouldn't be devoured at all.

he hates you (he envies your vulnerability), he thinks you think him weak. you see him smaller than you, huh? you see him weaker because he's shorter, he's different in your eyes, that's why you don't find him intimidating when he's raised to be, do you not? you portray him in a different light, give him those damn confectionery as a gift; as if that would change him, as if he'd allow the blooming fondness in his chest to fester longer than it should have been.

that is scum behavior, that is unacceptable, you undeservingly label yourself a sibling to him, when you're all but a mere bastard through and through.

he wouldn't even let your touch stain his already scarred body, even if that meant the hollowness that comes after, the envy he harbors towards every petal your fingers graze, at the closeness between you and that todd who visits the manor nightly, at even the sunlight kissing your gentle fingers— fingers he wished would hold him as gently as it did when he found you in the same room as duke thomas, nursing the injured boy back to health—

no, he will never allow himself to be vulnerable towards you, towards someone who remotely reminded him of his own mother. even if he so badly desired, even if it cost him his own life.

no.

that was what he thought of at first, until he's older now, until he's realized the faults in his actions, the damning realization that you're now truly out of reach. from the family, from him.

and now that he's matured, enough to realize the weight of his words, the hurt in his actions deeply ingrained in your bones, a part of him didn't.

and it's that long standing, festering desire to be held by you still. by his older sibling. that lump in his throat that'll never recede, knowing he's pushed you away to the point of no return. there, he realizes, that you've treated everyone but him. at their lowest, when the loss of blood was too much, when their heads were too lightheaded to remember the shoulders which carried all their weight and brought them comfort when they couldn't even keep their eyes open anymore.

you've done it all to them, but to him, you've kept your distance.

and to him, he doesn't know what to feel.

the refusal at this present moment, at the way your gaze towards his is different amongst the others. you're unafraid of showing deserved disdain towards other family members, you allow yourself to be spiteful towards grayson, snarky to todd, domineering, sometimes demanding (he sees himself in your angered gaze, at your sharp words, it hurts when he does) when you want to be— but to him, you're nothing but silent, a held breath, a rigid stance, fearful gaze.

even when he apologizes, over and over again. even when he hunches his back to say, without words, that he's vulnerable for you; even if he leans down against your stiff shoulder, tries to cuddle you during dinner— all he's met with are tears, palms pushing him back, pushing him away, unwillingness to be yourself anymore, to love him unconditionally like you did in the past, once upon a time.

the knowledge that there was once a time, once a time where he could've been different, could've treated you different.

if he hadn't presented himself with fangs and sliced your throat nearly enough at the first meeting, if he hadn't threatened you every day, hadn't glared at you with fiery malice— the outcome would've been different. even a feisty jason after his resurrection, he heard, was not that violent towards you. he'd at least spared you the slightest of mercy, and that alone was enough for the second eldest to deserve even the faintest of smile from you.

but for damian? nothing.

nothing but the painful truth.

the closest you've ever been with him, the closest you'll ever be was all those years ago, when you'd find him passed out after a grueling mission, held him unconscious, treated his fresh wounds and his battered up eyes. in his dreams, he felt warmth, he felt comfort, he felt you.

he felt a gentle touch like no other. distant, but it was there, right in front of him. untouchable now, but he dreams of that moment, where in his injured, immobile state, he couldn't fight you back, he couldn't pin you down. you were there, gauze in hand, a palm on his wet cheeks the other. you made a joke you knew he'd retaliate to if he had half a mind to comprehend what you said, you whispered words of comfort, you were naught but his sibling that night.

doing what you do best, which to him, was your worst.

because when he awoke during midday, when he discovered through alfred that it was you who stitched him back to place, he truly did retaliate instead. he hurt you right after, he terrorized your bedroom, threatened to break off your fingers if you dare touch him anymore right after. your act of kindess, again, to him, was just an act of mockery, a jab at his inability to defend himself from a stronger villain—

yet he didn't know, in your eyes, he was the villain. because all that mattered was to prove a point to you, that you're nothing, nothing without the family, nothing without him. all that mattered was to trample you until you're nothing but dust.

he's treated you like one, a mere inconvenience, something so insignificant, easily swept away by the greater winds.

all because he couldn't understand your kindness, your love for him which he so easily decimated. and now, now that he's fully ruined you, he's realized that it was always the opposite.

he's nothing without his blood sibling. nothing without your gentle touch and your kind words. he could've at least produced your vile hatred, he wished you were brave enough to speak a word to him like you do with the others.

because he's changed for the better, you've changed for the worse.

you look at him with dull eyes, only speak with a few words. the happiest you've been was when you're without. without them, without him. and he's back to the little kid he was: jealous of it all, of the winds kissing your skin, of the sunlight beaming upon the crown of your hair, the petals landing on the tip of your nose.

jealous of the things which deserve your presence.

because he knows, deep down, he doesn't.

now he could never feel your loving touch at all, now he could never see his older sibling's precious smile anymore.

and he wishes, in all his terrible moments, that he wasn't such a coward. that, maybe, if he wasn't so afraid of that vulnerability towards you, your laughs which ring out the gardens could've been directed towards him. maybe your tears wouldn't have to be swept away when you notice him nearby, and you'd be left an empty husk in front of him after.

if he wasn't so afraid. of being weak to you, of being true to himself, then what could've bloomed between you two was all he desired when he was all but a mere babe. that unconditional love, that unrestricted warmth that came with your arms.

what he had before, that he could never have now.

not now, not anymore.

[bambisnc]

      MEETING GAMER BF IRL?! (GONE WRONG)   wherein % you realize your actions have consequences . .

            ST✮RRING───N.RK 🎮 826 && WR. kisses ˖ ✧

[ 陰 ♡ ] : hi ...... this is for instagram / blr user calabaeri cb to me pls ... ♡ briar baef's gamer bf hee made me think ab this heh >< along w/ ifeye's song irl !

                        𝖢𝘓𝗂𝖢𝖪     🖇. 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝖭𝘈𝖵𝗂

calling nishimura riki your boyfriend would be an overstatement.

he was more “boy you met in a discord server one day and bonded with over similar music tastes and roblox horror games.” with whom you also occasionally flirted.

it was over a quick round of one such game that he’d proposed meeting each other face to face. because like, who even cares about cyber security, really.

not like he’d given you any reason not to trust him, after all. before you knew it—you’d met at a cafe. and very subsequently agreed to go over to his place. he’d gotten a new game over the weekend, ni-ki had told you over coffee, would you like to test it out with him? you had agreed. 

so why was it that what was only supposed to be a quick gaming session has long extended into you seated over his lap, with him kissing you like a man starved? 

it was safe to say that neither of you had really been paying attention to the game from the start. ni-ki was the one who’d brought it up first. 

“you keep looking at me like that,” eyes still trained on the controller as his fingers worked with it deftly, “and i might start thinking you want something from me.”

with great haste you had torn your own gaze off his figure, hoping to wave off the implication of his words with some kind of a joke. fine, sure, maybe you were a little distracted. 

“and what if do want something?” wait, fuck, you had not meant to say that.

ni-ki’s head lowered, and for a moment you cheered internally. you’d managed to make him flustered?! you could taste the satisfaction. this was like revenge for all the times he’d tried to pull one over on you—deep voice through your headset doing the absolute most to make you lose your cool and let your in-game character die in lieu.

“you okay there, baby?” you can swear that the nickname, born after one too many sleepless nights spent talking to the other on voice chat, was only meant to be slightly patronizing in the situation. 

a pause. you could practically hear your heartbeat and hoped against hope that he couldn’t. the barely there proximity between your figures was probably not helping either. you have half a mind to get up right there and hide away in his bathroom when you almost gasp at his thigh brushing against yours.

you remember flinching slightly when, upon looking at ni-ki again, you realized his focus was completely on you. “yeah. ” glancing up through his lashes, a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “just wondering when you’ll tell me exactly what it is that you want.”

he set down his controller then, before lazily taking yours out of your hand as well. “and be quick about it—preferably before i start guessing.”

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t, would be more apt.

because ni-ki had leaned in just close enough for you to be able to see the reflection of the neon video game credits rolling out on the screen in front of you.

game over.

“hm? not gonna tell me?” 

and suddenly you find yourself regretting spending the entire day being a tease. the casual touches, the playful comments—you should’ve known better.

should’ve known that if you were going to start this game, it was only natural ni-ki would end up finishing it.

his hand brushing back a lock of hair behind your ear brings you crashing back to reality. back to the moment.

you swallow. “i thought you said you’d guess.”

that was all it had taken.

ni-ki’s lips crashed into yours before you could even process it. and god, the only half coherent thought still left in your brain was how you wanted more.

he kissed you like he had a point to prove. you could feel it in the way he smirked into the movement, like he’d known this would happen from the very beginning. 

you’re not sure if you were the one who moved first or if it was his hand that now rests deliciously heavy on your waist which had pulled you to sit perched over his lap. 

ni-ki doesn’t seem to care though. not with how he keeps diving back in with murmurs of jus’ one more. you have to push him away with a palm covering his lips, having been left in desperate need of air.

“you’re a menace.” you finally manage to complain. 

he agrees. well you assume he does from how he licks at your hand with that shit eating grin. “took you long enough to figure that out, baby.” 

and that’s the last of the talking that happens for a while as he pulls you impossibly closer, fingers once again angling your face to meet his own. 

you don’t really find it in you to complain about that, though.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatariki @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @eunwonji @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[stealingpotatoes]

@arunicdeath suggested bode/ trilla should be a thing yesterday and then i went completely and utterly insane so have a doodle of them

if the doodle doesnt convince u then here's a copy/paste of me frothing at the mouth last night in the cal server CRAZY MAJOR JEDI SURVIVOR SPOILERS DON'T READ BELOW IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED IT:

the awareness u have both been made to do horrible horrible things for the empire that killed your people. that trilla had no choice and was barely more than a child but bode sold his integrity for his daughter's safety. how they deal with that when they help each other deal with their traumas that trilla was part of the actual group that killed his wife!! (i wrote a fic where she was the one that killed his wife but i dont think thats realistic) she probably trained with that inquisitor, had meals with them, was allies with them. she has caused so many tragedies just like his. yet is he any better self recognition through the other (derogatory) yeah okay im obsessed w this now thanks especially w the bode giving up his morality when trilla's was taken from her bc she wouldnt be able to understand that!!!! what do you mean you just handed yourself over1!! what do you mean you just walked into the den of your enemies and said here's my heart i'll do as u ask!!! TRILLA HAD NO CHOICE IT WAS RIPPED AWAY FROM HER ON A TORTURE TABLE. SHE BROKE YES BUT FIRST SHE ENDURED but then coming to understand that bode's head was his own torture table that he endured his order's death then his wife's death and all he had left was his daughter! he had a choice but it was HIS DAUGHTER'S SAFETY and the goddamn empire was his best bet the empire broke him as much as it did her it was just in a very different way!!!! AND THEN THEY HAVE TO DEAL W THE FACT THEYRE BOTH FRIENDS W TOP TEN JEDI EVER CAL KESTIS (who wouldnt have even turned to the dark bc this requires bode being alive which therefore requires cere being alive and so cal wouldnt go ape) WHO WAS YOUNGER THAN BOTH OF THEM AND YET NEVER TURNED TO THE EMPIRE OR THE DARK AND NEVER GAVE UP THE FIGHT. and sure its not as simple as that BUT IT WOULD SEEM THAT SIMPLE IF U WERE IN THEIR POSITIONS COMPARING URSELF. HE WAS LITERALLY A BABY WHEN IT HAPPENED AND YET HE'S KEPT THE LIGHT BETTER THAN U!!! ow!!

[mmochammoss]

Fan behavior

Izuku Midoriya had burner accounts. Plural.

Some were obvious, like the ones he used to scroll through hero discourse on Twitter or reply to fans anonymously. But some were…

more specific.

A private Instagram that followed pro-hero fanpages, analysis pages, and even a few shipping accounts. A Reddit username dedicated to lurking in threads like r/heroranks and r/candidproheroes. A TikTok profile with zero posts but a very suspiciously curated ‘likes’ tab.

He had always been like this. Always online. Always watching. Not in a creepy way, just in a lifelong fanboy kind of way. Most people assumed he didn’t have time for any of that anymore now that he was the number-four hero. But Deku made time.

Especially when it came to you.

You had taken the hero world by storm. All strength, grace, and confidence, with a quirk that could split pavement and a smile that could break the internet.

He remembered watching your first solo billboard debut while eating convenience store snacks on the rooftop of a building at two in the morning, freezing mid-bite because you looked that good.

You were always beautiful. Always capable. Always you. And he was always… just a little bit obsessed.

Not in a weird way, of course.

You were old classmates. Friends. You had trained together, cried together, fought alongside one another back in the U.A. days. You’d even defended him online after his first public interview when his voice cracked halfway through a sentence.

You’d always been sweet to him. Gentle. Supportive.

He used to chalk up his crush on you to proximity. Just another harmless high school thing. Everyone had one, right?

But his thoughts of you didn’t fade the way most high school crushes were supposed to.

They only grew.

And now, years later, every time your face popped up on the side of a building or in his timeline, he remembered just how thoroughly and hopelessly he had not grown out of it.

Especially when he saw the fan content. And there was always so, so, so much of it.

It made total sense to him though. You were internet gold.

There were memes. There were fancams. There were reaction edits, deep-dives, lore threads, shipping compilations, whole Discord servers dedicated to analyzing your every move and wondering which pro hero you might be dating (if any).

Izuku tried not to pay too much attention.

Until one night, curled up in bed after patrol, scrolling on one of his private burner accounts, when he saw it. A fan edit titled simply:

“She looks at him like that’s her favorite person alive.”

It was under some viral TikTok audio, something soft and emotional.

The clips were nothing special on their own. Moments pulled from interviews, red carpet footage, post-battle recaps.

But they were all of you and him.

You glancing at him across a press panel. Smiling at something he’d said in an old agency interview. A photo someone had taken where you had your hand on his shoulder after a tough mission, face full of quiet pride.

And his favorite:

A short clip where you’d been asked about what hero inspired you most these days.

You had smiled, eyes soft, and answered,

“Ouuuuu? Who inspires me the most?… Probably Deku! I look at all he’s done and all he’s gone through and it reminds me that I can always push harder, do more, be better, y’know?”

He watched it three times.

Then a fourth.

Smiling through every rewatch, until…

“Shit.”

He threw his phone onto the bed, face hot, heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling and groaned.

Because he knew. He finally, finally knew. This wasn’t just some crush anymore.

He’d liked you once, of course.

Back in school, it was simple. You were warm, kind, devastatingly beautiful, and you always treated him like he mattered, even when he barely believed it himself.

But this? This was different. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t innocent. It was full-body want.

The kind that lived in his soul, tight and aching, every time your name lit up his feed. And God, he felt so guilty for it sometimes.

Because you were more than beautiful.

You were brilliant. Respected. One of the top heroes in the country. And a good person. And he admired you for that. He did.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wanted to imagine you whispering his name.

Not “Deku.” Not “Midoriya.” Izuku.

He wanted to hate himself for how his mind wandered. For how badly he wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To pull you into his lap and feel your fingers drag through his hair as he got drunk on your lips.

He wanted your body wrapped around him after long missions. Your thighs warm against his sides. Your mouth against his skin. Your voice soft with pleasure, telling him just how much you’d missed him.

And worse than all of that? He wanted you to want him back. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. But as something real.

He rolled over onto his stomach, face burning as he buried it in the pillow and groaned. He shouldn’t think like this. He knew better. But it was too late.

Because it wasn’t just about how badly he wanted to kiss you anymore. It was about how deeply, desperately, helplessly he was in love with you. Not some idealized version of you. Not the you from glossy spreads or high-res fan edits.

You.

The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you chewed on pen caps when thinking. The way you’d always text him congratulations after a good mission, even when he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

You were real.

And he wanted you in every way a person could be wanted. He felt ashamed of it. Guilty. Like he was crossing some unspoken line just for thinking it. But how could he not?

How could he not dream of kissing you until your knees gave out? Of holding you so close he’d feel your heartbeat match his? Of letting you ride the high of your shared victories straight into his arms, or his bed, into something so perfect it made his brain short-circuit?

He wanted you. He was so far gone.

Maybe, someday, if he could stop hiding behind burner accounts and start being brave again he’d tell you.

And if you let him, he’d love you for real. Not from a distance. Not through a screen. Not like a fan.

Like a man who wanted to be completely and totally yours.

[hayatoseyepatch]

𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓: Karasu thought you needed to stop spending so much time online, especially after you let your doom-scrolling lead you to ask him to fuck you in a Ghostface mask. But hey, what was he if not an accommodating partner, he did so love it when you screamed. 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Tabito Karasu (Blue Lock) 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 2k 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘: Fem!Reader x Karasu. SMUT. 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Hunter/prey dynamics, mask kink, degradation, praise, penetrative sex, spanking, mentions of slut/whore, choking, dacryphilia.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: This is one of my two submissions for the "No, You Hang Up" Ghostface server collab that I'm hosting with our other server owner @rindous-starlight for our server! This was so much fun to do and thanks to everyone who voted on my poll a little while ago to help me select the characters! I hope you enjoy, the full masterlist for my kinktober can be found here.

“You want me to do what?”

The laughter following your boyfriend’s statement makes your cheeks flush, almost embarrassed for asking. However, truth be told there was just something about the idea of Karasu chasing you, his identity “concealed” before fucking you in the woods behind your home. In the moment you had, shrugged it off as a joke, that you hadn’t been serious upon your boyfriend’s reaction. However, he knew better than that, knowing just how serious you had been. And if Karasu was honest with himself he couldn’t deny the way his cock throbbed at the idea. He just needed to find the perfect time to execute his plan.

You had been alone that night, Karasu having told you he was too tired to drive back from practice and he’d be crashing at Hiori’s. So why was it that you had gotten a notification that there was movement in your back ring camera? Brushing it off as the stray cats you and Karasu fed, grabbing a bowl of food and taking it outside, only for the door to slam shut behind you. Panicking, in nothing more than your house slippers and one of Karasu’s jerseys, you try the doorknob. Locked. Sighing, at least you both kept a key hidden by the front door, before you could go anywhere you felt a hand curl around your throat. Ice flooded your veins as a muffled voice met your ear.

“Don’t you know never to come to the door when you’re all alone pretty little dove.”

The grip on you was lose, allowing you to easily break free. Adrenaline surging, your feet carrying you before your brain could catch up, fight or flight kicking in. Making your second mistake of the evening, you ran into the woods that bled into the back of your shared home. Running through the wooded area as fast as your feet would carry you, dodging between trees as you tried to put as much distance between you and the mysterious figure as possible. Once you were sure you had done just that, you pressed your back against a tree, concealed from sight as you caught your breath. Hand over your mouth to muffle your shaky breaths as to not draw attention to yourself. However, it seemed there hadn’t been enough distance, watching as the figure walked past the tree you were hiding behind, mask concealing his face as his voice rang out once more.

“Haven't you ever watched a scary movie, dove? Don’t you know you never run into the woods?”

The voice carried through the night, but now that your heart wasn’t racing in your ears from fear, you quickly recognized the voice. Karasu? Your heart now raced for a different reason, realizing he had set you up. Telling you a lie earlier to catch you off guard, to make this feel more real. Karasu was nothing if not thorough, putting his all into all he did, this was no different it seemed. You werent sure if your relief outweighed your fear anymore though. Karasu was a professional athlete, body honed after years of training. And one thing you knew for certain from watching his games was that he was fast. Incredibly so. Which meant the chances of out running him were slim to none. But that wouldn’t stop you from trying.

Your feet slam against the ground as you ran in the opposite direction of his footsteps. Karasu’s ears perked immediately, the sound of branches snapping under your feet alerting him to your location. He was quick to turn on his heel, long strides having him caught up to your form within moments. Large hands reaching out to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, knowing if it weren't for the mask you would feel his breaths on the back of your neck.

“Gotcha, sweetheart.”

He purrs, hands roaming your body, one settling around your throat while the other pushed the hem of his jersey up past your hips. He groans upon realizing you were in nothing but a cute pair of panties underneath, taking advantage of your state of undress as he slides his fingers past the waistband of your panties. His eyes rolling back in his head upon being met with your drenched cunt, sliding two fingers past your entrance with ease from the sheer amount of slick that seeped from your opening.

“God.” He groaned, dragging out the word, fingers delving deeper into your cunt. “You're fucking drenched. You this wet from being fucking chased by a stranger? God you're such a good little slut for me, baby.” He slid his fingers from your walls, the pads of his fingers circling your clit, relishing in the delicious sounds he pulls from you. Eventually he pulls away fully, swiping a foot under your own sending you to the ground below. You squeal form your loss of balance, just managing to catch yourself on your hands and knees. Karasu was quick to drop to his own, a strong hand finding purchase on your back, forcing your back to arch and expose your ass to him. He tosses up the hem of his jersey, hooking two fingers in your panties to tug them to the side. You let out a shiver as the cold autumn air hits your now exposed cunt. Karasu lands a harsh slap to your ass, followed by three more in quick succession, using your distraction from the sting as a means to lower the sweatpants from his hips. His cock springs free from the material, slamming the entirety of his length past your velvety walls with ease due to just how wet you were for him.

“God, princess you’re sucking me in like such a good fucking slut.”

He groans, his setting a steady pace, a thumb parting your folds so he can watch his cock disappear inside you with every pass of his hips. With one hand he grabbed you by your arms crossing them using them as handlebars to pull you back on his cock, only to bounce you back with every harsh thrust. He picks up speed, allowing you to hear all the filthy noises he was making while pounding into you with abandon. He let out a strangled groan, your velvety walls suffocating his cock as he fucked you. He wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of adrenaline from you earlier chase or if he was just so into the way this scenario allowed for him to use you completely in a way he never had, but he could feel himself losing control. Releasing the grip he had on your arms, he lets his hand come down on your ass once more, taking pleasure in knowing your skin would darken from the blood rushing to the impacted area.

“God, dove, so fucking good.” He droned, gripping the flesh of your ass to force you back on him. “This fucken pussy drives me insane, tryin’ to fucken milk me for all I’m worth, isn’t that right my pretty little dove.”

He continues his assault, missing the feel of your skin under his mouth but god if you were this wet from him fucking you with a mask on, who was he to complain? He never knew he would be so into it, but he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t the hottest sex the two of you had ever had. Karasu’s hand wrapped around your neck, bringing you flush against his chest as he fucked up into your cunt. Karasu’s much larger frame always made it so easy for him to manhandle you into whatever position he pleased. He kept with his brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the woods. Groaning, the feeling of your slick against his thighs as your cunt gushed for him was sure to drive him mad.

“God kitten, you feel how fucking wet you are? So wet over getting fucked by someone whose face you can't even see.” He groans, laughing sadistically, the sound being muffled by the mask that still covered his face. “What a good girl you are, doing so well for me. Such a good fucken kitten”

He used his free hand that wasn't wrapped around your neck to reach around to rub harsh slow circles into your clit. The movement of his fingers in time with the thrusting of his hips. Your eyes rolled back in your head, the rough terrain of the ground below digging into your knees adding a delicious mix of pain into the pleasure you were receiving, making your head fuzzy. After a few moments of his ruthless attack on your poor cunt, he slowed his movements to a halt, grinning beneath the mask at the delicious whine it pulled from deep within your throat. He kept his movements slow, dragging his cock in and out of your cunt slowly, allowing you to feel every inch and vein of his dick. His movements were so incredibly frustrating just enough to keep you on the edge of what you needed most. Eventually, his movements stopped altogether, pulling out of your cunt, rewarded with a desperate whimper from you. At this rate he didn’t even need to ask, begs and pleas falling from your lips in a desperate scramble, needing so badly for him to make you cum.

“Please Tabito.. please, wanna come, please.. I don't care baby just need to come all over your cock, need to feel you come inside my cunt want you to breed my pussy Tabito.”

Your pleas were like music to his ears, pulling a groan from him. You felt the world shift, him easily manhandling you to lay on your back beneath him. “I wanna see that beautiful face, when you cream all over my cock, dove. I want to see every face you make while I fuck you baby. I want watch you go dumb on my cock like the slut you are. Wanna watch you come undone on my cock.

He growled, your tear-stained cheeks and completely fucked expression had him wasting no time slipping back into the drenched walls of your pussy. He ripped the mask off with one hand, throwing it god knows where as his hips resumed their abuse on your cunt. Two large hands found the backs of your knees, forcing them to your chest so his cock could reach even deeper inside of you. Your cries muffled as he finally kisses you, tongue invading your mouth instantly. The kiss is desperate, filled with need, his thrusts were getting sloppy, letting you know it wasn’t just you who was reaching the precipice of orgasm. Karasu gripped at the plush of your thighs, being sure to hit every single nerve and spot inside your cunt. He could feel the clenching, the want, the desperate need for you to come all over his cock.

He attacked your neck, leaving kisses and bites along the surface area of your exposed skin. He lets out a breathy chuckle, seeing the way you had thrown your head back, making a sad attempt to meet his thrusts with your own hips. You sob, moaning almost embarrassingly loud as he hits every spot, angling his hips just right in the ways only he knows how to. His ministrations finally being enough to throw you over the edge. He feels your thighs clamp shut over his hips, body violently shaking with cries as you came. Walls clamping down on him in a vice grip, eventually hurtling him towards his own release. So lost in pleasure as he paints your walls white in his cum, he is barely aware of the added moisture from you having squirted all over him. He slows his hips, riding out your highs until the point of overstimulation, a shudder wracking his spine as he stills. His head dropping into your neck as he catches his breaths, a breathy laugh leaving him.

“Who knew all it would take for you to do that was to chase your horny ass through the woods, little bird.”

𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖇𝖞 @/𝖈𝖆𝖋𝖊𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖊 & @/𝖘𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖐𝖆-𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖘.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @littleplantfreak @maruflix @umemiaa @stunies @eevees-hobbies @143-ilyuu @uzxotic @princesstiti14 (𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙/𝖉𝖒/𝖆𝖘𝖐 𝖎��� 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖘) (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

[swordsandholly]

Fancy

Ch 2: Just Be Nice to the Gentlemen, Fancy

Previous | Next | Ao3

NSFW | MDNI

Vampire! Poly 141 x Fem! Plus Size! Reader

Word Count: 7k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life.

Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate for the better.

A/N: Y’all are getting updates to two fics in a row bc my Wellbutrin has well and truly kicked in. Say thank you to big pharma or whatever

A week passes. You tucked that wad of cash into your special hiding spot behind the vent above your bed. It still feels like it’s burning a hole through you. You made lists of things everything you could possibly spend it on, how much each item costs individually, how much it might help if you save it. In the end, you decided - rather impulsively - to get all new water filters for your entire apartment. The shower head and both sinks. It eats away most of the cash but you’ve never felt so clean - never realized the amount of sludge sticking to your skin until it wasn’t anymore.

The four men haven’t come back, at least to your knowledge. Most likely they’re done with you after that single meeting. They’ve gone back to Cherry and you’re back to working as a server - having meager tips shoved down the bust of your dress and too rough hands grabbing your inner thighs.

After the gentile treatment you received, though, you feel a bit disgusted. Reminded that they choose to be this way. That vampires aren’t just like that, they aren’t made like that, they choose to treat you - to treat humans - terribly. It makes your gut churn with anger in a way it hasn’t since you were an over-achieving teen sneaking out to attend protests in the lower city square.

It is what it is. Life goes on.

The train lurches on your way to work, as usual. News and advertisements scroll along the screens lining the top of the cabin.

TWO DEAD: LOWER THIRD STREET - BOTH EXSANGUINATED

DISAPPEARANCES CONTINUE TO GROW IN NUMBER IN THE FRENCH QUARTER

ONCE AGAIN THE CITY COUNCIL OVERRULES SUIT FOR HUMAN REPRESENTATIVE CHAIR

UNIDENTIFIED SUBSTANCE FOUND IN JANE DOE

With grit teeth you tear your eyes away. People around you whisper, conspire about what might be going on. As if you all don’t already know what’s happening. As if there isn’t a cancer in this city centuries old.

Nothing is new under the constant night.

Life goes on.

You sigh, quietly checking yourself in the mirror before locking up your things in the employee break room and punching in your time card. Before you can even step foot toward the main floor, a girl with pitch black hair begins charging toward you.

“You!” Cherry stomps up to you, voice cracking with anger. Her platform boots raise her up above your level.

You nearly jump out of your skin, instinctively backing away and against the wall. “W-what -“

“You stole my clients!” She shrieks.

“I- what?”

“Cherry.” The owner warns, appearing behind her. A shadow looming over the two of you. A man ready to grab the scruffs of two warring kittens. A few other girls who just arrived for their shifts stare with wide, nervous eyes.

The last time there was a fight here a girl got her eye stabbed out.

“You took them! They’re my best paying clients and you took them! What did you do, huh? You suck their cocks for free?” Her face is barely an inch from yours and a sharp acrylic nail pokes your chest so harshly you’re surprised it doesn’t break skin.

It’s your turn to fume - face hot and hands balling into fists. “How dare you! I swear to god I-“

“Ladies!” The owner booms, grabbing both your shoulders, effectively putting an end to this little spat before it can escalate further. “Quiet. Our guests will hear you. Cherry, go smoke a cig and cool the fuck off. Fancy, follow me.”

You feel a bit like a child on their way to the principles office as you follow the owner toward the bar, wringing your hands and glancing around wildly. Despite your irritation, fear creeps through every part of you. The other girls are staring - whispering to each other behind perfectly manicured hands.

“I - sir - I really didn’t-“ You stop when that same gold tray is shoved into your hands.

“I don’t care what you did or didn’t do.” He sighs loudly. “They’re requesting you.”

“But I don’t-“

“I. Don’t. Care.” He points at you in much the same fashion as Cherry before him. “Your job is what our guests want you to do. So go do your job”

Your jaw clicks as you shut it. Cherry is glaring absolute fucking daggers at you from the back room, her sparking red dress nearly matching the shade of her face. You can’t blame her. You’re taking her clients, her paycheck, her survival. It makes you feel a bit monstrous, if you’re honest with yourself. There isn’t any time to focus on that too much as you’re ushered to the private booths. There’s no reason for you to give this up, either. If they want you they want you, and it’s their fault for kicking her to the curb.

It’s your survival too, at the end of the day.

It feels eerie to walk down this corridor again. To stand before that heavy curtain again. Your hands don’t shake this time, though. Even with the added tension from your previous interaction they remain steady.

They’re seated the same as before. Simon’s mask is different - a regular balaclava as opposed to the skull. You realize that his eyebrows and lashes are blonde - so strangely soft for such a harsh looking man. They’re all dressed far more casually, it seems. All the way down to Johnny’s sneakers that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe based on the brand. John has traded his suit coat for a simple one with sherpa lining. Kyle braided his hair since last time.

“Evenin’, Fancy.” John smiles warmly. The way it makes your heart flutter is utterly shameful.

“Hello.” You smile, tilting your head and setting down the tray. Same as before. Rinse and repeat. They ordered liquor this time - bourbon, you think. Maybe scotch. Same difference. “You’ve gotten me into trouble.”

“Have we, now?” John drapes an arm over the back of the booth.

“Cherry isn’t exactly happy.” You fake pout as you hand out the glasses. “Thinks I did something salacious to steal you away.”

“How do you know you didn’t?” John gives you a once over. Blue eyes dragging down every curve and angle of your body.

“I suppose I don’t.” You sigh. “Nothing in my right mind, though.”

“Sorry about that, love. It’s for your own good.”

“Right.” The only thing more powerful than plausible deniability is actual deniability. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Can get yer pretty little arse over here.” Johnny grabs you by the waist, setting you down in his lap. You gasp at the sudden motion, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders for balance.

“I think ‘little’ is a bit of a misnomer, there, hun.” You snicker.

“Aye, as it should be.” His hand wanders to pinch your hip.

“You’re a dog, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Och, ye wound me, lass.”

You glance over at Simon briefly, eyes meeting his. He tilts his head forward. Those dark eyes hold no less intensity than before. They take you in like they want to eat you whole. He probably does.

John must signal him - a nod or a curl of finger - because you’re being passed into the center of the booth again and set right up at John’s side. Vampire covens are simple things. Strong hierarchies that are rarely challenged unless a leader falls or fails spectacularly.

Top dog gets the chew toy.

“I like the change of attire.” You smile, tugging at the soft sherpa of his coat.

“Suits not your style?”

“They’re nice… I see so many of them, though.” You lean into his side, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. “Besides, this fits you better, I think. Matches the beard.”

You let your hand venture up to trace along his jaw, reveling in the gentle scratch of his beard. It’s pleasant. Well cared for. You briefly wonder what his budget for beard products is. He leans into the touch. You’ve always wondered how you to feel to them. Is it a gentle warmth or a scorching flame? Either way, they never seem to mind.

“You boys planning on talking business tonight?” You tilt your head.

“Ah, not tonight.” He chuckles, taking your hand and pressing a light kiss to the back of it. “Tonight is purely about rest and relaxation. Need it after the week we’ve had.”

Somehow the other three manage to melt into the background. You might not know much - if anything - about him, but John Price is the type of man to fill a room all on his own. You felt that the first time you saw him.

“I can certainly help with that.” You grin, letting your hand trail up his thigh. You move slowly, waiting to see how he reacts, and go to hook a leg across his lap to straddle him.

To your surprise, he just grabs your waist and sets you back into your seat. “Don’t need to do all that, luv. Just talk with us.”

Part of you wants to laugh. There’s no way guys like this are the lonely, chatty type. But then, as you take in his face, you can see the exhaustion in his eyes. Vampires don’t get bags under their eyes or stress lines, but it still shows. Still swirls in their irises so distinctly.

“Wanted to pick your brain about somethin’, actually.” John sighs, taking a slow sip from his drink.

You scoff. “Me?”

“You’re a smart girl.”

“Am I?” You can’t help but laugh. “What, you need help picking out some lingerie for your mistress?”

John rolls his eyes at you. Kyle chuckles behind him. They’re far more quiet than last time. At least, the little bit you remember form last time.

“Our company has had some recent… expansions.” John mulls his words over carefully, which sets of alarm bells in the back of your mind. “We want to take the opportunity to do something for the lower city.”

“Why?” You spit far too honestly - involuntarily dropping the facade of an escort. What are they doing to pull this out of you? Is it compulsion?

Just as John opens his mouth to answer you, a phone rings. Loud and piercing through the tension in the air. Simon sighs loudly and answers, speaking so low you aren’t sure if he’s speaking at all. All eyes are trained on him. Except yours. You look around at the strain in their faces. The dread.

Simon grunts something before hanging up. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” John demands.

“The kind we can’t leave til’ tomorrow.”

There’s a collective groan throughout the room. Johnny looks like he wants to smash the closest thing he could find.

“Fuckin’ hell…Sorry, darling. Looks like we’ll have to resume this another time.” John sighs loudly and takes your hand to help pull you from the booth. He pauses with you off to the side - glancing over his shoulder and nodding to the others as they pass through the curtain before turning back to you. “Can I trouble you for a kiss at least? To tide me over?”

“Always.” Once again, the response is far too automatic for your liking. Then again, there are worse things than happily kissing a good looking man. Even if he is what he is.

John chuckles. It’s low and rich and causes you to lean forward despite yourself. Sometimes you forget just how alluring they’re built to be. Made to draw you in. An angler fish. John leans forward to meet you, still holding your hand in his. His lips are cool, a little rough but also gentle. There’s a hint of almost desperation in the way he pushes closer before who you can only assume is Simon clears his throat.

“Pay for a full night plus tip - as an apology for leaving so suddenly. Take the rest of the night, dove.” John smiles down at you and presses another tied roll of cash into your palm. “Don’t want my favorite girl having to scrape by for tips after we leave. Bad look, that.”

“T-thanks…” You murmur, keeping your eyes locked on him. Almost afraid to look down at the amount in your hand. There’s a heft to it that you both appreciate and are terrified of.

John pats your hand and leans forward to place a rather chaste kiss on your cheek before disappearing out the curtain just like that first time.

You’re not sure how much more unbridled tenderness you can handle.

~~~

It’s not even a full week before they’re back. This time, it’s just Kyle and Johnny who greet you on the other side of the curtain. That fact should relax you - not having to focus your attention on so many men should make it easier. Instead, it feels foreboding after the way they left last time. It makes your shoulders tense.

Why are you worried about John? A little voice in the back of your head questions. Why are you worried about a fucking vamp?

“Hello.” You murmur, setting the usual tray on the table seemingly in slow motion. “Just the two of you today?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Kyle grins. “We’re more than enough company.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” You hum, passing out their drinks and sliding into the curved booth to get between them.

“Nothing to cure a shit week like blowin’ off a little steam with a pretty woman.” Kyle tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his other hand coming to rest on your thigh. Dogs without their leashes.

You hum. “Work got you down? You had that ‘problem’ last time.”

“Och, aye. Been a right bitch lately.” Johnny groans, tilting his head back and slinging an arm around your shoulders on the back of the booth. “At least we got that one bit sorted.”

“It was your own damn fault.” Kyle scoffs at him.

“Oi. Maybe if you payed attention to who-“

Kyle grabs Johnny’s lips, pinching them shut. “Price said not in front of the girl.”

You glance between them. The last thing you need is to be sat in the middle of a vampire brawl. Goodbye mortal plane if so.

That seems to be enough to get Johnny to drop it, opting to throw back his drink in one fell swoop and scoot in closer to you, strong arm looping around your waist.

Kyle’s hands trace down over your shoulders. “You’re a fuckin’ luxury, baby girl.”

“Can I have a kiss, hen?” Johnny leans close, fingers tracing your jaw.

Your lip quirks up. “Can you afford a kiss? Seeing as I’m such a luxury, apparently.”

It’s Kyle who moves next - pulling you fully into his lap and pushing you further into Johnny. “We can afford much more than that, love.”

The tip of a fang grazes your neck. It’s slow, gentile, not nearly enough to break the skin. Not quite a threat.

A promise.

It’s barely a hair of movement. A slight tilt, a minute lean and your lips press against Johnny’s. His lips are cold but softer than you expected. Your hands find his shoulders, his tongue darts across your lower lip and you part for him. A well memorized dance. Kyle’s hands drag up your hips to rest on your waist, holding you in place between them.

“D’you have any idea how good you smell?” Kyle murmurs in your ear.

“Or taste.” Johnny sighs into your lips. You pull back, snickering and wiping your lipstick off his lips. He has the prettiest, dopiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Come home with us?” Kyle asks, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “We’ll take such good care of you.”

“You just got here.” You murmur.

“An’ now we’re askin’ if ye’d like tae come home with us.” Johnny grins.

You tilt your head back, debating on how to ask about pay. It’s a question that needs to be asked, but a sensitive one at the same time. You don’t want to offend, but you don’t want to end up walking away from their home empty handed. Just as you go to open your mouth and subtly talk rates, you’re cut off.

“How’s 5k sound, lovie?” Kyle murmurs. Are they fucking mind readers?

You pray they don’t notice the way you choke briefly, body tensing for a fraction of a second. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit! That’s more than twice what you make in month.

“I’ll take that bewildered stare as a yes.” He laughs, moving a hand from your waist to knead at your hip.

They call a car. You don’t have to explain where you’re going to anyone - being pressed between them is enough. It used to be a little shameful for you to walk out on a man’s arm for the whole club to see. When you were young and not quite so resigned to the state of the world - when you hadn’t quite realized that the only god you should care for is green and made of paper. These days you couldn’t care less. They all know, and they’re all taking part in the same debauchery (or jealous that they can’t afford to.) It’s all goods and services, at the end of the day.

Johnny wastes no time pulling you into his lap as soon as you climb into the car - a massive, black SUV that still smells brand new. At least the seats are soft on your knees as you hover over his lap.

“No, no, full weight on me, bonnie.” He grabs your hips and pushes you to sit on his thighs. “Tha’s it.”

His hand disappears under your skirt, two fingers tracing up your sex through the thin cloth of your underwear. Messily grinding while placing sloppy, open mouth kisses along your neck and shoulder. You gasp and whine as he presses against your clit. Just enough to tease, always moving away before you can properly grind down on him. Fucking tease. Kyle watches with an appreciative grin lazily spread across his face.

Your eyes widen to saucers as you pull up to the building. One of the biggest residential skyscrapers in the city. A glowing paragon. One of only five you can see at all times from any part of the city. You’re pretty sure, if you could get to the top, that you would be able to point out your apartment. If you could see it through the smog, that is.

Kyle pins you to the wall of the elevator, lips intertwined with yours and a hand twisted in your hair. Yours knot into the material of his coat. He tastes like liquor and something you can’t quite place. Something sweeter than candy and far more satisfying.

You glance over his shoulder at Johnny just as the man readjusts his pants. He grins, keeping his hand there to palm himself as soon as he catches your eye.

Cheeky bastard.

The elevator stops so gently you might have missed it if not for the dinging and the doors parting. Kyle pulls you out into a small foyer while Johnny fumbles for a keycard.

You think you might have a heart attack when they slip you through one of the two massive front doors. It has to take up the entire floor - or at least most of it. There’s a whole pool on the right side of the balcony. An area that looks like a greenhouse mirrors it to the left. Floor to ceiling windows allow you to see the faux stars so clearly up here.

“Do you all live here?” You ask quietly, staring around the massive penthouse.

The decor is simple. Dark, heavy woods and expensive, rich toned fabrics. It doesn’t have that sterile air that so many vampire homes have. It looks lived in. Used. Even with the obviously untouched kitchen. To this day you don’t understand why vampire homes have them at all. A formality, you suppose.

Johnny nods. “Och, aye, but John and Si are… workin’.”

You decide it’s probably smartest not to pry into whatever “work” means. “So, the mice will play while the cats are away?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Kyle nods, a little smirk playing across his face.

You glance away, debating on asking a possibly invasive question. You can’t ever be too careful with the hierarchy of covens. “And John doesn’t mind you… having me first?”

They blink at you for a moment before bursting out laughing. Your face heats. It makes you feel childish, as if you asked a stupid question. It’s not a stupid question. It’s perfectly valid! At least thats what you’ve heard from other working girls…

“Oh, no, doll. He doesn’t care.” Kyle grins and hooks an arm around your shoulders.

“Might be a bit miffed he wasnae here tae join in on the fun but he’s not jealous like tha’.” Johnny mimics him with an arm around your waist as they pull you to the side.

The two exchange a look briefly with grins plastered across their faces before turning you to the right and leading you down a short hallway. A large, wooden door opens into a bedroom that could swallow your apartment whole. The decor is a bit chaotic - clothes lay across the floor leading to the bathroom and two walls are covered from the floor to halfway up with drawings and paintings.

You know what you’re here for but you can’t help wandering over to them and staring. They’re so intricate. Every detail rendered perfectly. Some are from the city, others are from far away places you aren’t sure exist anymore. A few portraits of the boys here and there and some other people you don’t know. A sketch of a man with scars littering his strong face catches your eye.

“Whose are these?” You ask in a hushed whisper, as if speaking too loudly will disrupt them.

“Ah, mine.” Johnny saunters up behind you, hands resting on your broad hips.

“They’re beautiful…” You’ve only seen art like this in the museums you visited in school.

“Could do one of ye. Ye’d make a bonnie portrait.” He murmurs, pressing his cheek to yours.

Your gut reaction is to say yes. Is that how you want to be remembered, though? Just another face only immortalized on some creature’s wall. A nameless face from eras gone by. Would he write your name down? Would they remember you in a hundred years? In fifty years? In ten, even?

You settle on a gentle “Maybe.”

Johnny takes the hint, turning you toward the bed where Kyle is already leaned. “Gonnae tear a hole in my damn pants if we donnae get a move on.”

The bed is huge, to say the least. Circular and outfitted with layers upon layers of soft pillows and probably the highest thread count sheets you’ve ever seen. It’s unmade, the comforter falling halfway off one side of it. Not that you need it for what’s to come.

Johnny kneels behind you as soon as you step between Kyle’s legs where he’s sat on the bed. Deft hands unbuckle the straps of your heels. Little nips and kisses trail up your thighs. Kyle reaches around you and presses his lips to yours - so softly - before carefully pulling down the zipper of your dress.

It’s so easy to let them take charge. To be a doll for them to do as they please. There are worse things in life than being delicately undressed by two handsome (and well paying) men. Their hands are far more gentle than you expected while they strip you, muttering little appreciative hums and compliments so low that you almost miss them. You stand bare before them, letting them take you in. Hands and eyes roaming. Johnny presses a sweet kiss to your cunt before standing, sending a little jolt up your spine.

He grins like he won some game you didn’t even know you were playing.

You turn to carefully peel off Johnny’s shirt. Your lip catches in your teeth as you run your hands over hard muscle and through a layer of thick, downy hair that leads to the waistband of his pants. So distracted by the sight before you that you don’t notice Kyle pressing against your back, locking you between them as they kiss above you. A shiver runs through you as you watch their jaws flex and hands grapple for one another.

Fucking Christ.

Sometimes you forget how good it is to fuck people you’re actually attracted to. Even if they are paying customers the same as the rest.

An unceremonious squeak escapes you when you’re suddenly flung onto the bed. Not hard enough to hurt but enough to bounce until Johnny appears on top of you, fingers pinching at the soft fat on your sides and laving at your neck with a cool tongue. He keeps his teeth out of the way as he moves down your body to take your nipple between his lips. Much appreciated.

“Need a taste, bonnie. Ye smell so good. So sweet.” Johnny whines, kneeling between your legs. You watch him lower himself slowly as Kyle slots in behind you, shirt long forgone and hands tracing up your sides to knead at your breasts.

As much as you want to pout at not getting to see Kyle undress, you can’t focus on much other than Johnny’s mouth diving into you. Your instinct is to close your legs at the sudden onslaught, but Johnny’s hands keep them solidly in place - spread wide and hooked around his arms.

“Fuck.” You gasp, head tilting back onto Kyle’s shoulder. Your hand wanders down, carding through Johnny’s mo-hawk. He places a harsh suck to your clit and your fingers tighten around the hair at the base of his neck involuntarily pushing him further into you.

You expect him to be upset, for a brief moment, that you’ve been too rough with him. Took too much charge. Instead he just keens desperately against you, picking up the pace - devouring you like a man starved.

“C-Christ, Johnny!” You gasp, fingers digging further into his scalp and the sheets.

“He likes it when you’re mean t’him.” Kyle murmurs in your ear. “Got him fuckin’ pussy drunk already.”

You roll your hips down onto his tongue as he flattens it against you, grinding his face into your pussy. He shifts, never breaking contact, and slips two thick fingers inside you. You whine, eyes screwed shut as you ride it out. Kyle grabs your chin, tilting you back into a kiss. All it takes is Johnny curling his fingers to send you toppling over the edge, back arching sharply.

Johnny rears back onto his haunches just as you peel your eyes back open, chin slick and shiny. His hands desperately pull at his belt and fly. “Cannae take it anymore.”

Kyle chuckles, smiling down at you. “You’d think after two centuries he’d learn a little patience.”

You smile back, quip dying in your throat as Johnny grinds his uncut cock between your folds - coating it in your slick. Fuck, he’s thick - punching every bit of air in your lungs as he pushes in.

“So fuckin’ warm.” He moans, brow furrowed and lips parted.

Lord help you, he’s beautiful. Even beyond that statuesque perfection all vampires have, he must have been gorgeous in life. Kyle is too, you realize as you tilt your head back to kiss him. You wonder what they would look like with ruddy cheeks - with faces warm as yours is. If Johnny would blush all the way down to his chest. If they tanned. Burnt. Freckled. Ran warm or cold. All the little differences that come with a beating heart.

All thoughts disappear at once as Johnny rolls his hips into you. You gasp, “Please.”

That’s all he needs, apparently, setting a brutal pace off the bat. Pushing you back into Kyle with every thrust with enough force that your teeth nearly knock together. Kyle’s fingers continue to pluck at your nipples. You can feel his still clothed cock pressing against your back, hips twitching at the brief friction.

“Fuck. Alright.” Kyle grunts, moving from behind you - leaving you flopping back on the bed with your hands fisting the sheets. You can hear his belt coming undone but can’t bring yourself to focus on it with Johnny relentlessly pumping into you. That is until Kyle taps the head of his cock against your lips, kneeling beside you.

He’s pretty. Not as thick as Johnny but perfectly proportioned. He doesn’t even have to ask or press forward, you want it between your lips. Seek it out. It’s cool on your tongue, calming under the relentlessness that is Johnny.

“Been tae long since we had somethin’ so nice an’ soft in our bed.” Johnny whines. As if that fact genuinely pains him.

Kyle hums in agreement, taking his time fucking into your mouth. “That it has.”

He reaches over to grab Johnny by the back of the neck, pulling him until their lips crash together. Johnny’s hands tighten where they hold you and Kyle’s pace picks up.

“Fuck, she likes tha’.” Johnny pulls back just enough to speak. “Clenchin’ down on me.”

All you can manage is a whine in response - body on fire. Every nerve feels like it’s pulsing, the whole of you utterly consumed by them. Johnny lifts your hips off the bed, arching your back so that he can fuck up into you. The new angle leaves you desperately moaning. Practically singing around Kyle’s cock as your climax hits you like a train. Rocking through you and tensing every muscle.

“Thassit, love, doin’ so good f’us.” Kyle cards his fingers through your hair. It’s strangely gentle, considering the way his cock now bullies the back of your throat while Johnny’s ruts against your g-spot. “How’s she feel, Johnny?”

The man in question just babbles incoherently, fingers digging into your wide hips enough that they’ll surely bruise. At least he’s aware enough not to crush you entirely. Kyle chuckles at him, the sound cutting off in a moan as you angle to take him deeper and wrap your hand around the length you can’t take.

“G-gonnae cum.” Johnny stutters, rhythm faltering and becoming more shallow as he approaches the edge. He pulls out with a choked groan, fucking his fist as he spills onto your thigh.

Kyle mercifully pulls away, letting you gasp for air. Your voice will be raw tomorrow, but fuck if it isn’t worth it when you’re getting fucked like that.

Johnny sighs, collapsing on his back. “Gi’ me a minute…”

“Gettin’ old, Johnny?” Kyle quips.

“Feck off.” He grunts, turning to look at you as you catch your breath. You can’t quite interpret the look in his eyes - whatever it may be - before Kyle is lifting you up at the waist.

“C’mere, love.” Kyle pulls you, sitting back on his haunches and turning your back to him. Your legs tremble uselessly, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves you into place. He doesn’t waste time sitting you on his cock. Kyle isn’t as rough as Johnny, taking his time with lifting off and dropping you onto his cock. A slow motion of your hips while his hands squeeze the soft layer over your waist.

“Fuck, Kyle…” You sigh, head lolling against his shoulder.

“Y’like that, baby?” He murmurs, kissing up your shoulder and neck. One hand moves from your waist to travel up the valley of your breasts. It doesn’t quite wrap around your throat, just rests at the base of it - index finger hooking into your necklace.

It’s a leisurely roll of your hips against each other. A break from the brutal pace before. He’s not desperate like Johnny - instead taking his time whispering sweet nothings and dirty words into your ear. Movements slow and easy.

You think, for a moment, that this is the closest you’ve ever been to “making love.”

Then again, maybe you’re just cock drunk.

You don’t notice Johnny getting up until he’s in front of you, hands on your thighs and lips crashing against yours. Already hard and leaking again after only a handful of minutes. Even for a vampire, that’s pretty damn impressive.

“Bonnie, please.” He moans into your mouth. Cool hands take yours and wrap them around his cock, setting a rhythm to match Kyle’s thrusts into you. “Yer fuckin’ perfect.”

It’s overwhelming. Kyle’s hands roam over your body as you bounce on his cock, draping himself over your back and nipping at your ear. Johnny’s tongue continues to explore every part of your mouth as he thrusts desperately into your hands. His fingers slip down to your clit, moving in leisurely circles that have you bucking forward into him.

“Gonna cum f’me, pretty girl?” Kyle groans into your ear. “Chokin’ my fuckin’, cock.”

You whine against Johnny’s lips, eyes screwed shut. He’s close again, pace quickening. His fingers roughly grind against your over sensitive clit. Someone is chanting, begging, and it takes longer than it should to realize it’s you. “Please, please, just - fuck - I can’t - fucking Christ-“

“Thassit, thassit, fuckin’ hell look at y’two.” Kyle pants, bottoming out with every thrust.

You cum with a choked cry, falling forward against Johnny as he coats your hands and moans. Kyle isn’t far behind, painting your back with a pretty, low groan and a jumble of praises for you and Johnny alike.

Your body feels like jelly, limbs trembling and weight leaned entirely against Johnny. He coos at you and soothes down your hair. A strong arm wraps around your shoulders to steady you. Kyle comes back with a warm rag - when he left, you’re not sure - gently wiping you down with a an unfamiliar level of care.

“I can do it.” You reach for the cloth.

“No, no, love.” He says gently, taking your hands and carefully cleaning them off with precision. He stops to rub the back of your hand with his thumb, something unreadable and warm behind his eyes.

“Drink this.” Johnny holds out a glass to you. When did he even get that?

“Tap water?” You frown slightly, looking him up and down.

“What’s wrong with tap?” He snorts. Oh. Right. Upper city.

“Thanks.” You murmur, chugging it greedily. The physical exhaustion begins to creep up your bones, your legs already practically useless. Keeping up with vampires is a young man’s game and you’re just starting to see the signs of aging out. “I better g-“

“Better lay down.” Kyle cuts you off, taking the glass and pushing your shoulders to lay flat on the bed.

You chew your lip. You don’t usually stay at client’s homes overnight. Then again… the sheets seem to envelope you in a cool cocoon. Calming on your too-hot skin and tired muscles. Muscles that do not want to walk all the way to the train depot. Besides, Johnny and Kyle have been so nice. If they want you to spend then night then what’s the harm, right? You’ll just sneak out in the morning.

So, you let them crawl into the bed bracketing you on either side. Johnny’s arm slings over your waist, cool breath puffing against the back of your neck. Kyle lays in front of you, placing small kisses across your face before pulling the comforter over the three of you.

There are worse fates than sleeping with two handsome men on high thread count sheets for a night…

You wake shivering violently. Between the cold air and Johnny and Kyle’s cool skin you feel like an icicle. Your throat burns and you croak out a groan as you try to sit up. Kyle was rougher than you’d realized in the moment. Johnny has your back pinned against his chest with a strong arm thrown around your waist, not even breathing. It’s so easy to forget that they don’t have to. Kyle truly looks like a statue like this. Entirely still, solid as marble and just as perfect.

You sigh, quietly and carefully wiggling your way off the bed. You don’t pay attention to whose clothes you grab - some tshirt that’s more fitted than you’d like but covers enough to get the job done. You hiss at the slight creak of the door. Neither Johnny nor Kyle stir. If they woke up, they don’t react to you padding out to the main house.

That first door across the hall is slightly ajar, a low stream of cool toned light pooling in the floor just below it. Against your better judgement, you stop, looking around before peeking inside. Not that you can make out much other than a large bed with a dark canopy pulled closed around it. The rest of the room looks barren - the only source of light coming from what you assume to be an attached bathroom.

“Lookin’ f’somethin’?” A baritone voice grunts behind you. You squeak quietly, whirling on your heel and coming face to face with Simon. Well, face to chest considering his sheer height.

“Sorry!” You croak, voice still hoarse. “I didn’t mean- I-“

“S’fine.” The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. You hope it’s amusement, at least. “Need somethin’?”

“J-just getting some water.. sorry to bother you-“ You begin backing away, giving him a wide birth as you step toward the kitchen. Even without inhuman strength you fully believe this man could snap you in two.

“Come on, then.” He nods toward the kitchen, stepping in front of you. You nearly protest, but opt to just follow. He already caught you snooping at best - at worst he thinks you were planning to steal. If letting him accompany you keeps you alive and out of trouble with them then you’ll gladly trail behind this behemoth of a man.

You pause by the kitchen island as Simon goes to grab… a mug? You watch him fill an electric kettle and flick it on, digging through the cabinet to produce a small packet. A tea bag labeled Honey Vanilla Chamomile.

“Y-you don’t have to-“

“How’d our boys treat you?” Simon asks as he opens the little packet with deft fingers - oddly precise for the size of them.

“Good.” You blurt, hands wringing as you shift your weight side to side.

“Johnny behave himself?”

“The picture of civility.” You snort. If leaving bruises on your hips from fucking you six ways to Sunday counts as civil.

Simon chuckles but doesn’t say anything else. Just puts together a little mug of tea for you, stirring and steeping perfectly before pushing the thing across the counter. You take it slowly, eyeing him. Waiting for some sort of tell that you shouldn’t drink this. Then another shiver runs down your spine and you grab the warm cup happily.

“Should get a heating system put in…” Simon grumbles under his breath, looking around the apartment. You wonder just how much more he can see than you in the near pitch black environment.

“Why?” You snort. “You don’t need it.”

“You do.”

You blink at him rather stupidly - brain too tired and muddled to make sense of whatever that might mean. Probably just means humans in general. They probably have plenty of women and men over on a regular basis. Even if it is just for the night. Oddly considerate, either way.

“What’s the deal with the mask?” You blurt again, the slight lapse of silence putting you on edge.

Simon just shakes his head. “To ‘ide my face.”

“Booooring!” You boo, throwing out a dramatic thumbs down. To your surprise, you’re not met with annoyance. Just a deep chuckle and another shake of his head. “Thanks for the tea.”

Simon nods and snags the now empty mug from you. You chugged it far faster than you realized. It worked, too. Your voice isn’t as hoarse and your throat doesn’t sting when you swallow.

“I should probably…” You murmur, looking back toward the room where Johnny and Kyle are assumably still sleeping away.

Simon grunts in agreement, following you back to his own door. You don’t know what possesses you to stop beside him. To turn and meet his gaze with far less confidence than you’re used to wielding. You owe him for the tea, though.

“Do you want…uh…” You murmur, glancing into the room behind him.

Simon looks from you to the bed behind him - only to turn back with those smile lines forming in the corners of his eyes once again. “Not tonight, pretty girl. You’ve ‘ad enough.”

You jump involuntarily when his large hand cups your cheek - thumb caressing ever to gently over your cheekbone. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that non-sexual touches are so rare in your life, but either way you find yourself tilting into it. Just a little.

“Sleep well, sweet’eart.” With that he steps into his room, shutting the door with near deathly silence behind him.

Oh.

Okay.

You stare at his closed door for a few seconds too long, a slight furrow in your brow before turning back to Johnny’s room. The two of them haven’t moved much since you left, though Johnny has somehow ended up spread eagle across most of the bed. With some gentle maneuvering you manage to curl up in the crook of his outstretched arm with your head on his chest and back pressed against Kyle’s.

These men are going to be the death of you.

A/N: I wanted to put more into this chapter but I had to draw the line somewhere so it’s going to just have to get pushed to the next one.

Part of me was worried they’re fucking too early but then I remembered I can do what I want🫡

[ms-demeanor]

It seemed like your job was getting better there for a minute under new management. Is it new management that's fucking up now, not "fixable", or is it holdovers from the old guy?

So my company, formerly owned by Gary, was "Strangled Bats LLC". The company that bought us is "BunnyCorp Inc." Late last year, BunnyCorp Inc hired "Bruno" as our new CEO. The middle management are Bunnies from BunnyCorp.

Gary was a shithead who abused his employees but he was a stickler for documentation, standards, and naming conventions. Even though we lost a lot of documentation when BunnyCorp let Strangled Bats' CRM subscription lapse, I was able to save a bunch of PDFs and we actually still have printed copies of a BUNCH of our documents. Strangled Bats LLC was a terrible place to work and was very old-fashioned on some things, but we save our papers.

BunnyCorp Inc has a lot of very friendly bunnies in management who are cuddly and cute and easy to get along with and wouldn't know a configuration manager if it bit them in the ass. BunnyCorp was interested in acquiring and absorbing many companies to become one big company and cared more about purchasing companies (and therefore their client bases) than it cared about integrating those companies into itself OR than it cared about making notes on its customers.

Bruno has a long history of working in MegaBigCo and making things very efficient. When Bruno was hired as CEO, BunnyCorp officers did a great job of putting a good face forward and making it look like they had their shit together. By the time Bruno started, I had been working at BunnyCorp for three months and had mostly been focused on trying to get Strangled Bats' systems to mesh with BunnyCorp.

In January, Bruno had been with the company long enough that he started making changes to make things more efficient, because he'd been there long enough to see that there were some problems. At that point, I had started to notice that it seemed like we were duplicating an awful lot of work that was no longer related to issues with un-meshed systems, because I had meshed a lot of our systems. I got promoted and started training someone to take over the simpler parts of my job and was given the responsibility of looking into a lot of our contracts and agreements.

In March, the shit hit the fan and Bruno and I simultaneously realized that BunnyCorp Inc had been papering over a vast chasm of problems, most of which had to do with:

people with institutional knowledge leaving because they were underpaid

previous owners being shit at documentation

nobody except LITERALLY FUCKING ME knowing what modern server hardware standards and pricing should be

solutions for clients that were built with an eye toward reducing cost in the moment rather than planning for growth or longevity

Bruno has good thoughts about improving stuff, thoughts that I support and think are a great idea and think we should try to implement, but he's also a MegaBigCo kind of guy and likes to let employees grind to prove that they're dedicated and worthy of a promotion/raise - this is a shitty attitude that I think is counterproductive and I think is on the verge of leading our entire senior staff into burnout, but he's not at all wrong about the changes that need to be made. Bruno found out that a bunch of our clients don't have spare server drives onsite and shit a brick because of how badly he wants us to get spare server drive to the client sites; he is willing to eat the cost if it means we can get spares to the clients. That's great, it's not wrong, and there aren't enough hours in the day for me to get that done and also do procurement.

Bruno is only just now seeing the tip of the iceberg in terms of how utterly fucked our documentation is; if Bruno is the captain of the ship telling us where to steer, I'm the lookout on deck who sees the icebergs before anybody else.

I have been shouting to the Bunny management about icebergs since December and the ship hasn't changed course; Bruno has directed us to put more coal in the boilers and speed up and to patch up some holes and scrape some barnacles off the hull, but I can't shout loud enough to get the Bunnies to pass on the message about the iceberg, so all I can do is make notes about where the iceberg is an when we hit it provide the notes that I took that the Bunnies ignored so that maybe we can start patching up the breaks before water floods in and kills us all.

Things were great for a while because I was no longer working with an actively abusive shithead. Working with Gary was like sighting icebergs on the deck of a ship that leaked a bit and avoided icebergs deftly, but I was left to freeze on the deck all the time because freezing on the deck was all I was good for. Getting acquired by BunnyCorp was like someone handing me a warm coat and telling me to go inside and have a cup of tea and sit by the fire. But then I realized that the niceness and the okayness with taking time off and the slight raise were very comforting but someone still had to go out on deck and watch for icebergs but now nobody is passing on the message that we need to steer away from the fucking icebergs because if you say there's an iceberg that might make someone feel bad and making people feel bad is counter to the BunnyCorp company culture.

I have a constant drumbeat in my head that says "I can fix this, I can fix this, I can fix this." If I work late and go get the info for all the firewalls that I can access, and share info with the team about the ones I can't access, I can update the documentation and fix this. If I get notes on all the servers, and get spares for every machine, and get the techs scheduled to go out and install, I can fix this. If I can go in to the configurations for all five thousand computers and manually check and archive all the old devices, and manually update a field for every one of the two thousand windows 10 machines, maybe our team of sixteen can replace twelve hundred and upgrade eight hundred computers at our two hundred client sites in the next five months. If only I can go through all of those two thousand configurations and update that field before I get dragged away to another phone call from a client or another meeting about how the next acquisition is going to go, so I better do it now, at eight pm at ten pm at midnight at two am when there's nobody to call and no meetings scheduled. If I could just *lock in* I can save us, I can make sure the clients are getting a good turnaround time on their requests and I can make sure the licenses are all getting renewed because I updated all the configurations and I will update all the configurations going forward and I will document this company at knifepoint and I will hold it together with duct tape and spite and I will make it work i will make it work nobody else is doing anything I have to make it work because that's an iceberg, I know some of them see the iceberg, and they're Bunnies and I'm a Bat, some of them have seen this iceberg long before I could see it but they're not turning but if I yell about it and make notes about it and lock in and document it and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and take half a break so that I can get another device off the list maybe THEN they'll act like there's an iceberg ahead and they'll turn and I won't have to fly off the deck and go find another ship and I can stay on the boat with my friends and the nice bunnies and it will be okay, it will feel like it did after Gary was gone and I could BREATHE and people said that I was smart and good at my job and I deserved more money and I had been treated badly and there were no icebergs because it was so bright and sunny and nice that the whole sea looked like dazzling snow and seemed soft and safe and like I wouldn't have to keep freezing on the deck to stay alive.

So.

You know.

There have been ups and downs. I'm having some trouble staying motivated and even with some decent management it's difficult to orient the team toward the metrics we need to meet in q3 to stay solvent and keep our forward momentum up.

I'm considering sniping our customers and starting my own business, nobody makes the office admin sign a non-compete.

[wishlings]

As you may have noticed, the project has undergone some changes!

The name 'DigiPet' was just a placeholder (trademark owned by somebody else), and based on our recent lore-building, we have changed the name of the project to:

🌠 Wishlings 🌠

Wishlings is an in-development virtual pet game for mobile (PC planned eventually), with evolution and sandbox mechanics. We are inspired by Digimon World and Tamagotchi!

🌌The team:

Art: @tofupixel @ilta222

Programming: @luckycloverdev

Audio: @theogbaschfire

🌟 As for the world itself:

The game takes place in a dream / imagination land, which you first arrive at in your sleep. These creatures are basically imaginary friends, dreamed up by people all over the world. They can take many fantastical forms, but they all seem to be a bit magical.

They're going through some trouble right now, as Nightmare creatures are threatening their existence!

Treat them well, evolve them, train them and fight the Nightmare entities to bring peace back to the dream world. 🌠

🌟 The gameplay:

At first, you start with a dream egg. It will soon hatch into a baby monster! Treat it right, feed it and take care of it to influence how it grows up and evolves.

There are (so far) 5 evolution levels: Egg, Baby, Youth, Adult and Elder.

You can grow your own food and ingredients in your own backyard farm.

Cook the ingredients to make better meals. Different pets have different food preferences, some are carnivorous, some vegetarian!

Decorate your pet's habitat to influence it's personality and mood. We hope you will experiment a lot with the treatment of your pets to discover more evolutions! 🌠

🌟 Planned minigames:

Farming (growing food and ingredients)

Sky Fishing (catching food)

Walks (exercise your pet and find items)

Cooking (combine ingredients to make better food)

Battling (defeat enemy monsters to make your pet stronger and get items)

We are happy to have you here, it means so much that you're interested in the game!

And if you have any suggestions, or want to keep up with development more, please join our discord server! 🌠

[tacticaldiary]

Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission

Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price

The Price Of A Secret

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"

"This is different." He grits out.

"And why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-

Masterlist

The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.

"She's not coming."

Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.

"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"

She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.

It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.

His wife.

"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.

"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.

His determined, hers resolute.

Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.

He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.

"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."

"Price-"

"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?

Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.

Successfully, not smoothly.

The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.

Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.

Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.

When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.

The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.

"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.

It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.

Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.

"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.

Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.

He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.

Nobody speaks.

Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.

The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.

It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.

"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.

"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.

"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.

"At a fucking cost."

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.

"This is different." Ghost grits out.

"Why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.

It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.

But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.

She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.

What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.

"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.

"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.

"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.

"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"

"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."

It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."

He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.

A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.

And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.

She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.

He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.

Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.

And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.

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(10/09/2023)

[carlislefiles]

slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words

a/n: guys...do any of y'all watch bistro huddy on tik tok...is this too niche...have I finally niched myself out....just let me know...I'll be here...fr though, I actually hate working at a restaurant, but this is of course, a tumblr post, and not real life!! tragically...also some of these are like funny and cutesy, and then others quite literally had me in tears writing them (nanami, hello...?) so, yeah watch out for that. also, I am well aware that this is wildly unrealistic. no warnings I don't think, besides maybe some cussing, and a singular usage of my publicly detested "y/n" unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. enjoy <3

you wouldn't say you love being a server. no one really does. it’s a chaotic mix of remembering eight drinks at once, smiling through the pain of a toddler screaming into your soul, and pretending that the tip at the end of this tunnel is worth the psychic damage. but the money’s decent, your coworkers are tolerable, and—if we’re being real—toji makes clocking in a little too easy.

he's the line cook from hell. not in the gordon ramsay "this food is trash" kind of way—though he absolutely yells like that sometimes—but more in the "how did this man get hired with zero culinary training and the attitude of a convicted felon" way. he burns at least one dish a night, calls in late more often than not, and refuses to wear a hairnet even though the manager has told him twice. and yet, somehow, he never gets fired. probably because when toji isn’t being a menace, he runs the kitchen like a finely oiled machine, barking out orders and flipping pans like he owns the damn place.

and then there’s you. sweet, stressed-out server #7. you try not to like him. you really do. but he’s got that charm, the greasy line cook appeal, the kind of hot that’s more danger than it is attraction—and you're kind of into it.

toji doesn’t flirt like a normal person. he flirts like someone who’s trying to win a bet. he’ll stare at you through the kitchen window with those unreadable green eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted like he knows something you don’t. he doesn’t say things outright; he just makes you wonder what he’s thinking.

“order up. yours is the only plate that doesn’t look like shit,” he’ll say, sliding your food onto the counter with a wink. or: “don’t let that guy on table four look down your shirt again. I'll stab him with a thermometer.” you laugh, mostly because you’re pretty sure he’s not joking.

toji’s not nice. not in the traditional sense. he makes the new host cry twice in one shift, tells the manager to shove it at least weekly, and has a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. but when you’re sweating through a double, on your fourth round of waters, and the host stand sends you four parties back to back with no remorse, toji’s the one yelling at them to “get their heads outta their asses” and “quit drowning the floor staff.”

sometimes he has leftover fries. he never offers them out loud, just slides a basket your way and raises an eyebrow. you know better than to say thanks—he doesn’t like being made a big deal of. he just likes watching you eat them, then tossing you a smirk when you catch him looking.

the other servers think you're sleeping together. you’re not. not really. there’ve been a few moments—late nights after close when you both stayed to do inventory, his hand lingering too long on your waist, your laugh a little too soft, his eyes a little too hungry—but nothing’s happened. it’s a situationship, or pre-situationship, or whatever the kids are calling it when someone wants to get under your skin but also wants to stick around for the long haul.

and the thing is? toji’s patient. maybe surprisingly so. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t ask what this is or where it’s going. he just shows up—hungover or not, late or not—and makes sure your orders come out first. he throws out a guy’s number when he catches him trying to slide it into your apron. he doesn’t even tell you, just rolls his eyes when the dude “suddenly loses his appetite.”

you don’t know what to make of him most days. you hate him when he’s yelling at the dishwasher or putting the wrong ticket in the window. but then he saves your ass on a slammed saturday by grilling a steak in under three minutes flat and smirking like he didn’t just perform a culinary miracle.

you don't love being a server. but you do love the moment when you duck behind the line after a brutal dinner rush, your arms aching and your brain fried, and toji flicks a cold soda can your way without saying a word.

he's not yours. not yet. but damn if he doesn’t act like it.

you and suguru both clock in at 5 p.m. sharp—he in his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail; you in the same black polo and slacks, hair up in a practical bun. you don’t say “good evening” so much as you arch an eyebrow at each other across the host stand. tonight’s the night you’ve challenged each other to the monthly $100 tip-off: whoever racks up the highest tips gets the bonus. the stakes aren’t just bragging rights. you need that cash; he knows it.

7:15 p.m. you catch your first table—two businesswomen celebrating a deal. you’re charming but low-key (no geto-level razzle-dazzle), and they’re eating it up. you leave the table with a $15 tip. not bad.

geto swoops past, tossing his apron over your shoulder like a ribbon. “nice haul,” he drawls, “but those are rookie numbers.” he winks. the ladies at his table are swooning; one leaves him a $20. you grit your teeth—but you can’t help smiling when he slides the money into your apron pocket.

8:00 p.m. a trio of frat bros waltzes in. they sidle up to your section. you brace yourself for unwanted contact—hands on your waist, a “you look hot tonight” too close to your ear. before you can whirl away, suguru materializes behind them like a polite bouncer. “actually, that table’s mine,” he says, voice cool.

they blink, shift into his section—hands off you. one of them shoots you a grateful thumbs-up before stumbling away. you mouth, “thanks,” and he just grins. “protecting my girl’s turf,” he says. why do you like the way that sounds?

9:00 p.m. you’re drowning in plates. three tables triple-sat you by mistake, and there’s no end in sight. meanwhile, suguru’s section is empty, pristine. you feel a tug in your chest—guilt, annoyance, something like excitement. he strolls over, socks your hands playfully with a folded napkin, and says, “my chef back there took thirty-five minutes on that club sandwich you ordered. I went in and told them they can rediscover their souls or find a new career.” the grill staff visibly quiver.

your heart leaps—you hate that you can’t hate him. he leans in close. “sit tight,” he murmurs, “I've got a feeling about this next table.” and just like that, he’s back in action, leaving you to catch your breath.

10:00 p.m. the final round. two businessmen slide into his section; the bigger tip potential you’ve both been waiting on. you glance at him: both of you know what’s happening. you move to intercept—but suguru’s already there, slinging napkins over his shoulder with that effortless swagger. they laugh at his jokes. you fume.

your last table for the night is a college student buying dinner with tears in his eyes—tuition woes, parents sick back home. you give him a warm smile, chat him up, send the house dessert on the house. you walk away…and he leaves you a $25 tip anyway because god loves you, or something like that.

11:00 p.m. back at the host stand, you both dump your tips on the counter. $112 for you. $80 for him. he furrows his brow like you’ve just dealt him a personal blow—and that kind of look from suguru is…almost devastating.

you look back at him, triumphant. “winner.” you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. he glances at your haul, then to his, then back to you, and—without saying a word—he slides $40 across so that his total matches yours exactly.

you jerk back, stunned. “hey!” he flips his dark hair back, flashing an absurd, infuriatingly charming smile. "I told you, I'm not about the money. I'm about you.”

your heart twists. he glances down at the pile of bills, then back at you, eyes soft. “go on home with a full tip,” he says. “and maybe, uh…celebrate?”

you swallow, stomach fluttering. “celebrate?”

“yeah.” he leans in. "I know a secret spot—if you’re up for it.”

later, you find yourself alone in the walk-in cooler. the hum of the fridge is comforting. suguru’s here, too, leaning against a shelf of bottled sodas. he grabs your hand and pulls you close, pressing your back to the chilly metal.

you laugh, breath misting. “the cooler?”

he shrugs with a wicked grin. “intimate. zero witnesses.”

your breath catches when he brushes hair from your face. his eyes are dark with something tender and wicked at once. you cup his jaw—warm, familiar. then you close the distance, lips meeting his. it’s feral and soft and utterly devastating. he tastes like salt—fries and sweat and something sweet.

suguru’s arms wrap around you, careful not to crush. “we make a pretty good team, huh?” he whispers.

you nod against his mouth. “the best.”

gojo satoru was meant to be a server.

some people find it demeaning, this job. the fake smiles, the rushed steps, the corporate chokehold of dress codes and “hospitality voice” policies. but satoru? he makes it look like an art form. he slides into it effortlessly—flirty just under the line of inappropriate, funny in the exact way that makes people feel clever for laughing, and beautiful enough that no one really minds waiting a little longer for their fries. his apron stays just a little askew, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like it's casual (it's not), and the blue eyes? god. the tips are ridiculous. women leave their numbers like confetti. some even ask for selfies. men stare a little too long. even old couples seem enchanted, like he’s their grandson reincarnated from a better life. he winks. he laughs. he gets away with everything. and you? you barely look up.

not because you don’t notice—please. you notice. the way his undercut drips with sweat halfway through a double, how his voice drops an octave when he’s tired, how he shoves his hair back with one hand when it starts falling into his face. you notice. but you’re not jealous. because you’re not his. maybe that’s why it doesn’t sting. not when table 9 calls him “sweetheart,” not when the hostess whispers behind the bar that she thinks he’s gonna ask for her number. because at the end of every shift, he walks out with you. matches his stride to yours in the parking lot like muscle memory. waits by the time clock just so he can clock out the same second you do. brushes against you when you're both behind the bar, too close, too long. it's never an accident.

you’ve been here longer. you’re the real vet—been through the wringer. worked through high school, stayed through college, watched tyrant managers come and go. you’ve seen uniforms change, menus rotate, bullshit policy updates emailed at midnight. you can carry four plates in one hand and argue with a guest at the same time. there’s not a single soul in the restaurant who doesn’t respect you.

and yet—satoru never treats you like a fixture. he treats you like you’re magic. every day. he compliments you like he gets paid for it. but it’s never the same thing twice. never just “you look nice.” no, satoru’s got creativity. you’ve been compared to goddesses, to perfectly folded napkins, to cinematic lighting in golden hour. “you’ve got a real victoria’s secret model vibe going for you today,” he’ll murmur, watching you reset tables. “you always do.” god, he’s such an ass.

and you hate that it makes you smile. you pretend you barely know him. call him “bluey” or “gojo” or “you, with the hair” like he’s some guy who just wandered in off the street. but you know exactly who he is. you know the way his shoulders tense after a manager talks down to him. you know he’s stopped wearing cologne on your shifts because you once wrinkled your nose and said “you smell like a department store.”

you know he fantasizes about helping you open your own place. he hasn’t told you—but you’ve seen the notes scribbled on napkins. “satoru & y/n’s all-night diner.” sometimes he’s crossed his name out. sometimes yours.

you make it so hard to read you. you’re cool. calm. no-nonsense. you come in, do your job, get out. flirtation rolls off your back like grease from the kitchen vent. but you help him. when he’s double-sat. when a big table throws a fit. when he forgets to grab a ramekin and you silently drop one next to his hand before he even asks.

you don’t say much, but you show it. and he’s obsessed with every second of it. he fell first. hard. he keeps falling. and god, he falls loud.

he flirts like a man who knows no shame, like a man who knows you’re going to marry him eventually and is just waiting for you to catch up. and you? you hold out...until the shift where the air conditioning breaks. you’re both drenched. irritated. miserable. you disappear to the back and he finds you leaning against the manager’s office door, trying to cool down with a napkin full of ice cubes. and before he knows it, he’s kissing you.

you shouldn’t be there. the office is off-limits. you’re on the clock. there’s a literal screaming baby in section three. but you kiss him back. hands in his hair. mouth on his. like you’ve been waiting. and when he finally pulls back, stunned, breathing heavy, blinking like he’s not sure if this is real—you straighten your apron, smooth your hair, and say, “if you’re late on your tables again, I’m not covering for you.” but he hears the smile in your voice.

and from that point forward? he’s ruined for anyone else. they still leave numbers. still flirt. still call him handsome. and he smiles, sure. tips are tips. but he doesn’t flirt back the same. he saves that for you. for when your eyes are tired. when your feet hurt. when you’re halfway through a double and your hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough food.

he’ll press a granola bar into your palm. or sneak you fries from the kitchen. or lean in and whisper, “ten more minutes and then you get to yell at me in the walk-in. we’ll call it therapy.” you never admit you’re falling for him, too. but he sees the way you reach for him now. the way you linger. the way your eyes follow him across the floor. and he’s not worried.

because someday—when you’re standing in your own restaurant, clipboard in hand, menu the way you want it—he’s going to be there, too. apron crooked, smile crooked, heart in his hands. satoru gojo may be made to serve, but he only ever wants to serve you.

you don’t know what divine comedy landed ino takuma behind the bar and on the line, but you’re convinced the universe has a sense of humor. he’s not a bad cook—when he remembers to turn the fryer on. he’s not a bad bartender—if you’re okay with him triple-checking a gin and tonic. and he’s not a bad guy. not even close.

just…hopeless. endearingly, aggressively hopeless.

he shows up to work five minutes early every shift, apron askew, hair still wet from a shower, shirt clinging to his chest like a cry for help. you say, “you’re early,” and he grins like he’s been awarded a medal. you say, “your fly’s down,” and he thanks you like you’re handing him the secret to life.

you flirt with him constantly. obnoxiously. strategically. you lean over the bar when he’s counting tips, press close behind him when he’s slicing lemons, tell him you’ll give him a ride home if he promises not to make you stop for gas.

he always, always, blinks at you like a confused golden retriever and goes, “oh, you don’t have to! I can walk!”

you once flat-out asked him if he wanted to fool around in your car. after your shift. in the lot. his face turned a color that shouldn't be humanly possible, and he said, “you mean like…play a game?”

a game. you considered ending it all right there in the stockroom.

but you didn’t. because for all the cluelessness, the blank stares, and the unintentional friend-zoning, ino is…wonderful. when your boss is on a rampage, yelling at staff for the busted walk-in freezer door, ino raises his hand with a sheepish shrug. “that was me. my bad. leaned on it too hard.” you know it wasn’t. he knows it wasn’t. he still takes the write-up and the lecture, and when you come close to tears afterward, he tells you it’s okay. “it’s just a warning. I got thick skin.” then he gives you a crushing hug in the alley out back and insists on buying you a gatorade with his last $3.

he always “accidentally” messes up one of your orders. “oops, I made the chicken sandwich with extra avocado and fries. I guess we can’t serve it now. you want it?” he does it with the most oblivious innocence. you’re sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. you’ve noticed.

when a customer gets too mean—someone with the audacity to snap their fingers at you, demand a refund, insult your service—ino is the first one through the kitchen doors. he storms up to the table, wiping his hands on a rag. “hey. you got a problem? cool. tell me. but you don’t talk to her like that. or any of my servers. not now, not ever. got it?”

you hear it from the dish pit. you don’t even have to see it. and when he comes back in, cheeks red, trying to play it off like he didn’t just defend your honor like a knight with a spatula, you want to scream.

“my servers,” he’d said. his. you make $10 an hour before tips, and he’s claiming you like you’re family. or worse—like you’re sacred. like he’s protecting a relic, not a girl he hasn’t realized he’s desperately in love with yet.

it doesn’t occur to him until much, much later—maybe when he’s halfway through his shift, flipping pancakes for some hungover regular, and you sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. he stops. entirely. pan goes still. face goes red. you’re about to laugh when he turns, gently, and stares at you like he’s never really looked before.

“oh,” he says. it’s reverent. “you…you really like me?”

you blink. "I asked you to make out with me in my car. twice.”

"I thought you were joking.” he groans in pure and utter shame and tragedy. you’re telling him he missed out on the opportunity to make out with you twice? god might as well just take mercy on him and kill him now.

you can’t hold back your laughter.

he wipes his hands on his apron, then takes yours—callused, warm, soft in the way you knew they’d be. “you’re, like…amazing. you could have anyone. you could be out of here, living in a penthouse or something.”

you snort. “what, with my tips?”

but he doesn’t smile. he holds your gaze, totally sincere. “you’re the best part of this place. you’re kind and smart and funny and you remember everyone’s orders and you…you notice things. I look forward to seeing you. I—”

you kiss him again, just to shut him up. he worships you after that. carries your water bottle around like it’s precious cargo. tells anyone who tries to flirt with you that you’re spoken for—then blushes and adds, “well, not, like, officially. yet.”

he burns his hand one day because he was too busy watching you laugh from across the kitchen. you kiss it better.

he asks you—bashfully, finally—if he can take you out. “like…to a movie. or dinner. but not here. somewhere nice. you deserve nice.”

you say yes, and he lights up like someone turned on the sun. later that night, you park in the back, doors locked, seats reclined. finally. he grins at you, sheepish and eager and so dumb in the best way.

you tease him. “you sure you know what we’re about to do?”

he nods. “yeah. make out in your car. right?”

you laugh. “good boy.” and if he wasn’t devoted before, he sure as hell is now.

choso is…not good at this. at first.

his shirt’s always a little wrinkled, name tag hanging crooked, hair somehow both neat and tragically emo. he’s new. you clock it the second he opens his mouth with a soft, “hi, welcome in!” and an awkward glance at the seating chart like it’s written in ancient greek. he fumbles. a lot. tells a party of six to follow him, then panics when he realizes he only has a four-top ready. doubles up your section on accident. gets the table numbers wrong. once seated someone in the storage closet. (to be fair, the door was open.)

normally, you’d be mad. no—furious. you’ve worked here two years. this is your turf, your money, your grind. you’ve snapped at hosts for far less. but choso? choso’s different. because when he messes up, he looks so apologetic it’s like kicking a puppy. big, dark eyes full of guilt, soft voice saying, “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” while the other servers tear into him like vultures.

but not you. no, you pull him aside, speak low and calm, point at the chart with your pen and say, “these four tables are mine. keep me steady, not slammed. focus on even rotation and don’t give me a party of eight ten minutes before close or I will cry.” and he listens. god, does he listen.

after that, he starts to figure it out. mostly because you’re the only one who takes the time to actually explain things to him. where the kids’ menus are. how to stall a wait time. why kevin is never allowed to take the patio by himself. you give him your number, say, “text me if you’re not sure what to do,” and choso nearly drops his phone trying to save your contact.

he’s scheduled five nights a week. you are too. coincidence? maybe. but he starts picking you up on the way in. says he’s just being nice. says he was heading that way anyway. his apartment is in the opposite direction, but he never mentions it.

he learns your coffee order before he remembers your last name. keeps a little note in his phone with the specifics: oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. shows up with it when your eye twitch starts from three doubles in a row. says, “you looked tired,” like it’s a compliment. every other server treats him like a punching bag. you treat him like a person. and that difference? it shifts something in him.

he starts putting your name next to the easy tables. the regulars that tip well. the quiet couples on dates. never the frat bros. never the wine moms. he tells the loud bachelor party at the door that the wait will be an hour when there’s actually an open booth. then he sends them to kevin.

“don’t want you dealing with that,” he mutters as they stomp off. “guy looked like he calls women ‘sweetheart’ unironically.”

you raise a brow. “and what do you call women, choso?”

his ears turn pink. "I’d call you whatever you wanted me to, anything, if you liked it.” you laugh it off. he doesn't.

he never flirts outright—too nervous, too respectful—but his version of it is just as obvious. carries your food runner trays for you. offers to fold napkins with you after hours. gives you the booth in the back when you look like you're gonna cry. he’s like a one-man support system in a black button-up. the kicker is: he never asks for anything. never expects. never pushes. just stands by the host stand like a dark-haired lighthouse, watching you hustle, hoping you’ll glance his way.

and then one night—it’s late, the shift’s over, the air outside is damp and cold—he walks you to your car. says, “you looked tired,” again. soft. sweet. no coffee this time, just concern. you turn to thank him, keys jingling in your hand.

you’re not sure who moves first. maybe both of you. maybe it’s mutual. but suddenly, you’re kissing him in the dark, your back against your car, his lips trembling against yours like he’s never done this before, or at least never done it like this.

when you break apart, he stares at you like he’s dreaming. then: “can I—can I kiss you again? please?”

and how do you say no to a guy like that? you don’t. he leans in again, hands gentle but sure, breath shaky, and this time it’s deeper. this time it’s real. by the time you finally unlock your door, he’s breathless, dazed, eyes wide and reverent.

“you okay?” you ask, teasing.

he swallows hard. “you don’t understand. I've been in love with you since you explained how to rotate sections. I'm—god, I'm yours. fully. whatever you want.”

shiu is a menace behind the bar.

the type who remembers everyone’s name, favorite drink, last heartbreak, and whether or not they tip in cash. he flirts like it’s his native tongue—easy, smooth, devastating. the regulars eat it up. that bachelorette party from two weeks ago? still posting about him on instagram. that lonely professor who comes in every thursday night for a manhattan? doubled her tip after shiu called her “darling” and winked. he's untouchable. untamed. he knows it. he thrives on it.

you? you're a server. professional. efficient. apron tied tight, hair done just right, customer voice always on. you’re good at this job—great at it—and you don’t have time for his games. you’ve seen him turn it on and off like a light switch. you’re not getting caught in that. at least, you’re trying not to. dating a coworker is so cliché.

but when he leans over the bar and says your name like it’s a secret, or hands you your usual drink with just the right amount of lime, or slides you a shot after a rough double and murmurs, “just for you, sweetheart,” your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t. because it’s not like how he flirts with everyone else. it’s softer. focused. less of a performance, more like a confession.

you ignore it. play it cool. tell yourself it’s just what bartenders do. he’s just trying to boost tips. that’s all. but shiu? he’s obsessed with you. it drives him crazy that you don’t flirt back the way everyone else does. that you give him a look when he’s sweet-talking a table of sorority girls like, really? again? that you roll your eyes at him when he’s juggling three numbers and a tequila bottle behind the bar like it’s a circus act.

you make fun of him. and he loves it.

he watches the way you tie your apron every shift—tight, efficient, crisp. watches the way you adjust your hair before a heavy section, the little details you fine-tune to maximize charm and cash. you’re just as good at your hustle as he is at his. maybe better. and that’s what gets him.

you’re not impressed. not by him, not by the attention he draws like flies to a light. and that’s why he wants you.

the thing is—he wants you in a way he doesn’t want anyone else.

sure, he’s flirted with everyone under the sun. but he’s invested in you. the real kind. he stares too long when you’re laughing with a table. leans over the counter a little more when it’s you asking for drinks. punches out on his tab to walk you to your car, tells you it’s just coincidence—he’s heading that way. he’s not.

you catch him watching you across the restaurant, and he doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t. just smirks, shrugs, goes back to rinsing glasses.

and don’t even get him started on the dishwasher. that guy? skinny little slip of a thing. always lurking by the expo window like a lovesick puppy, trying to catch your eye with his elbow grease and soft boy act. makes shiu want to snap a mop handle over his knee.

he won’t say anything outright—yet—but he starts making it clear. “don’t let dish boy waste your time, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur as you reach across the bar. “he can’t even roll silverware right.” that makes you laugh, and he’s ready to dedicate the rest of his life to hearing that again. or, “if he ever gets too clingy, just say the word. I'll toss him in the dumpster out back.” he says it like a joke. you’re pretty sure it’s not. because shiu kong may be a flirt, a charmer, and a total piece of work—but when it comes to you? he’s real. no bit. no hustle. just him. a little too protective. a little too sincere.

you think you’ve got him figured out. but then he says, quiet and low, after one too many near-kisses and casual brushes of fingers: “I'm not like this with anyone else, you know? I know you think I am, but I’m not. I don’t want your tips. I want you.” and suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a joke after all. 

nanami does not consider himself a morning person. he wakes up early, yes. he’s disciplined. on time. efficient. but liking the mornings? no. that would imply a warmth, a softness he rarely shows.

except with you. you work the overnight shift—midnight to noon—and it’s brutal. a cursed, unspeakable schedule nobody wants. too late for night owls, too early for early birds. tips are few and far between, your body aches in odd places, and you’re so tired sometimes your thoughts blur together like batter left out too long.

nanami knows this. and he hates it. he doesn’t say that, of course. that would be unprofessional. what he does do is start showing up earlier. first it’s 6:00 a.m. then 5:30. then five sharp.

he tells himself it’s to prep the sourdough, to perfect the croissants, to experiment with a new proofing technique. but that’s not true. the truth is: he just wants to see you. those quiet hours before the sun rises? when the kitchen hums with low lights and clinking trays? that’s his favorite part of the day.

because that’s when you’re there. hair a mess. apron wrinkled. running around trying to manage a floor with three absolutely wasted/hungover customers and zero patience, always looking like you’re one plate short of a meltdown. and still, you smile at him. just for a second. a little tired thing, crooked and bashful. he treasures it like gold.

nanami doesn’t push. not you. you’ve got that twitchy, overworked thing about you—like if someone showed you real kindness, you might unravel on the spot. so he does it in ways you don’t notice.

he starts “messing up” loaves. burning the corners, cutting the top wrong, forgetting the egg wash. “guess I’ll have to get rid of this one,” he’ll say, and hand you a still-warm loaf before your shift ends. he sets timers longer than necessary when it’s your break. you’re curled up in a corner of the warmest baking room, clutching a jacket he just happened to leave there, and he quietly snoozes the alarm every ten minutes until you wake up on your own.

if a manager comes sniffing around, asking why you’re not out front, he’s unflinching: “she’s helping me with inventory. you’ll have to wait.” no one argues with nanami. not even the boss.

so you stay where you are, drinking tea from a chipped mug while he slices strawberries for tarts. he’s always inventing new desserts. says it’s for the case. for the spring menu. but you notice they all seem to feature your favorite flavors. and he always gives you the first bite. “quality control,” he says, though he never samples them himself.

once, during a late shift when you were crashing hard, he wordlessly placed a cup of fresh-ground coffee and a plate of something sweet in front of you. a honey lavender scone, still steaming. you bit into it and teared up a little bit without meaning to. he said nothing, only handed you a napkin and asked if the texture was acceptable.

and when you work yourself to the bone—when your eyelids sag and your legs barely hold you up—he appears at your side without fanfare. “I’ll  drive you home,” he says softly. you start to protest, but he’s already holding your coat out like a gentleman from another era. and when you nod, exhausted, he drives in silence, the kind that feels safe. whole. the car is warm. he keeps the heat turned up for you.

he watches you sometimes, when you’re nodding off in the passenger seat. you deserve better, he thinks. a better job. more rest. more peace. and if you won’t give it to yourself, he’ll do what he can in the spaces in between. in the extra sugar on your scone, the longer breaks, the fake orders he pretends you’re needed for. in the way he always notices when your hands are cold and slides a hot drink toward them without saying a word.

you make him soft. and though he’d never say it aloud, he’d get up before the sun every day of his life just for five more minutes with you. the thing about nanami is: he doesn’t just like you. he cherishes you. like the finest recipe he’s ever perfected—measured out in sugar, baked into something golden, and handled with the gentlest hands.

he is so much better than this place. everyone knows it. especially you. you're not even sure how someone with that much talent and that little tolerance for bullshit ends up in the back kitchen of a mid-tier casual dining restaurant, but sukuna runs that line like a war general. if war generals had tattooed forearms, eyebrow piercings, and a habit of glaring knives into the backs of lazy fry cooks.

he’s intense. immaculate knife skills. sauces that make grown men cry. meat cooked perfectly every single time. it’s the kind of skill that should have a michelin star slapped on it. and when you told him that—after he handed you a rogue slice of steak on a shift you didn’t even have time to breathe during—he just grunted. “not going anywhere ‘til you do,” he said, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever said in his life.

but even though he’s stuck here, he’s not idle. sukuna wastes ingredients like they cost nothing—testing, tasting, refining. always for you. a little something stashed on the back shelf of the walk-in, labeled in sloppy sharpie with your name. sometimes he “accidentally” burns something (he would never, he couldn't bring himself to) just so he can slide you a replacement and watch your face light up after the first bite. and your face does light up. that’s the kicker. he memorized your palette like a quiz he studied for weeks. knows exactly how much heat you like, how much garlic is too much garlic (almost never), and what sweets will perk you up after a triple sat lunch rush.

when your perfume hits the air as you fly past the expo line, he lifts his head like a hunting dog catching scent. you rush out, plates in hand, stress in your shoulders, muttering “that took way too long” under your breath—and still, he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t have to. not when one folded arm and a sharp, deliberate glare can silence the entire kitchen. they fall into place like children lining up for recess. because when sukuna’s pissed? that’s an osha violation waiting to happen. but he’s not like that with you.

no, with you, he’s practically docile. you could walk into the kitchen mid-rush, batting your lashes and apologizing because you forgot to ring in table 12’s order and now they’re threatening to walk—and he’d just sigh, crack his knuckles, and say, “gimme five.”

you don’t even realize it—how much you have him wrapped around your finger. how he times his breaks to yours, how his chest puffs out every time you moan after biting into something he’s made, how he scowls when anyone else so much as thinks about you. you really don’t realize it until one of his line cooks makes some offhand comment—something about how you look in that skirt, how you bend when you wipe the table. and sukuna explodes. “say that again. I fucking dare you.”

it’s not subtle. nothing about him is. the kitchen goes silent. the cook apologizes. the conversation never happens again. but your name still burns in his chest.

and the customers? oh, if only they knew. sukuna doesn’t go full psycho while the nice ones are in the restaurant. no, he waits. watches from the shadows, counts the minutes, until everyone leaves but that one fucking table that always gives you grief.  “how come my girl comes back sniffling and weepy every time she deals with you, huh? she’s not serving you good enough?” he bites. they stare at him with something like awe. “tip her good and get out of here.” 

you don’t know he does this. not really. but you do notice how quiet the problem tables get on return visits. how much better your tips are from people who used to sneer at you for sport.

and behind all that big, black dog energy, there’s a softness he saves just for you. the way he presses you against the dry goods in the storage closet, one hand braced above your head, the other pulling you closer by the waist. he tastes like smoke and spice, kisses you like he’s hungry, like you’re something he made with his own two hands and he doesn’t want anyone else to have a bite.

you're breathless, lips swollen, apron askew. he leans in, brushes a thumb across your cheek.

"you good, princess?" he asks, like he didn’t just nearly ruin you against a wall. and you nod, cheeks hot, breath caught, heart doing a tap dance in your chest. you don’t call it a relationship. of course not. that would make it real. that would mean admitting what this is. but when you walk out of that closet, hair a little mussed, pulse still skipping, and sukuna’s right behind you—no one else dares to say a word.

itadori is what corporate types call a personality hire. and if anyone says it like it’s a bad thing? he just laughs. because yeah, he does have a great personality. he’s sunshine in an apron, muscles in a tight shirt, charm with a dimpled smile. grandmas give him candy. kids draw him pictures on napkins. drunk businessmen leave him hundred-dollar tips “for the vibes.” he’s a walking serotonin shot, and he knows it.

but you? you’re the real powerhouse here. you’re the puppet master behind the diner curtain. it’s your fourth year and counting, and you know everything—who to flirt with for favors, which register button unlocks the “forgot to ring it in” meal, which chef will actually make your off-menu creations if you say “pretty please.”

yuuji's jaw dropped the first time he watched you finesse a bartender into remaking a drink just because “this one had the wrong vibe.” and they did it—smiling, even. you taught him everything. took him under your wing. even tied his first apron when his hands were shaking on his first shift. he was done for immediately.

and so, he plays the long game. he plays dumb, just a little. “wait, wait, slow down—so if I bring fried pickles to table 3 before their drinks, they’ll tip better?” “you mean to tell me that table 7 always splits the check four ways?” “so, wait, the dishwasher likes sour candy, and that’s how you get your ramekins clean faster?” he knows all this like the back of his hand; had it down the very first time you told him...but he could listen to you talk for hours. watches your lips as you explain, your gloss catching the fluorescent lights. watches your eyes sparkle when you say, “c’mon, yuuji, keep up.” watches your hips sway when you saunter out with a full tray balanced like it’s a stage prop and you’re the star.

he starts showing up early. stays late. always, always ready to take your tables. that couple that never tips? done. the guy who ogles you too much? “I got it, don’t worry.” that side work you hate? “I already did it—no big deal.” your drink? already waiting for you by the soda machine. he’s even talked a manager out of writing you up once with a dumb joke and a grin. yuuji is, simply put, your bitch. and he loves it. but he’s not dumb.

he sees how you hover sometimes. how you glance over when he’s laughing with another server. how you tug on your apron strings and mumble, “I can take that table, if you’re swamped.” how your fingers brush his when you hand him silverware and your breath catches just a little.

and when your manager corners you to ask who deserves that upcoming raise? well, you don’t even blink. “yuuji,” you say. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. and it is. he works harder than anyone. smiles through the lunch rush and stays sane through the dinner chaos. fills in for no-shows. makes customers laugh even when they’re impossible. you say his name like you’re proud. he practically floats for a week after that.

you try to pay it back—try to do his side work one night. try to scrub down the soda machine or refill the salt shakers or fold napkins. but he gently takes it all out of your hands and says, “nope. sit. I got this.”

“yuuji, seriously—”

“you work too hard. let me do it for once.” he grins. he always grins. but there's something a little different in this one. a little soft. like he's holding back something bigger. because he is. so much bigger.

he’s had to stuff his fantasies deep, deep down. the ones where you live with him, sleep in his shirts, kiss him good morning, throw popcorn at him during movie nights. the ones where you let him take care of everything. where he works and you just get to be happy. lazy. loved.

the ones where your lip gloss is smudged because he kissed it off. but for now, he lets himself dream. and when you lean over and whisper, “thanks, yuuji. you’re the best,” he swears his heart punches a hole in his chest. yeah. maybe he is a personality hire. but lucky for you, that personality is hopelessly in love.

[theminecraftbee]

The problem, Grian thinks as he forelornly fills out paperwork, is that the Higher Ups have gone with a punishment that any reasonable person would find excessive and terrifying.

A rookie mistake. It doesn't help that they'd decided Cub would be the middle manager in charge of Hermitcraft, Grian thinks. Cub, of course, loves the excessive and terrifying, but he also loves the retribution of the excessive and terrifying. Grian has known this since he met Cub and visited the man's golf course. Sure, before then Concorp's truly terrifying business dominance had suggested a powerful man, but it had been the golf course that made Grian realize he was also excessive and terrifying.

(The pyramid did not change this impression. Nor did his red sand biome. Nor did Total Chaos. Nor did—well, Grian doesn't feel like he has to list them at this point.)

Scar as a voice of reason had been right out. The problem with Scar is that he doesn't know how to be reasonable. He acts like he does. In some regards, he fakes it better than Grian does. It's his face, Grian thinks. It's attractive and difficult to say no to. It's the kind of face that makes people keep assuming HotGuy was ever actually a superhero and not just an excuse to hunt people through the server with murderous intent while posing for shirtless pictures.

Scar is... a little less of the type of excessive and terrifying exile is, if it weren't for the hunting for sport bit.

So he'd been no backup as Grian, reluctantly, did his duty as an employee and tried to speak up to explain the roadblocks with the plan. The problem was that any reasonable person, he tried to explain, would both never want to be in exile and never be able to escape. The problem, he tried, is that exile isn't even all that related to permits in the first place; it will seem like an excuse to exercise outsized and overbearing authority over the other hermits.

He'd hoped Skizz would agree. He's the new guy. New guys normally agree.

Skizz had said it sounded like fun. They'd get someone to teleport everyone back after they were sad enough.

Grian threw his hands up then (although only after he'd turned off his camera; he thinks the Higher Ups can see even after he flips the plastic lid down, but he'd like to at least pretend he's being professional on their Teams calls by claiming he's had sudden, impossible-to-overcome internet problems). He doesn't care enough to explain the problem to the Higher Ups.

The problem, he thinks, is this:

Exile is a terrifying punishment to any reasonable person.

Unfortunately, Grian does not think he knows any reasonable people.

He squints at the tiny lettering on the form the Higher Ups have given him to fill out about unauthorized nether travel while simultaneously trying to explain how their highly-trained team of people skilled in being truly batshit insane have failed to hold down a single puppet.

It's not that he didn't try to warn them. He doesn't understand why this has to be his problem.

He ignores the niggling voice in his head reminding him that he'd made most of this up and was not reasonable himself. That, in fact, making up an organizational job he hates entirely for his own amusement is not what anyone would call 'reasonable' at any time of day. That doesn't matter now. What matters now is how much he doesn't want to be doing his job.

They'd better crush this exile thing quick.

...that, or it's time to resign himself to the paperwork. Maybe he should just get a new office chair instead.