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jj-one · 2 days ago

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thinking about getting on my knees and grinding on channie’s boot or him pressing it against me maybe even kicking a few times 🥺

OMG I LOVE THIS?!;&:@/@/ i’m totally normal ab this i swear >< but ok so i’m imagining like idol!chan x stylist where there’s a power imbalance between you but you’re willing to do anything to keep this job sofkdkss ok i’ll shut up let’s get into it cw: dubcon, power imbalance, heavy degradation, mean dom!chan (guys pls remember that this is fiction and this doesn’t represent the real him in any shape or form !!)

working as a stylist for one of the major big 3 companies meant you were constantly surrounded by artists, bright, fluorescent lights that are almost headache inducing, long hours— and the quiet pressure of keeping your pathetic crush on chan buried under the guise of professionalism. usually, he made it hard in the worst way with his sweet voice and soft glances, teasing you without even trying, rolling up his sleeves while making small talk that made you weak in the knees.

but today? he wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

he was dead silent, face stone-cold while you touched up his outfit, muscles tense beneath your fingers as you fixed the hem of his blazer. and when you finally dared to speak, something innocent, like asking if he needed anything, he looked at you like you’d just snapped a thread inside him.

“come with me.” his voice was sharp, hand clamping around your wrist, tight enough to sting. you barely had time to react before he’s dragging you down the hallway, past the set, and into one of the vacant storage rooms, filled with racks of old stage outfits and mirror-lined walls. he kicked the door shut behind you and locks it.

you stood there frozen as he looked you up and down, his eyes dark, breath uneven. unsure of whether to speak in fear of agitating him even more. obviously he didn’t come in here to “chat” but you were still confused on what his intentions were.

“you always look at me like that,” he says through gritted teeth, “like you’re just begging to get fucked stupid right in the middle of hair and makeup.”

your lips parted out of shock by his words, but nothing came out. you couldn’t deny it. he could see it written all over your face.

that’s when he grabbed your jaw roughly, forcing you to look him in the eye. his thumb brushed your lip, but there was nothing tender about it.

“you wanna help me take the edge off?” he cocks his head to the side. “then shut up and do exactly as i say.”

before you could even protest, he stepped back and shoved his boot between your legs. the toe of it hitting your inner thigh, parting them with unrelenting force.

“now ride it.” he orders, “make yourself cum on my fucking shoe.”

you whimpered, thighs trembling already. the leather was stiff, unforgiving— and so wrong, so dirty, you felt the rush of heat to your face instantly.

but you did as you were told.

hands bracing on his thighs for anchorage, you ground your soaked cunt against the toe of his boot, your panties already sticking to you, the seam pressing between your folds. the boot’s laced ridges rubbed against your sensitive clit as you rocked forward, desperate and aching.

“fuck,” you breathed, forehead dropping to his chest. “fuck, chan—”

the polished leather curved between your thighs, pressing perfectly against your swollen bundle of nerves with each desperate roll of your hips. you weren’t supposed to like it. you weren’t supposed to moan like this. your body grinding shamelessly on the leather boot of the man whom you thought could do no harm.

chan was watching intently. breathing hard. staring at you like you were some pathetic, messy thing meant solely for his pleasure.

“what a slut,” he murmured, looking down at you like you were so beneath him. “look at you. getting off on my fucking boot. where’s that pretty pride now, huh?”

you whimpered as you rutted against it, slick coating the exterior, thighs twitching with every stroke over your throbbing cunt.

“chan… please—”

“you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he hissed, yanking your hair so your back arched deeper. “you wanna cum like this? fuck yourself dumb on the same shoes i wear to practice?”

you weakly nodded, hips stuttering with need.

“then earn it,” he snarled, his boot suddenly pulled back, just enough to make your clit miss the pressure. your body jerks at the sudden loss. “i wanna see you ruin yourself on it. cry if you have to. fucking beg.”

and you did.

whining. pleading. hot tears spilling from your eyes as you rode his boot again, rocking your cunt down on the solid leather, against the worn toe cap like it was the only thing that could make you feel human again.

“you thinking about sitting on it?” he mocked, his voice sickly sweet, “bet you’d take it too. bet i could make you cum just from this, without ever touching my cock.”

you sobbed, fingers clawing at his thigh, humping more erratically now, chasing a high you couldn’t quite reach.

but of course, chan wouldn’t let you.

he kicked forward— enough to make your hips jolt, letting out an elongated sigh.

“c’mon,” he coaxed. “be a good little toy. show me how much you love humiliating yourself for me.”

your body spasmed, right on the edge. orgasm hitting you like a wave of fire, and you screamed his name, shaking and twitching as slick gushed down your thighs, coating the laces of his boot with a luminous shine. you collapsed, body quaking, chest heaving, feeling disgusted with yourself yet too lost in pleasure.

he just laughs, speaking to you in the same condescending tone he’s been doing all day.

“good girl,” he whispered, crouching beside you as you lay there spent. “we’ll shine them with your mouth next time.”

#skz smut #skz x reader #stray kids smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #bangchan smut #stray kids x reader #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts

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tywrites · 2 days ago

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heavy | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,360 (not proof-read)

warnings: reader is implied to have depression

a/n: okay so this is really bad since i haven't written in quite a long time but!! i love him and i Needed to write something abt him. i desperately need more mateo fics lmao. hope you enjoy <33

-----

You rolled over in your bed, the usually comforting plush of your mattress feeling awfully cold today. You sighed, closing your eyes and quietly hoping to just fall back to sleep. Things had been… difficult recently. Losing your job had definitely taken its toll on you – on your mental health in particular. Even when working from home, you still had to make the time to leave every so often and interact with the real world. But with everything that had happened recently with the dateviators, you hadn’t been able to leave at all.

Of course, you still had the objects. And they were great company! Most of them anyway. But it didn’t stop you from feeling a bit… alone sometimes. You sighed softly, finally accepting the fact that sleep wasn’t coming. You looked over to your end table at the dateviators. You had a lot to do. It was really overwhelming, honestly. You hadn’t even met all of the objects in the house yet, let alone made any progress towards realising any. You had made a lot of close friends through them though. And even one very special, different relationship…

Even just thinking of Mateo brought a slight smile to your face, cheering up your bleak mood ever so slightly. If you’d told yourself a few weeks ago that you’d soon be dating your blanket… well, considering your track record with love, it wouldn’t be all that surprising.

You bit your lip, reaching over to the dateviators. You popped them on, blinking at the warm, pink hue that enveloped your vision. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to this. In a second, Betty had materialised in front of you, perched on the edge of the bed – or uh, on the edge of herself. She gave you a soft smile.

“How’re you feeling today, gorgeous?”

You made a face. “Well for starters, I don’t feel very gorgeous,” you reply groggily, sitting up as you wiped a hand over your tired face.

She chuckled. “Sweetie, you’re always gorgeous to me. But what’s got you so down? You barely slept last night, or the night before… should I be offended?” She was clearly joking, but there was a definite tone of concern in her voice.

“Nah, it’s not you, it’s me,” you admit, looking down at the sheets. “I just… I don’t know. I feel so… heavy? I’m so tired, all the time. Which makes no sense, let’s be real, I’m doing nothing all day but..” You trail off, unsure of how to word it. “I just can’t sleep though. I can’t relax. I feel so tense all the time and I don’t see a way out of it. Easier to just lay in bed, I guess,”

She looks at you, worry in her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. You try your best to force a smile.

“Not really. I think it’s just… something I have to deal with on my own,”

She frowned. “Honey, I don’t think-”

“I’ll see you tonight, Betty. Thanks for the talk,” you said quickly, standing up and heading to the bathroom, leaving Betty sitting on the bed, her face twisted in concern.

-------------

You’d spent most of the day dodging the other objects. Mateo especially. You just couldn’t bring yourself to talk to anyone right now. You left the dateviators on the table next to you, doom scrolling on your phone until the socially acceptable time to hit the hay. You were planning to go straight to bed, not call on anyone with the dateviators. The idea of bothering any of them, of forcing them to sit and listen to your silly problems was excruciating. But as you settled down into bed, trying in vain to close your eyes and let sleep come for you, there was only one thing on your mind.

You knew how upset Mateo would be if he knew you were avoiding him, especially if he knew it was because you weren’t feeling the greatest. Helping others is what drove him, it was the one thing he took pride in the most. He’d never let you wallow in your own self pity. You glanced at the glasses on your bedside table and sighed in defeat. You slid them on slowly.

You hadn’t even had them on for a few seconds before Mateo was materialising. You didn’t expect him to be right here, waiting for you. He was usually in the living room, caring for the inanimals. That man never took a break. When you saw the worried expression on his sweet face, you wanted to break down there and then.

“Ah mi vida, finally!” He said, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you all day,”

You flushed in embarrassment. So he’d been watching your pathetic display of self-loathing, huh? “Sorry, Mateo… I’ve just been, um, tired,” you said, avoiding his eyes. If there was anything in this world that could make you immediately spill all your darkest secrets, it was Mateo’s big, brown eyes.

“I’ve noticed… my love, I’m worried about you. Betty came to me earlier and told me you haven’t been sleeping. Is that true?” He asked tactfully.

“Betty said that?” Betrayal, you thought.

“She was worried. Honestly, a lot of us have been worried. You haven’t been acting like yourself for a while now. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you know you just have to ask, right? I would do anything for you,” he said, a small blush rising to his cheeks. “I mean, I’d hope you’d know that…”

You finally look at him, truly seeing the concern on his features. His bedhead was especially messy today, as though he’d been running his hand through it every five seconds. His usual easy smile was replaced with a small frown and you realised something. In that moment, you would do anything to see that smile again. As you were preoccupied with gazing into his eyes, Mateo took this opportunity to place his hand over yours. His touch was feather soft as his thumb gently traced the back of your hand. You could almost feel your anxiety melting away.

You finally spoke.

“Mateo?”

“Yes, amor?”

“Could… could we cuddle?”

You ignore the burning in your cheeks and make your request, looking down at his hand still on yours. You focused on his touch. His touch seemed to make many things a whole lot easier.

At your words, a huge grin took over Mateo’s face. “You never even have to ask,” he said, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss onto the back of it.

You manoeuvred yourself so there would be room for Mateo beside you, turning so your back was towards him. He wasted no time in enveloping you in his arms, pulling you into the comforting warmth of his chest. His face snuggled into the crook of your neck and he took a deep breath in.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. The inanimals have missed you too…”

An arrow of guilt hit you right in the heart.

“I’m really sorry, ‘Teo… I-”

“You have no reason to be sorry, amor. Look, I can tell you’re struggling right now. And there’s nothing wrong with that at all, you have nothing to be ashamed about. But you have people around you that can help share your load, okay? You taught me that when we first met. When you bottle it all inside, it’s just too heavy for one person to handle. I want to help you. Please let me,”

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You sniffled, wiping them away as quick as you could but they just kept coming. Mateo brought up the sleeve of his plush duvet jacket, wiping away the tears as they trickled down your face. You both said nothing. You laid there, wrapped up in Mateo’s arms, feeling more safe and secure than you had in a very long time. If Mateo was there to help you hold it, maybe things could be a lot lighter from now on.

#mateo manta #mateo manta x reader #date everything #date everything x reader #mateo manta imagine #date everything imagine #ty writes

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shidoglazer · 11 hours ago

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“i knew you in another life, i’ll love you ‘til the day that i die.”

sae itoshi

the “demon child” who got convicted of a crime for not mourning during a funeral, accused of being the murderer of the victim and was dragged by knights with chains to throw him off the cliff for a peaceful death, yet was left in the middle of the forests rotting because the knights said “good enough, nobody will find him here. i’m too lazy to climb up all those steps.”

the “witches child” who ran away. just for trying to be kind and offering herbs for a sick child and immediately being accused of being a witch for knowing too much. she lives in the forests after running away from being beheaded — she knows the forests like its the back of her palm, places to collect herbs, to feed animals, what different sounds would that place make according to the animals there… so why was there something so unfamiliar that day?

“hi there.” sae opened his eyes when he heard a girls voice, he squinted and took a look at your features, knowing by a glance you were just around the same age as him. his body squirmed against the rusted metal chains, “get me out.. ‘m not a demons child.” he mumbled weakly, and that was all you needed to get to work. “why’d you get abandoned?” your hands started to work against the metal lock, using different twigs from the ground to pick the lock, occasionally using your hand to keep him in place.

for some reason, sae found your touch the softest he’s ever felt. and thats. something. “i don’t know. i’m not a demons child.” “you don’t know the reason you were abandoned?” “i’m not a demons child.” he mumbled over and over, and you knew there was a lot of fixing to do with this guy. you stayed silent for the majority of the times while picking the lock, and he kept mumbling about dumb judges, lazy people, weakness, how he hated them all.

after getting him out of those chains, you supported him up to walk him to the shelter you found in the middle of the forests. on the way there, just taking a step seemed to exhaust him. “..whats your name? i never got it.” “sae.” he paused. “not demons child.” and you basically had to take a deep breath before talking to him. “im a witches child. its fine, not like we’re ever going back there right?” and there was a long gap of silence before sae replied. “..hm.”

when you reached your small hut, you immediately took some soup you made some other day and handed it to him. “its a bit cold, but it has everything healthy in it!” he took the bowl into his hands and immediately wolfed it down like a starving man (basically was), licking his lips after finishing the whole bowl. “..got anymore? please.” and that day, you spent your whole day foraging for more food to make for him. maybe it was the satisfaction of knowing someone really enjoyed your food, or that you could help the only one you know in the same situation as you.

at night, it was cold. your body temperatures dropped and the holes that punched through the walls weren’t helpful. you were used to this, sae wasn’t. so he did the only thing he thought was the most efficient. “i’m cold.” he doesn’t give you another warning before hugging up on you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “you’re shameless.” you say with a pink tinted against your face, leaning against each others warmth. the cold breeze wasn’t something to be hated anymore as it served as your cupid, like a mysterious force that made your limbs tangle with each others.

in the morning, you woke up to sae standing in front of you, holding a basket full of poisonous mushrooms and random flowers and weeds he picked. “i’ll help you make the food today.” you rub your eyes and lift yourself up from the grass bed, taking the basket from his hands and examining it. “..sae..” you say groggily, your eyes barely being able to open fully. “a lot of these are poisonous, but i appreciate the effort, dearest ..” dearest. dearest. he stood there like an idiot, the usual composure he had falling piece by piece as his mouth fell slightly agape, red blushing through his fair skin. “..o- oh. okay. my bad. i’ll throw these out, real quick.” he quickly took the basket from your hands and ran out the door, being in shock at himself for acting like this.

but after a few weeks of living with you, he learned to identify which mushrooms were safe, waking up earlier then you to go foraging, coming back with a basket with mushrooms that are actually safe. “good morning. can you help me check if these are safe?” he handed the basket to you and you looked through them one by one. “..yeah, good job dearest.” you smiled hazily, reaching out to pinch his cheek. he grumbles about being treated like a kid, yet he makes little to no effort to pull away from your touch that feels like a touch of warmth in his ice-cold world.

though, not all stories have happy endings. just because you were out of sight from the citizens doesn’t mean you were off their radar. in the middle of making you and sae lunch like usual, there was sudden chanting coming closer and closer, a smell of smoke, dozens of footsteps stomping against the forest floor. you look to sae, who’s clearly noticed, immediately scrambling up, “come on- lets go lets go lets go—” he tries to pull you to the windows to escape, yet you dont budge. “no, i.. i’m done for.” “you’re not. i won’t allow it.” and with force you’ve never seen him use before, he throws you onto his shoulder and runs. he runs for not for his own life, but for yours. he may lose his own life, but theres no way he’ll deprive this world of yours.

despite the hundreds of twigs digging into his feet with every step, the crowd of people chasing behind them, he holds onto you tightly even when his heart is pounding in his chest. even when his feet are bleeding and you’re begging for him to stop.

but you don’t have to beg him.

it’s the end of the chase.

a cliff meets his eyes. and you both know that theres no chance to run anymore. he shifts your position to look at your face just one last time, putting you on your own two feet and cupping your face. “hey.. if we’re born again, maybe as people who aren’t children of demons and witches,” he gulps, “let’s get married. make me your husband and i’ll make you my wife, and i’ll give you all the herbs and mushrooms you could ever want. maybe a house with better walls, and-” he chokes on his own tears, the crowd gets closer and closer, “i love you. my dearest.” you hug him tight, closing your eyes as if hoping you’d wake up from this nightmare. if you could just go back to the day you both met, brought him to a safer place, savoured moments with him more .. your thoughts get cut off as you’re engulfed into flames, choking out a cry of pain as sae holds you tightly. “i love you sae— i love you so much, i love you,” the fire spreads too quickly against your wool clothes, and you both are reduced to nothing but charred bones.

it was almost instinct when you first saw sae on tv that you knew you wanted to support him, then you started seeing him in public, or sometimes even in your local cafe where you worked part time at. your co-workers would nudge at you whenever he came in, “look, its your idol, itoshi or whatever his name was. go get him!”

and it wasn’t different for sae. his eyes locked onto yours whenever he saw you. the cafe you worked at was mediocre and all for aesthetics. he’d complain about everything if he could, yet he still comes for you. “one mushroom soup. thanks.” until he basically became a regular here, and he never had to specially request for you to be the one serving him, unless you were out of work, that was. “..wheres that girl? the one that usually serves me?” “oh, shes sick today, so-” he doesn’t wait for another word to immediately stand up and leave the cafe.

the news spread like wildfire, first it was your co-workers telling you how sae was definitely into you, and you didn’t believe it at first until you saw this interview.

“so, sae itoshi! headlines say you’ve been eyeing a cafe worker, is she cute? what-” “first of all. stop butting into my business. second of all,” he pauses “yes. she is cute. my standards wouldn’t be any lower than that.” and fuck. you almost passed out after hearing that.

another day at the cafe after that interview, he came into the cafe and sat down at his usual booth, and you immediately brought him the mushroom soup without saying anything. “i.. figured you’d want the mushroom soup again, right?” “actually.” he pushes the mushroom soup away, looking at your name tag. “y/n.” then back up to your eyes, “i don’t want to say unnecessary things or make up bullshit. so just listen. i’m interested in you. romantically, ‘was wondering if you could give me some type of social media so we could stay in contact.” and you stood there, mouth agape, pink immediately tinting your cheeks. “oh- i, i want to, but i can’t do this during work tho-” and a glare from him is all you need to take your pen out from your pocket and write your number on a notepad, slipping it to him.

“sae! pick me up some mushrooms and creamer when you’re going to the grocery store later, i wanna make mushroom soup and bread.” you say excitedly, while sae looks at you with those endearing eyes that you swear nothing can replace that feeling in your stomach whenever you look at him. “mushroom soup? for our anniversary? i thought you wanted to go out and eat.” he says while cleaning up the living room after your cats caused a warzone there. “well, i thought i’d do something special. since mushroom soup was the reason we met, no?” “..hm. i’m okay with anything. do you want me to help you cook tho?” “god no.” “okay, jeez..”

he comes back with the mushrooms and creamer, placing it onto the counter and you start cooking while he stands there and watches you, occasionally kissing you out of nowhere just because he feels like it. you started the night with mushroom soup on the dining table, sitting beside each other with silence that speaks so loudly. “hey.. i’ve been meaning to tell you this but i wanted to wait until it was our anniversary.” he reached into his pockets, pulling out a key. “i bought a new house. for us.” and you’re shocked. staring at the house key, then back at him, “what?! no way- what type of house even is it??” “don’t yell at me for wasting my money.” he pauses. “a mansion. 4 stories.” you almost cried right there, immediately pulling sae into a hug. “thank you.. thank you sae, i love you so much. you spoil me too much,” “then i must’ve owed you something in a past life.”

and after dinner, you both immediately get into bed. the air conditioner is blasting on full wind, a blanket covering each other and you’re already enough warm, but theres no excuse as to why sae hugs you close to his chest, as if protecting you from the rest of the world. yet you lean into it anyways. you close your eyes, hoping not to wake up from this dream, but to progress into another day with your dearest.

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minaaaliyah · 2 days ago

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Chapter 1

Why couldn’t life be easy? Why couldn’t you come into this world with a blueprint—a map laid out, step-by-step, telling you what path to take and when to take it? Instead, life tosses you in blindfolded, hands tied, heart exposed. You’re left to fumble through the dark, trying to make sense of the noise.

No one said life was going to be worth living. But here you are.

A healer.

You could ease a person’s pain with nothing more than an herb and a prayer. Your mama was an herbalist, your daddy, a doctor. You’d been learning how to use what the earth gave you since before you could even say the word “medicine.” It was in your blood—something ancient, something sacred, something that flowed in your veins like second nature.

Your mama swore she knew you were special before you even took your first breath. Said she felt it in her belly—that you were a gift that kept on giving. Said you’d shine so bright you could kill someone. Of course, she was being dramatic—mothers always are—but still, mothers know. And when you started helping her in her home herb shop at the ripe age of six, you began to understand what she meant.

People would come in for chamomile, peppermint, maybe some eucalyptus for a cold. But you felt something deeper. A tug in your chest, a whisper from something unseen. You knew they were battling more than a stuffy nose. You’d walk up, press your little hand to theirs, and pray. Ask the Gods to bring them peace, clarity, safety. And somehow, it worked. Words from the mouth of a child with old-soul power behind them.

After that, Mama made sure you never forgot what you were. “Keeping a gift like that to yourself is a sin, girl,”��she’d say. “And the Gods will snatch it back as fast as they gave it to yuh.”

Now, you’re twenty-five, a single mother working at Annie’s Place just trying to keep your head above water. You live above the restaurant, scraping by. There’s food on the table, bills paid—barely. Mama still helps here and there—mostly for your daughter, Yara—but she kicked you out the moment you said you didn’t want to use your gift anymore. Claimed she was doing what was right. But you know better. You feel it in your bones. She’s just waiting for that power to resurface, maybe even hoping it’ll pass into your daughter.

Still, you stay quiet. You need her.

Besides your mama, you don’t really have anyone. Your father past three years ago. You’re an only child. And friends? Sure, you have Mary and Perlene, but they’ve got lives of their own. They saw that past-due light bill taped to your door and said nothing—just shook their heads and kept it moving. You never asked for help. Hated the idea of owing anybody anything. So, you struggle in silence. You don’t cry, don’t break, don’t pause. You can’t. You’ve got a child to raise, shifts to work, bills to pay. Life’s not fairytale magic—it’s survival. But it’s yours. And you live it for her.

“Nyx, you know you ain’t got no time to be sitting up on that damn phone,” Annie’s voice called from the kitchen, carrying the scent of fresh-fried fish.

Looking up from the counter, I muttered a quiet curse. Of course she came out now. I tucked my phone into my pocket.

“Sorry, Annie. I’m just waitin’ to see if Yara got that scholarship to the private school. They said emails go out at four. It’s 4:05.”

Annie shrugged. “Girl don’t stress. She’s gonna get it. Now, help me with these plates.”

I pulled on gloves and joined her behind the bar. The place was slow today—Naomi was handling the few customers we had.

“You know, Nyx,” Annie said, handing me a to-go box, “if you need help payin’ for Babygirl’s school, I can—”

“No, ma’am,” I cut her off. “If she doesn’t get it, I’ll just get another job.”

She gave me that look—the one that could slice you straight to your soul.

“Nyx,” she said slowly, “when exactly are you planning to work another job? You’re here 10 to 5, then you’re running across town to pick up Yara. Who’s gonna take care of her? When you gonna sleep?”

Annie doesn’t lie. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Doesn’t indulge in fantasy. She gives you truth, sharp and unflinching. I looked at her like she just kicked my dog and told me it was for my own good.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Still shaking my head, I slipped my phone back out. One new email.

Dear Ms. Noorani, We are excited to share the wonderful news that your child, Yara Noorani, has been selected to receive a scholarship for the upcoming school year!

This award reflects your family’s commitment to early education and your child’s joyful spirit and enthusiasm for learning. We are thrilled to welcome you into our school community and look forward to supporting your child’s growth and development.

You will receive more information soon about next steps, including enrollment details and how the scholarship will be applied.

Congratulations again, and we can’t wait to see Yara Noorani shine!

“ANNIE!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Oh my God, Annie—she got it!”

I spun around the kitchen, nearly knocking over the fish.

Annie just smirked. “That’s great and all, but if you don’t stop jumpin’ around, I’ma make you work a double.”

I laughed, breathless and warm all over. I hugged her tight, told her I’d see her later, and clocked out. Then I called a ride.

I rode with the windows cracked, warm summer air brushing against my cheeks as the city blurred by. The scholarship email kept replaying in my head like a hymn. She got it. My baby got it. The one thing that could lift her out of the mess I was buried in.

Mama's house was on the east side—tucked behind rows of overgrown bougainvillea and rusted garden gates, looking just like the woman who owned it: wild and unbothered by what people thought. I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart thudding, already picturing Yara’s big smile when she heard the news. But something stopped me at the top step.

A smell—faint, earthy, thick with sage and sandalwood—curling from the porch like it had a message of its own. Mama was burning again. That usually meant spirits had been nearby. Or something worse. I stepped inside. “Mama?” I called. She was in the back, kneeling on the floor, her hands deep in a bowl of red clay and water. Her head snapped up when she heard my voice. “You felt that too?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Felt what? “But I had. A subtle twist in the air. A hum behind my ribs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stood, looking older than I remembered. “They been callin’ you again, haven’t they? The spirits. The energy. You’re runnin’ from it, but it’s catchin’ up.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I gave her the news. “Yara got the scholarship.” Her eyes lit up—just for a moment—but the shadow returned quickly. “She’s gonna need it,” she murmured. “The girl’s light is growin’. And so are the eyes watchin’ her.”

Mama, please don’t start,” I said, brushing past her into the kitchen. “Just be happy. For once.”

I opened the cabinet, pulling out Yara’s small backpack and snacks, already mentally running through the checklist for the morning store run. “All I’m trying to do is warn you, Nyx,” Mama said, following close behind. “The spirits been talkin’. They said there’s a man out there—he’s coming for you. And he ain’t good news.” I sighed, stuffing Yara’s water bottle into the bag harder than I needed to.

“If you would just use that gift of yours,” she went on, her voice catching like a thread on splintered wood, “you’d understand. You could see him comin’ too.”

“I’m not tryin’ to see anything, Mama,” I muttered, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading toward the front room. “I’m just trying to live.” She followed me to the living room like a shadow that wouldn’t let go, her presence thick in the air.

I placed Yara’s things by the door, then climbed the stairs quietly to my old bedroom. The door creaked the way it always had. Inside, Yara lay tangled in blankets, deep in a toddler’s dream, mouth slightly open, one chubby hand curled around her stuffed bunny. “Yara, baby,” I whispered gently, kneeling beside her. “Wake up, love. The Uber’s outside.”

She stirred, groaning softly. “Mommy, I’m still tired,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. “I know, I know,” I said, pulling her upright. “We’ll nap when we get home, okay?” She nodded sleepily, letting me put on her little shoes and zip up her jacket. In the hallway, Mama stood watching us, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything this time, just looked at me like she was memorizing the moment.

Yara gave her a hug around the knees. “I love you, Grandma. See you next week.” Mama’s face softened as she bent down to kiss her cheek. “Love you too, baby. Be good. And remember what I told you.”

“I will,” Yara said, her voice already fading with sleep again. I picked her up and carried her down the stairs. At the door, I paused long enough to give Mama a kiss on the cheek.

She didn’t say another word.

I didn’t either.

Outside, the car was already waiting, headlights cutting through the dawn fog. I climbed in with Yara curled up against me, the silence between me and my mother still hanging heavy in my chest—half love, half warning.

By the time the car pulled up near the curb, dusk had wrapped the city in a quiet, copper-toned hush. You thanked the driver, gathered your bags, and scooped Yara—now asleep with her cheek resting on your shoulder—into your arms.

The entrance to your apartment was in the back, which meant a short walk down the cracked sidewalk, then a right turn into the narrow alley behind Annie’s. Dim light flickered from the single bulb overhead, casting long shadows on the damp pavement. You adjusted your grip on the bag, hoisted Yara a little higher on your hip, and climbed the metal stairs that always groaned beneath your weight.

The apartment wasn’t much. A one-bedroom, one-bath, 750-square-foot shoebox with peeling paint and thin walls. But the hardwood floors had character—warm and worn down in places—and the little kitchen window caught the morning sun just right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. It kept you and your daughter safe, and that was more than most could say.

You unlocked the door, pushed it open with your shoulder, and stepped inside. The smell of yesterday’s incense still lingered faintly in the air—sage, maybe lavender. You dropped the bags by the door and laid Yara gently on the couch. She stirred a little but didn’t wake. You brushed a curl from her forehead and whispered, “We’re home, baby.”

The place was exactly how you left it—blankets strewn over the couch, breakfast dishes still in the sink, and a few toys scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs from the morning rush. You carried Yara to the bedroom, changed her into pajamas, and tucked her into bed. She murmured something in her sleep, clutching her stuffed bunny close to her chest. You kissed her temple before turning out the light.

You went back into the main room and turned on some music—just loud enough to fill the silence. A little Erykah Badu, soft and soulful. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’re floating while your hands stay busy.

You started in the kitchen. Dishes first. You emptied the dishwasher, put up the clean plates and glasses, and loaded the sink full of the mess from earlier. The rhythm of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking grounded you—one small task after another. You wiped the counters down, sprayed the stove, and lit a citrus candle by the sink to chase away the lingering smell of grease.

The living room came next. You folded the throw blankets, picked up Yara’s toys, and vacuumed around the rug with that little handheld vacuum you hated but couldn’t afford to replace. Everything in its place.

Finally, the bathroom—always your least favorite. You didn’t do much tonight. Just swept the floor and sprayed the sink. Enough to feel decent.

Once the place felt clean and the candle's glow flickered gently in the kitchen, you turned off the music, took a shower, and slipped into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

That’s when your mind started to wander.

Back to how you got here.

To the gift you walked away from. To Mama’s warnings. To the man in the shadows—the one the spirits whispered about. To all the moments you’d swallowed your tears and stood tall, because crumbling wasn’t an option.

You stared up at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing into your chest like a heavy hand. You’d made it through, just like always. But something was shifting. You could feel it—in the wind, in your bones, in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

You turned onto your side and glanced toward Yara on the other side of the bed, where her nightlight still glowed soft and amber.

Let whatever’s coming wait until tomorrow, you thought.

And you finally closed your eyes.

Saturday morning started slow—just the way Nyx liked it.

The city outside still yawned as light crept between buildings, stretching across power lines and rusted window frames. Inside the apartment, everything was quiet except for the soft rustle of Yara flipping through her picture book and the occasional thump of tiny feet pattering from the bathroom to the couch.

Nyx stood barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a long robe, hair piled on top of her head. She pressed the stove knob again. Waited.

Click. Click.

Nothing.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, hands on her hips.

"That’s just disrespectful," she muttered, grabbing her phone and typing a note to herself—Call Darnell again (!!!)—before tossing it onto the counter.

Yara peered around the corner. "Mama, pancakes today?"

Nyx sighed. "We gotta go downstairs for that, baby. Stove’s playing games again."

Yara grabbed her bunny and slipped on her sneakers without complaint. Nyx got them both dressed in something decent, pulled her keys off the hook, and they made their way downstairs, the scent of smoked sausage and cinnamon already curling up the stairwell like a welcome.

The bell over the door chimed. Annie didn’t look up from the grits she was stirring. “Lemme guess. The stove?” Nyx stepped inside, Yara tugging her hand. “Dead. Again. I can’t keep feeding this child off cereal and prayer, Annie. I need real heat.”

“You need a new landlord,” Annie muttered. “I told Darnell three weeks ago to check that thing.”

“You told Darnell,” Nyx repeated, pointing to herself. “But I have to live with his half-fixin’. That’s the difference.” Annie gave her that look—the one that always said you ain’t wrong, but don’t start no mess this early—then nodded her head toward a booth. “Sit. I got sausage and sweet cornbread in the back. Let the girl eat.”

Nyx smiled down at Yara. “You hear that, baby? Annie’s spoiling you again.” Yara beamed and ran ahead to their usual seat. That’s when the door chimed again. Two men entered. The air changed.

Smoke came in first. Dressed in deep gray, with eyes that didn't scan the room—they read it. Quiet. Still. Not a man who needed to announce himself. The kind of man who made you straighten your back without realizing it. The kind of man who made you pause when your instincts stirred, and your spirit wasn’t sure if it should kneel or run.

Stacks followed, louder, lighter, full of charm. Gold ring flashing on his pinky. Laughter already rising from his chest. "Whew, Annie," he said, fanning himself like a preacher. “You still cooking with holy fire in here?”

Annie grinned. “Only thing that keeps men like you comin’ back.”

Stacks turned toward Nyx’s booth and spotted her. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden focus.

Annie chuckled. “Stacks, Smoke—this here’s Nyx. Lives upstairs. Works the counter most days.”

Stacks reached out, but Nyx stayed seated, offering only a nod. "Nice to meet you, Stacks. And… Smoke?" She looked up at him now. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stood there.

Watching.

Like he already knew her face.

Stacks laughed. “Don’t mind him. Smoke don’t say much. He thinks in thunder but speaks in whispers.”

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. His arms remained crossed over his chest, but Nyx could feel his energy like a drumbeat beneath the floorboards.

She looked away first.

“So y’all the famous twins Annie always talking about?” she asked, pouring Yara some juice from the small carafe on the table.

Stacks slid into the seat across from her like they were old friends. “Famous might be generous, but yeah. We run things around here. Logistics, cleanup, favors. If something needs to be handled, we’re the ones they call.”

“Interesting,” Nyx said, slicing into Yara’s sausage. “So you’re the neighborhood problem-solvers?”

“That’s one word for it,” Annie muttered from behind the bar.

Stacks winked. “We do it all. Except breakfast. That’s Annie’s territory.”

Nyx chuckled. “Well, I’m glad someone’s working around here, because my stove is on strike again.”

Stacks leaned back. “You got a man around? Someone to look at it?”

“No man,” Nyx said flatly, without apology.

Smoke, still standing, shifted.

That single movement said more than most men said in full sentences.

Stacks raised his eyebrows. “That’s rare. You don’t give off single-mom energy.”

“Oh?” Nyx raised her brow. “What kind of energy do I give off?”

Stacks grinned. “Bossy. Beautiful. Might-cut-you-if-you-say-something-stupid type.”

Nyx smirked. “So I give off accurate energy.”

Annie snorted in the background, nearly choking on her tea.

Smoke finally moved—quietly sliding into the seat beside Stacks, still watching. He didn’t speak. Not a word. But Nyx could feel him.

The way his eyes didn’t waver.

The way his presence filled the space without crowding it.

The way his silence wrapped around him like armor.

It unnerved her. But not in a bad way.

In a way that made her nervous—for reasons she didn’t have time to name.

Stacks went on talking—about the neighborhood, about Annie’s food, about some guy who owed him money and was now washing dishes for free. Nyx smiled and laughed in all the right places, but her attention kept sliding to the quiet man across from her.

Smoke hadn’t said her name.

But he was studying her like he was trying to memorize it.

Like somewhere, deep in the folds of his spirit, he already knew it.

And as they sat in that booth—Yara quietly coloring, Annie humming in the kitchen, and Stacks telling stories—Nyx felt something pull tight inside her.

A tether.

Invisible.

Ancient.

And it was tied to the man who hadn’t said a word.

Stacks leaned over the table, eyes twinkling as he took a sip of sweet tea and pointed to Yara’s coloring page. “Now hold up—who taught you to stay inside the lines like that? That’s professional work right there.”

Yara paused mid-crayon stroke, blinking up at him. Her cheeks puffed, and she dipped her chin low like she was trying to disappear into her hoodie.

Stacks grinned wider. “Aw, don’t go shy on me now. What’s your name, baby girl?”

She looked at her mama for permission.

Nyx nodded gently. “Go ahead, love.”

Yara peeked out. “Yara,” she whispered.

Stacks put a hand to his chest like he’d just heard a secret. “Yara. That’s a beautiful name. You know what it means?”

Yara shrugged a little, still coloring.

Nyx smiled to herself. She knew what was happening. Yara rarely opened up to strangers—but Stacks had a charm that was disarming even to grown women. The man had a gift, and today he was using it to unlock a toddler.

“It means ‘small butterfly’ in Arabic,” Nyx added, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stacks widened his eyes at Yara. “Butterfly? Now that makes sense. You look like the kind of girl who’s always flyin’ somewhere.”

Yara giggled once, soft and quick.

That was all he needed.

“Aha! I knew I’d get a laugh. I used to be a butterfly myself, you know,” he said, dramatically fluttering his fingers like wings.

Yara laughed again—this time with her whole face—and Nyx tried not to melt at the sound.

“You like to draw?” Stacks asked, tapping a blank spot on the paper.

Yara nodded.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a pink shape.

“That’s me and Mama and my bunny. We’re going to the moon.”

“The moon?” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “Shoot, I haven’t even been outta the city this year.”

She giggled again and flipped the page to start a new one. This time, she handed him a crayon.

“Ohhh, you want me to help? I gotta warn you, I draw like a sleepy raccoon,” he said, but took the crayon anyway.

Smoke watched the exchange without a word. Just sat there, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

Nyx glanced his way—curious.

She wasn’t used to men who stayed quiet around kids. Most either talked too much or ignored them altogether. But Smoke was different. Not disinterested, not cold—just… studying. Listening. Like he was trying to understandsomething.

Stacks kept chatting with Yara, filling the space with easy warmth.

“What’s your bunny’s name?” “Bunny.” “Classic.” “You wanna color the moon?” “Okay, but I think the moon should be blue today.” “It’s your moon, baby girl. Make it neon green if you want.”

Yara smiled—open now, radiant. Nyx felt her heart loosen just a little watching them. She turned to Smoke.

“You good over there, or you only speak after sunset?” she asked, teasing—but only a little. He looked at her. And for a heartbeat, it felt like he looked through her. Then he said, low and deliberate, “I speak when there’s something worth saying.”

It wasn’t rude.

But it hit like thunder.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard—not just by the weight of his voice, but by the feeling behind it. It was like he’d been holding back something he couldn’t name.

Something watching her the way old gods watched people who lit candles without knowing why.

Stacks broke the silence, smiling wide. “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad he can’t color as good as Yara.”

Yara beamed, clearly proud.

Smoke gave a faint, nearly invisible smirk.

Nyx noticed.

It was the first break in his armor.

And for reasons she didn’t want to explore yet, she felt it settle somewhere low and slow in her chest.

The hush in Annie’s diner wasn’t empty.

It was full—with everything they weren’t saying.

Steam rose in slow curls from Annie’s chipped coffee mug. The scent of chicory, fried sage, and cornbread clung to the air. It wrapped itself around the group like a shawl, familiar and warm. Outside, the street was lazy. The sun shone but didn’t blaze, and the sidewalk shimmered soft in the stillness of the late morning.

Yara’s soft breath was the only real sound.

Nyx shifted just enough to let her daughter lay her head in her lap. She smoothed a curl away from her brow, her hand lingering longer than usual. That girl was her world, her reason, her spine. Watching her sleep with her fists unclenched—it reminded her why she worked so hard not to fall apart.

Across from her, Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much. But his presence was dense. Grounding. Like a storm cloud that had no plans to rain—yet.

Stacks, surprisingly, had gone quiet too. He stared into the cup of coffee Annie had poured him, turning it in his hands like it held a message. The grin he usually wore had faded—not in sadness, but in realness. Like he’d taken off his performance for just a minute and let the man underneath breathe.

It felt like everyone was holding something.

And for once, nobody was trying to fix it.

Annie pulled a chair from behind the counter and joined them, sitting sideways so her knees pointed toward Nyx. “I used to dream of mornings like this,” she said softly. “Mornings where nobody needed anything. Where we could all just be.”

Nyx looked up at her. “You mean you don’t like when folks come in yelling ‘Annie, I need a plate, and my man just left me again’?”

Annie gave a dry laugh. “Honey, I’ve been everybody’s mama, therapist, and exorcist. I ain’t had time to just sit in my own skin for years.”

Stacks raised his mug. “To sitting in your own skin.”

Annie raised hers. “To finally being around people who don’t drain it.”

Nyx lifted her water glass. Smoke didn’t lift anything, but he gave a slow nod.

And Yara, half-asleep, whispered, “Cheers…”

Everyone chuckled.

That laugh settled the room like a song’s final note.

Then Nyx spoke again—quieter this time. “It’s hard, though. Being strong all the time.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Not out loud.

But now it was out there, hanging in the air like incense smoke.

Annie didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Stacks.

But Smoke looked at her.

And for the first time, he said her name like he’d known it longer than she’d been alive.

“Nyx.”

Just that.

Just her name.

But it landed like a blessing.

She met his eyes. There was no flirtation there. No slickness. Just something steady. Like he saw her—and wasn’t afraid of what came with that.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to be guarded.

She just… was. Yara stirred again, reaching up sleepily. Nyx pulled her close, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Stacks smiled. “She’s gonna be something else when she gets older. You better prepare.”

“She already is something else,” Nyx replied, brushing her daughter’s cheek. “Just like her grandma.”

“Your mama the real deal, huh?” he asked, eyes curious.

Nyx hesitated. “The kind of woman who talks to spirits before she brushes her teeth.”

Annie laughed. “That woman always gave me chills—but her hands? Healing. I remember once, back in—”

Before she could finish, Smoke suddenly stood up.

Not abrupt. Just… quietly certain.

Nyx looked up. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his gaze had shifted—like he’d just heard something only he could hear.

“Just needed air.”

He looked at her for a second longer, like he wanted to say something more.

Then he walked out, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.

Stacks and Annie exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Nyx watched the door swing gently in his wake.

Something inside her stirred.

Not anxiety.

Not fear.

But familiarity.

Like the moment before lightning strikes—when the world inhales.

#stack x y/n #stack moore smut #sammie sinners #sammie x reader #smoke smut #smoke x stack #smoke x reader #smoke x black oc #smoke x black reader

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girly-girlk · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! I don’t know if you’ve already written something like this, but if not could you write a fic about firefighter Rafe and reader meeting? Like maybe she’s a waitress at the firehouse’s favorite diner?

diner

firefighter!rafe cameron x reader

summary: rafe is a regular at the diner you work at

a/n: sorry this one took so long, but i absolutely love it! i hope you enjoy!!💕

the bell above the door jingles at exactly 9:14 a.m.

like clockwork.

you’re already behind the counter, tying your apron tight and jotting down today’s pie special on the chalkboard when they come in — the southport fire crew. four of them, loud and laughing, tracking in sand and smoke and the faint scent of cedarwood. they pile into their usual booth like it’s their booth, and honestly, maybe it is.

you’ve been working at shoreline diner for two weeks now. long enough to learn their orders, but not long enough to stop watching one of them a little too closely.

rafe cameron.

he’s the last to come in, always is. tall, sun-tanned, with a jawline you could cut yourself on and arms that strain the sleeves of his navy uniform t-shirt. there’s a lazy swagger to the way he walks, like he knows people watch him.

he definitely knows you do.

“morning, darlin’,” topper grins, flipping his menu even though he always orders the same thing.

“french toast and black coffee, i know,” you say, already scribbling it down. “kelce, eggs over easy, bacon burnt to hell—”

“you get me,” kelce winks.

and then your pen stalls.

rafe lides into the booth last, glancing up at you with that maddeningly calm expression he always wears — like he’s not even trying to be charming, he just is. you swear there’s the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s gone too quick to be sure.

“you takin’ care of us today?” he asks, voice low and scratchy like he just woke up.

“i guess that depends,” you shoot back, trying not to sound breathless. “you planning to tip better than last time?”

topper howls. rafe raises both eyebrows, mock-offended.

“she got you there, man,” jj grins around a mouthful of hash browns from someone else’s plate.

rafe doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he says. not a joke. not a line. just a promise that settles deep in your chest, low and warm.

you don’t reply. you can’t — not without your voice shaking — so you nod and head toward the kitchen, scribbling “pancakes, extra butter, side of sausage” on your pad before he even says it.

⸻

they’re halfway through their meal when the first call comes in. the scanner at the counter crackles to life, dispatch barking out a structure fire off main.

rafe is already standing, sliding cash under his plate, eyes on you.

“you work weekends?” he asks, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat already glinting at his temple.

“every saturday.”

his tongue clicks against his teeth like he’s thinking, and then he says it — casual, quiet, but somehow not at all forgettable:

“see you then.”

you nod again, pulse skittering.

and when they’re gone, when the door swings shut behind all that smoke and static and adrenaline, you find yourself looking at the tip he left.

twenty bucks. on a ten-dollar order.

and a note scribbled on the napkin:

“in case i don’t get to tell you next time: you’ve got the prettiest smile i’ve ever seen.” — r”

you stare at it for a long moment, then fold it carefully and tuck it into your apron pocket.

⸻

you don’t know it yet, but that saturday? he’ll come in alone.

and you’ll sit at his booth during your break.

and he’ll ask if you want to grab coffee somewhere that isn’t where you work.

but for now, you just stand there — heart racing, hand pressed to a napkin — knowing full well this isn’t the end of anything.

it’s the start.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader

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aoflameandco · 3 days ago

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Netflix Lady: the devil’s in details

The role of demons, politics, Dante's power level are all beloved aspects when it comes to criticizing the Netflix adaptation. Still, everything pales in comparison with the biggest object of dissatisfaction - the new version of Lady.

Why do people dislike Mary Ann Arkham so much? What's the difference between her and the original Lady? Today I’ll try to break through prejudices and, playing Devil's advocate, deconstruct the fandom's myth around her.

Lady vs Mary

She isn't even Lady! This woman calls herself Mary even though the real Lady despised her birth name!

It's well known that dmc Lady hates her name. The one she got from her father, the cold-blooded murderer of her mother. Lucky her, Dante was around to suggest a new iconic way to call herself.

So where did "Mary Ann Arkham" even come from? Surprisingly enough, the full name isn't Adi's invention, you can meet it in the CD-drama to the dmc2007 anime. But even in this source, Lady made it clear that she won't allow anyone to call her that.

So why not respect her personal choice? The tragedy has already happened, her mom died before her eyes, but Netflix Lady still goes by “Mary”. The answer is quite simple: she keeps her name, because she never disowned her dad.

The show portrays John Arkham as a devoted family man who truly loved his daughter. It's safe to assume that before the subway incident they spent a lot of time together, which is why little Mary was so upset and desperate to reach out when her father changed and became isolated.

We see Kalina's death from Mary's POV. Her father has turned into a demon, a monster who mercilessly killed her mom. Still, the last thing the girl saw through the flames was his human face, regretful, him reaching out to her.

In ep 4, Arkham keeps appearing in Mary's hallucinations, in both: demonic and human forms. Like her fallen teammates, Arkham the human blames his daughter for his painful death. After all, she was the one to set him on fire.

Of course, the vision is nothing but a mirror of Mary's guilt. She separates her beloved father from the demon who killed her mother. She blames herself for being too weak to prevent - not only Kalina's death, but the entire family tragedy.

The name she keeps isn't tainted by the most brutal betrayal. In a way, the show has chosen to adapt the scenario that Arkham used to manipulate Lady in dmc3, convincing her that he was incapable of fighting possession. The question is... Is his story truly over this time? Or maybe soon Mary will have no choice but to consider the nickname Dante has already given her? Long story short, in the show's universe Mary doesn't have a solid reason to abandon her birth name yet.

Lady the government lapdog

Lady working for the government? The rebellious girl we know would never take orders from anyone!

Once again, the difference comes from the changes in her backstory. The original Lady lost her family when she was in high school, which according to the manga was about a year before the events of dmc3. So she was ~16 yo. Still a teen, still deeply traumatized, but at this point the core of her personality was already formed and she had more opportunities to act independently.

Now, I'm not so good at guessing the ages of cartoon characters, but there's no doubt that Netflix Lady was much younger, just a child, when the tragedy happened. A traumatized orphan, an easy target for someone's influence, as Rabbit pointed out in his calling out speech. The show heavily implies that Mary didn't get the Darkcom card accidentally and, who knows, they might have even groomed her for years before she became a real soldier.

Little Mary always wanted to fight monsters and protect people. Her father went crazy because no one took his warnings about demons seriously. And now she suddenly had the opportunity to join an organization that knows about demons and has real weapons to deal with them. Of course, she didn't hesitate.

Despite her traumatic past, Mary is hardly blindly obedient. She doesn't hesitate to make her own decisions, such as releasing Makai refugees, which was clearly not in the protocol. Gradually her moral compass starts to oppose the given orders and even Baines notices this, trying to tighten her leash. Still, in a tough struggle between heart and duty, duty wins. But more on that a bit later.

Finally, the soldier Lady was quite necessary from the writing perspective. Let's be honest, it was never really explained why dmc3 Lady is so good at fighting demons and has an entire arsenal at her disposal. Well, things happen, when a veteran mercenary is turned into yesterday's school girl to meet the public demands. But it's fine, it's a game and the rule of cool works pretty well, besides, the power of revenge does wonders. Meanwhile the show took a more realistic approach, so we got military training and an access to the latest technologies instead, which also allowed Mary to fight by Dante's side in the final battle.

Lady aka overpowered girlboss

Why does Dante always lose to Lady? He toyed with her in the game! She's human, she stands no chance against serious opponents!

And very smoothly we move on to the next point. Thanks to the changes in the backstory, Lady has acquired a good combat experience and some tricky gadgets. Analyzing her fights, it’s easy to understand that she succeeds not because she is stronger, but because she is more strategic and knows which buttons to push, while Dante isn't in his best mental state. However, in a direct confrontation, when he really focuses and gets serious, Lady loses immediately.

Interestingly enough, they kinda contrast with their dmc3 counterparts. Lady is more emotional, driven by revenge, so her anger fuels her clashes with Dante, who always gets in her way. While he keeps his feelings to himself, hiding behind a devil-may-care mask for much of their interactions. No matter the fight, the power imbalance between them is rather obvious.

Meanwhile, Netflix portrays Dante and Lady as equals, each with their own strengths in different areas. Dante is a power house, brute force, stamina, regeneration, but he's too reckless, chaotic, uncoordinated and easily emotionally manipulated. Lady has a cool head, quick adapting and a smart use of environment on her side, but she often bites off more than she can chew, which results in Dante’s dashing acts of heroics.

In the end, the show maintains a nice balance in their winning/saving score. The power imbalance isn't that visible, bc Mary is already in a solid form, while Dante is just starting out. But he'll certainly level up, so the power scalers could find some peace.

Lady - the screentime thief

Devil may cry? Ah, yes, the Lady show, which features Dante as a cameo!

Now this is a really funny argument because technically Dante has more screentime than Lady, although the difference isn't that big. So why are so many people convinced that Lady stole his glory?

Let's start with the fact that Lady is the clear deuteragonist of Season 1. With Dante as the protagonist and Rabbit as the antagonist, duh. So she was bound to have a solid part of the story to herself.

It does help that Season 1 has Vergil only as a cameo now the real one. The role of the deuteragonist was taken over by him in the end of dmc3, leaving no room for Lady in the final battle. Meanwhile, Mary had no such restrictions and used her place as Dante's foil at its fullest. Actually I'm surprised that nobody blamed her for stealing Vergil's color palette lol

Lady is an active player, she needs to act first, because she knows that she may not get a second chance when the fate of the world is at stake. So she strategies, comes with the plans, rushes to change things, fights for her truth.

Dante's original goal is much smaller in comparison: he just wants his chill life and his mom's necklace back. Suddenly, he finds himself in the middle of the 4-D chess game, without any helpful knowledge. Darkcom and Rabbit keep fighting over him, moving him from location to location, the news about Sparda hit him like a truck, and he faces some big self-acceptance issues. Lady gets the luxury of making her own choices, while Dante is constantly forced to do things, because otherwise someone will die on him again. And just when he finally finds a solid motivation and decides to take a step out of his routine, he gets a beauty sleep in a freezer instead.

The adaptation chose to explore Dante's inner world, showing his doubts and vulnerability, which I personally like to see. He still got his cool action scenes, but in contrast to Lady, who has her flashbacks too but also does a lot of stuff to influence the plot, Dante's role in Season 1 might look rather passive. Again, the problem is that Dante just starts his journey, absolutely unprepared, while Lady knows stuff and has some experience in critical situations. Still, this can create the illusion that the more active participant is the actual lead, while the protagonist is busy fighting his inner demons.

What a bitch is this Lady!

Netflix Lady is a horrible person! She never was so mean! Why does she keep abusing Dante and calling him slurs?!

Well, first of all: Mary isn't mean to everyone, despite her sharp tongue, she is actually quite caring when it comes to her allies. A quick look at her interactions proves that she is friendly, when a person gains her respect, always willing to lend a helping hand, feels deeply responsible for her teammates.

Now let's talk about her enemies: of course, Lady hates demons with all her heart. And Dante falls into this category, because she refuses to acknowledge any exceptions at first.

In this prejudice she is no different from her dmc3 counterpart. The original Lady continued to judge Dante by his origins until their final confrontation, even though he had already saved her life several times by that point.

In the show Lady's attitude towards Dante slowly changes once she learns that not all demons are bloodthirsty monsters. Her mean behavior peaks in ep 3, when she is convinced that Dante is a super-cunning demon who is only pretending to be an idiot to fool everyone. But after she allows herself to reconsider her perspective, she gradually softens towards him, which even her enemy notices.

But she shot him in the leg after he saved her life! And the original Lady fired at Dante twice after he stopped her fall, initially not even knowing if he would survive the headshot. What can I say, Lady was always ruthless when someone gets in her way, but in the show, she also tries to protect Dante and stop him from doing something stupid in her own stern, caring way.

Now about “hellblood” being a slur- sorry, I think it's “a friend who is too woke” situation. Demons aren't a race, for starters. If anything, Dante is on thin ice too, remember how he mocked poor Cavaliere!

Funnily enough, when Dante isn't around, Mary is comfortable calling him by his name, but she clearly avoids doing so directly. Maybe it's her own revenge for “Lady”, but you can see that in the last episode she doesn't use "Hellblood" in a negative context. Still, whether this nickname is appropriate is up to you to decide.

Uncensored Lady

Devil may cry? More like Lady may swear!

This probably should have been the first point on the list. Because a lot of people have complained that Lady sounds like she's from another big cartoon about demons. And you know what? As someone who doesn't swear irl, I'll even agree with the criticism. But not without throwing in my two cents.

The problem isn't that Lady has a foul mouth. She has one, dmc2007 wasn't shy about it either. The problem is the amount of swearing, which at some point becomes a bit comical. It's like Lady is trying too hard to be cool and menacing.

But what if it's intentional. Mary is a young woman in the military who rises through the ranks, takes responsibility for people, chains her feelings behind armor. It's worth noting that she uses swear words mainly to establish that she is in control, fearless, to hide her vulnerability, to demonstrate that her enemy is worthless and can't do shit to her. It's like another layer of her armor, a hard facade she has created.

Or maybe Adi just thinks it's cool. Let's check out the next season(s) to see if character development correlates with the amount of cussing.

Et tu, Lady?

Lady was never a backstabber! Her last decision destroyed all her progress for the season!

The last few episodes proved that Lady warmed up to Dante. She was trying her best to convince him to cooperate, to trust Baines, because from her POV, Darkcom is the only organization capable of protecting the amulet and Dante by default.

Mary's faith visibly cracks after Baines treated the deaths of her team so coldly and then ordered the "demon" to be taken into custody. It's more than obvious how upset she was by this turn of events.

The final battle gave Mary even more reasons to struggle: she saw first-hand what Dante's carefree confidence could lead to. Dante now has a new personal goal: to find his brother, who is clearly connected to the greatest threat to humanity. Mary, as a person, understands and sympathizes with his desire to reunite with his only family. She deeply regrets betraying his trust, especially after he asked her to come with him. But Mary, as a soldier, could not allow that to happen. Not when it could cause another apocalypse.

Mary's choice feels natural: she knew Dante for a day, while Darkcom was her everything for much longer time. But it's also important to consider - when Mary made her final decision, she didn't know that Baines would attack Makai first. She didn't know that he had ordered the deaths of all the refugees she had saved, to begin with. In the end, she looks absolutely devastated, her moral sacrifice for world peace was in vain.

Well, that’s the tragedy of Mary Ann Arkham. A character who is clearly beloved by writers, but often misunderstood by fans. It’s hard to disagree: she’s not the Lady we know. But it’s also important to add: she’s not Lady yet. And if that tedious long speech has convinced you to wait a little longer and give her a chance to prove herself, my mission is well accomplished

#devil may cry netflix #dmc lady #mary ann arkham #dantelady #kinda mentioned #meta #my English skills died on it I hope it's readable

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boopiemadz · 2 days ago

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popular reader x loser Travis going to the beach but like she’s insecure and he’s all like” but why your so pretty babe “ and stuff and kids on the beach and it’s all cute . (I’ve been reading wayyyyy to much angst) also I’m loving this series

!Populargirl X !LoserTravis

"You taste like cherry and sea-salt." (blurb)

(collection masterlist)

You’d half-suggested going to the beach while tangled together on his bed the night before.“If it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” you said, soft, cheek against his shoulder, “we should go to the beach. Like, the one with the little snack shack and no one from school.”

Travis hummed, running his fingers through your hair.

“Yeah?” he said. “I’ll bring snacks.”

“You better bring a Slurpee.”

“Red or blue?”

“Blue,” you said instinctively. “Always blue.”

You assumed he’d forget.

But the next day, he picked you up right on time. The car seats were sticky with the summer heat, you had saved a spot on the shore as he headed to the snack shack. A few minutes later you see him walking toward you, holding two oversized, half-melting Slurpees. One red, one blue.

You blink. “You remembered?”

He shrugs, passing you the blue one. “Felt like if I didn’t, I’d get dumped.”

You grin. “You’re not wrong.”

The beach is quiet. It’s the kind of place that’s always been too boring for tourists but perfect for people who like things a little bit slower. But to you, today, it feels like magic.

You wear the lilac bikini - the one with the small bows at your hips and the U-shaped top that always makes you feel almost confident, until the moment someone might actually see you in it. You haven’t taken your cover-up off yet, waiting for the right moment.

Travis lays the towel down, squinting toward the water.

“Wanna sit close to the waves?” he asks.

“I’ll burn.”

He glances at you, then down at your legs.

“You just put sunscreen on. You practically emptied the whole bottle.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t move or take off the shirt. Not yet. Your blue Slurpee cold in your hand, trying to hide how your heart is already racing.

About twenty minutes in, you’re still sipping slowly, eyes on the horizon, when a tiny voice interrupts the quiet.

“Excuse me!”

You both turn.

A little girl, maybe five, stands in the sand in front of you with a crooked ponytail and the tiniest pair of pink sunglasses you’ve ever seen. She’s holding a bucket upside down and pouting fiercely.

“My castle fell over.”

Travis blinks. “It did?”

She nods solemnly. “The tide ate it.”

He leans forward like it’s serious. “Well, that’s not very fair.”

“I worked on it for like ten minutes.”

“That’s at least twenty in beach minutes,” Travis says.

You watch, stunned, as he stands and kneels in the sand beside her.

“I’m Travis. This is…” he looks back at you. “My girlfriend.”

Your heart does something weird at that. Girlfriend. Said so simply.

The girl narrows her eyes. “I’m Ava.”

Travis gestures toward the ground. “Want help building a better one? I know how to make a moat.”

She giggles. “Okay!”

You sit back on your elbows and sip your Slurpee, watching them - your boy and some stranger’s little sister, laughing over wet sand and soggy seaweed crowns like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, low and real in your ribs: the kind of love that doesn’t demand attention. That just is.

Later, when Ava runs back to her mom with a bucket full of sea foam and a story about how Travis saved her fairy kingdom, he plops back down beside you, chest rising and falling, hands covered in sand.

“She offered to knight me,” he says.

You hand him the red Slurpee. “I think you earned it.”

He takes a long sip and leans back, grinning. “You gonna take that shirt off, or…?”

You stiffen.

His smile drops immediately. “No pressure. Just - it’s hot. And you keep tugging at the sleeves.”

You pause. Stare out at the water.

Then: “I just… I don’t know. I thought I’d feel okay in it. At home, I liked how it looked. But now I’m here and I feel like everyone’s staring.”

“They’re not,” he says, gentle and certain. “And even if they were, they’d be thinking who is that goddess and how did that loser pull her?”

You glance over at him.

“Goddess?”

He grins. “Sea goddess. Salty and beautiful and terrifying.”

You snort, but you tug the shirt off anyway, slow. You keep your eyes on the horizon.

When you finally look at him, he’s just… staring.

“What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. You just look like... beautiful, or well- gorgeous.”

Your face floods with heat. “You’re so cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You’re lying on your backs on the too-small towel, your heads close, your Slurpees nearly empty. The sky’s gone pastel. There’s music faintly playing from someone’s radio down the beach, and your leg is pressed against his like a question.

“Your mouth’s blue,” he murmurs.

You look at him. His mouth? Cherry red.

You grin. “Yours is so red.”

“Want me to fix that?”

You raise a brow. “What, like you want to kiss it away?” You say sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

You roll toward him. “You’re ridiculous.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s slow and a little sticky, tasting like ice and sun and artificial fruit. His hand finds your hip. You smile into his mouth. When you pull back, he stares.

“Your mouth,” he whispers.

You sit up and grab your compact mirror. One glance confirms it-purple. An uneven, vivid mess of blue and red mixed together.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “We look insane.”

Travis is giggling. Like, actually giggling.

You shove him back into the sand.

He pulls you down with him.

You leave the beach pink-cheeked and windswept, sand in your shoes and hair tangled from the salt.

He drives with the windows down, your hand resting on his leg, your lips still stained purple.

And when he glances at you at a red light - grinning, warm, sunburned - you realize something kind of terrifying:

You’re already falling. But this? This is the part where you fall deeper.

And maybe- you don’t want to stop.

A/N-

This was the CUTEST req EVER!! ty anon for this 😘😘 If you have anymore reqests PLS send them my way, I feed off these fr.

#yellowjackets #bleh #viral #yellowjackets fandom #travis martinez #fanfiction #travis martinez fanfic #travis martinez x reader #yj #travis #popular reader #x reader #travis martinez x you #travis martinez / you #inbox open for anything #inbox open #req!#amazing req #fluff

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idontplaytrack · 1 day ago

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Not to be greedy or amything but... could you maybe write Regina George x Reader // regina post bus accident where she has chronic pain from it, but reader has chronic pain from fibromyalgia. Reader never told anyone about it but one day it flared up badly and Regina is the only one that notices qns she becomes protective and starts to take care of them? You can make it a series if you want, have her slowly falling in love with reader! —🐇

If Walls Could Talk

Regina George x gn! reader

Warnings: coarse language, chronic pain/flare up descriptions

- w.c: 1.1k

You were rudely awakened by the sound of your alarm clock at six a.m. sharp. You slapped the screen to turn it off, but you still hadn’t gotten out of bed. Your head kills, your limbs ached and felt so heavy, you could barely move them without feeling like you were going to sob. You dozed off, only to be woken up by your second alarm fifteen minutes later. Finally, you dragged yourself out of bed and to the bathroom to freshen up. You could barely open your eyes, even by the time you were out on your porch with your backpack on your shoulder waiting for Regina to come and pick you up.

You leaned against the pillar, hand in your pocket holding your phone in the meantime. You snapped out of your trance when you heard a car honk in front of you. Blinking profusely then squinting to focus, you realised it was Regina. “Hey.” Regina smiled when she saw you but her face very quickly fell when you got closer and into the front passenger side with her. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired.” You mumbled. Your eyes screwed shut for a moment when you felt that throbbing spread around your head.

She made a sound, you knew she was unconvinced but still didn’t say anything. It was too early to squabble, or upset you, rather. “Did you have breakfast?”

You nodded, massaging your temple, “I did, Stomach’s a bit upset so I had some oatmeal and a banana.”

“Good.” She hummed.

The rest of the drive was quite quiet, apart from the music playing through the speakers. The first half of the day was okay, you just had to sit through them. After lunch came Literature class with Mrs. Daly— she always picked on you to answer questions, read a passage, asked you what you thought about the reading that was done. This was the last thing you needed today, but you were not about to miss classes over body aches. Everybody gets those, why should you skip school over that?

“y/n, Wuthering Heights.”

Well, damn.

“Did you do the reading?”

“Yes I did, Mrs Daly.” You answered flatly.

“Good, based on your reading, what year was Nelly born?”

You gulped, wait. You knew this. You did the math. Because you’ve already read this book before. Why couldn’t you remember?

“Um.”

“y/n, did you do the work or not?”

“I read it, I did.” You nearly huffed.

Come on, get this over with.

“1758.”

“Thank you.”

You quickly sat back down, and once she was at the front of the class again, you looked at the whiteboard but weren’t actually focused on anything.

Before you had registered it, you were moving onto the next class, and the next class. And the next one. With barely any time to stop in between, that meant that Regina couldn’t ask you anything and you were kind of glad about that.

“Hey, y/n. Do you want some coffee?”

“Um…”

“You just seem so sleepy, I figured it’d perk you up.” Gretchen explained with a smile. She had some in her flask— she always had a latte or sometimes matcha with her in school.

“Gretch, thank you but my stomach’s being a little weird today so I shouldn’t have caffeine.” You declined, “Just two more classes.”

“Oh, alright then.” Gretchen seemed a tad worried.

“I’m okay, just stressed with midterms coming up.”

“Get some sleep tonight. Early.” She said back.

“I’ll try, Gretch.” You chuckled while spotting Regina approaching from a distance.

“Finally catching you for a minute.” Regina smirked in her usual fashion, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Hey.” You smiled.

“You want to go to the mall after school to eat and maybe shop a little?”

“Not today, I’m really sleepy.” You told her.

“That’s okay, I’ll spend the night with you.”

“Okay.” You replied, and before you could say anything more, the bell went off. “I’ll meet you back here after your last class, okay?” Regina kissed you again, on the cheek this time, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Come on, Gretch. Let’s get to home ec.” Regina glanced at Gretchen, tilting her head in the opposite direction.

“Yep. See you later, y/n.” Gretchen gave you a hug before she left with Regina. And you, were headed to gym class. But ultimately decided to sit in the nurse’s office until it was time to go home because you absolutely could not risk it.

After the final bell of the day, you went over to your locker where Regina said she’d meet you and go home together.

————

“Will you talk to me if something is going on?”

“Regina— you know. You know how my pain gets sometimes. I don’t want to have to rely on somebody else to get through the day.” You bit back a sigh, “You already have your back hurting all the time, Reg.”

“You have your days, I have mine. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be there for you and take care of you. Sometimes, not all the time. I know that. Just when you need the help. Let me be there for you, I know it sucks. It’s hard, and it’s so isolating.”

“It’s hard for me to— you— I don’t like asking for help because it makes me seem like a burden.” You revealed in tears.

“I know, baby. I understand that, but we talked about that. Right? No matter what, it’s going to be okay if we go through it together. It’s going to take time, but I will be by your side no matter how hard it gets. You just let me know and I’ll be right with you.”

She took your hand into her own and led you upstairs to your room. “Let’s get you into a fresh set of clothes then we can lay down, sound good?”

You nodded silently and stood next to her while she got you a loose comfy sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. You groggily changed into the clothes and crawled under the covers, Regina followed suit. “Come here.” She opened up her arms and you scooted closer to her. Regina kissed the top of your head, “Close your eyes. Get some sleep, I got you.”

“Okay.” You answered quietly, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She ran a hand through your hair, “Did you take any pain medicine today?”

“I did.” You nodded, snuggling closer to her, “The muscle relaxant.”

“Naproxen? Okay. Do you want to take it again? It could help you get to sleep more comfortably.”

“Yeah, that’ll be nice.” You muttered, face almost smushed against her shirt.

“Alright, I’ll just be a minute. Going to get you some water and the pill.” She told you then carefully pulled away from you. Regina returned soon after, you took the pill and laid back down in her arms. “Okay, go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“You’re staying the night?”

“Mhm, I am. I’ll wake you up for dinner. For now, just rest.”

“Thanks, Reg.”

“Of course, baby.”

🏷️ Tag list: @arandomeee @ashecampos @auliisflower @cheesysoup-arlo @frogs00 @ludoesartandstuff @pda128

#regina george #renee rapp #mean girls 2024 #mgmm fics #regina george x reader #x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #requested fic #anon requested #cw chronic pain #queer fiction #fluff #hurt/comfort #drabble #🐇

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cal-daisies-and-briars · 2 days ago

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💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷 sooooo excited about both of these

Thank you!!!

72 or 500 for 💔:

---

“R-really?” Diane asks. “Worse than being trapped under a flaming garage in a bomb shelter?”

“Oh, easily,” Buck says.

Easily and very, very recently, in fact. But if he keeps talking then he doesn’t have to think about that.

“Like what?” Diane asks.

Fantastic question, Diane.

“Well-”

“Oh, we don’t need to go there,” Eddie interjects.

“No!” Diane argues. “Please. I need a distraction. So, um… So either that or something else. Please.”

Eddie sighs, relenting. “Fine. Terrify her.”

Buck smiles. This is perfect. If he talks about everything but the lab, then he doesn’t have to think about the lab or how it had concrete walls reminiscent of this in places. If he talks for as long as he possibly can, they’ll either rescue them or he’ll run out of oxygen and die. Either way!

“Would you like that chronologically or in order of severity?” Buck asks Diane.

“I’m a history teacher,” Diane replies. “So chronologically.”

“Wonderful,” Buck says. “So in January of 2018 I almost went down in a sinking plane…”

▪️▪️▪️

Eddie spends about ten minutes being badly annoyed by Buck’s incessant storytelling and Diane’s eager appreciation of it. Like, couldn’t they all just choose to shut the fuck up and wait this out in companionable silence? Why is that so hard?

Eddie’s irritation switches to curiosity and confusion, and perhaps a bit of sadness, when he realizes a pattern. Buck is editing every single story. Even the ones where Eddie wasn’t there to experience it firsthand, he can tell. Because he’s heard them all before. Buck has shared all his mishaps and adventures with Eddie, over the years. Almost all his stories, to some degree, include Bobby.

Today, not a single one does.

It starts with the plane crash. Eddie knows that the only reason Buck was ever at risk of drowning that night was because he stayed behind, ignoring Bobby’s evacuation orders, when he noticed Bobby hadn’t evacuated. Classic Buck. Apparently even more classic Buck pre-Eddie meeting him. Today, the motivations of that story are a lot less clear. Everything is told in passive voice. Yes, Eddie remembers that term from English class, thank you very much.

“We were told we had to evacuate the plane,” Buck explains. “But not everyone did. A passenger was still stuck. So what was I gonna do? Leave someone on our team there? No way! But yeah… The whole cabin was filling up with water and it was pretty scary for a minute there.”

Diane watches him with wide-eyed appreciation.

“Did your whole team get out?” She asks. “Did the passenger?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck nods. “She was rescued.” Not Bobby told them to evacuate. Not Bobby rescued the passenger.

---

66 or 500 for 🪷:

---

“Right,” Shannon whispers. “Is… Is Eddie not nearby?”

It’s hard to imagine Eddie leaving Chris in this city. She knows he never loved the idea of LA, but he had seemed to like it once he was here. Would he really go back to Texas the moment Chris hit voting age?

“He is,” Chris answers simply.

“Is he working?” Shannon asks.

“I don’t think he works today,” Chris replies, still looking at his phone. One of the strange ones with no buttons.

“Okay, uh…” Shannon tries not to sound demanding. “Can we ask him to come instead? I-I think… Well, I’d just feel better if we did that.”

Chris shakes his head, adamant.

“No,” he says. “No, I can’t just… No. We’ll go back to my place. I’ll call him. I’ll get him to come over alone, and then… And then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Get him to come over alone.

“Ah,” Shannon says. There’s another wife.

Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be? She wouldn’t want him to be alone for over a decade and a half. She is happy to hear he’s moved on. She’s not trying to get him back. She asked him for a divorce. He’s just the only person she knows. Because she doesn’t know Chris. Not like this.

“Could I just talk to him?” Shannon asks.

Chris looks at her.

“He’s going to freak out.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“You don’t,” Christopher says. “I need to… I need to make sure he’s not with…”

With his wife.

“With my sister,” Chris says eventually.

Shannon’s shoulders slump. Oh. A sister. Eddie has another kid. Well, of course he does. And why not? He’s a great father. Hadn’t he just said he would have been happy to have another kid with Shannon? Last night? Sixteen years ago…

“Your sister,” Shannon repeats gently.

“She’s only seven,” Chris says. “I don’t… I don’t want to freak her out. So if we could please just do this in a way that… That protects her, okay? She knows who you are and what happened to you.”

Something about this strikes Shannon as interesting. She obviously doesn’t know this little girl. Maybe she’s timid and easily distressed, and Christopher’s concerns are rather straightforward. But, the truth is, Shannon is just some stranger she must have heard stories about. Someone long gone. A ghost in her older brother’s history.

#daisies and briars writes #resurrection fic

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nanaminslvt · 1 day ago

Text

thinking about gojo who sucks on your nipples when he’s sad :(

Satoru gojo x black!fem reader

warning: smut, P in V sex, breast fondling and sucking, absolutely filthy talking, i think this can be considered as angst

he came to home to you exhausted and teary eyed, on the verge of breaking down. you could tell by his flustered face and watery eyes

you knew gojo was one to be overworked by the higher ups, shit he was the strongest, no one else could do the work he could, no one else could exorcise curses as fast as he could

as much as it sucks, there was no one like him, which was exactly why he came in the house so sad and ready to be held by you

you heard door shut and a big sigh from him, you immediately peeped something was wrong

usually, when gojo came home he was full of energy and ready to get into something with you, whether that have been a tickle battle or sex or whatever

but today was very obviously different

you walked into the living room, eyebrows furrowed and ready to question, comfort, or cuss out whoever was hurting your boyfriend

“hey Satoru-oh, hey what’s wrong?” you said chuckling as he collapsed his big self onto you, immediately flopping his head on your shoulder and neck and wrapping him arms around you, trapping you

“horrible day, m’missed you sweets” he said quietly into your neck, pulling you impossibly closer

“wanna talk about it?” you said scratching his head, you knew he loves that, like a puppy, you’d come to the realization a while back that he was like a puppy in a lot of ways

he shakes his head and starts leading you both to the couch, sitting you on his lap and holding his head in you chest, taking a deep inhaling your natural scent

“fuck baby you smell so” his grip tightening “fuckin good” he starts rubbing his face in your exposed chest, the v-line shirt you had on giving him a good bit of access to your beautiful breasts

you giggle and scratch in his head again, he groans and he grip on you gets even tighter

“god, you know how much i like it when you do that, you begging me to fuck you or something?”

you chuckle “could’ve swore you were just the saddest man on earth? what happened you horn dog?”

he licks his lip, staring at your chest, a clear tint rising in his pants he looks up giving you that pathetic, desperate, hungry look

he rests his head on your breast, still giving you that fucking look

“can i cheer you up?” you said genuinely wanting to help him his cock twitched

“i know how you could” he whispers, he deep voice vibrating against your chest and sending goosebumps down your entire body

you swallow hard “h-how?” he chuckles, sitting back up, hands sliding up your chest, to where the top of your shirt was

“may i, mrs gojo?” he licks his lips again, god he just loved to let you know you were his

you nod, he had left you completely speechless

he grinned, pulling your shirt and bra down and groaning, borderline drooling at the sight of you in all your pure and raw glory

he rubs on your nipples with both his thumbs, you squirm, he grins

he pinches them and you moan, instinctively trying to move away from him but he quickly pins you down,holding you in place

“don’t you dare try to run from me sweets. run from my love? really? you know i’ll catch you i’ll always catch you baby, don’t ever forget that” was he threatening you or making a promise?

you couldnt even think about that before he had his hand around your throat and lips on your left nipple, sucking hard

you let out a moan and your legs immediately open wider and he takes it as an opportunity to grind his big buldge up against your clothed pussy that perv

he starts switching between nipples, sucking on each one harder and harder like he was tryna make them completely numb

and you? a complete mess.

whining, eyes rolling back, pussy clenching around nothing, grinding up against him to get some friction

your had a grip on his arms like if you weren’t careful you’d fall off, which of course even if that was true he’d never let you

your eyes were rolled to the back of your head, saliva and love bites all over your chest and you could probably cum from just this, it sure felt like it

30 minutes, he’d been sucking like a baby for 30 fucking minutes, he wont let up, he wont stop, wont stop sucking, wont stop grinding, youve both cum already from the dry humping but he just wont stop

“mm gojo, i need you to stop, m’so sore” you whines so broken and pathetic

he lifts his head up face even more flustered with a very thin layer of sweat on his face, nipple still in his mouth, eyes still watery, but from the pleasure of this whole situation

“please baby i need more” he continues grinding and bucking into you

“satoru please i’ve been so good for you” your desperation is so apparent in your pretty voice, your grip tightens on his shoulders

he sit up and looks down on you so lovingly, so happy, so hungry, so desperate, so devoted

“can i at least fuck you? i swear i’ll stop if you let me” he puts his forehead against yours “please let me get my dick wet in you baby, i’ll leave you alone after i swear”

“you promise?”

“y-yes i promise, thank you sweets, ah fuck thank you so much, i fucking love you” he sits up eager to fuck you

“i can’t wait to get inside you sweats, been waiting for this all fuckin day” he starts pulling your shorts and panties off

“i think those old geezers are trying to work me to death, so many missions, like i’m the only sorcerer ever” oh them, he never talked this much about how the higher ups were pissing him off, he usually just brushed them off

“fucking old wrinkly fuckers, can’t stand those sons of bitches” he rips of your panties, impatience taking over him

you sit there listening to his rant knowing he’s gonna go rough, knowing he doesn’t mean it though

he positions his hands under you knees, pushing them up to your chest and folding you

“fuck, look at how wet that pussy is for me, you want this just as much as i do, don’t you?” he pupils might as well have been hearts with the way he was looking at you

you couldn’t really do anything but nod, your heart was racing, knowing the absolute wreckage that was about to be placed upon you

he leans down, lining himself up, forehead to yours again

“say it” he says in the most sultry and deep voice pitch youve ever heard from him

“please, please fuck me satoru, i need you so bad, please” he pushes in almost immediately, you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the feeling of his fat cock stretching you like this, he was so big and fat and veiny and thick…

good god was he thick

once he bottoms out he stays there, staring at you

“you’re such a sweet girl for letting me do this to you” he said while caressing the sides of your face, his big body holding your knees to your chest without even trying

then his kisses you, the kiss was wet, immature, uncalculated, unadulterated, raw

then, he pulls himself all the way back out slowly and thrusts all the wayback into you slowly, you both moan into each others mouth, fuck he plans to fuck you deep, slowly, forever

like he never wants to leave

he keeps up that pace too, kissing you sloppy, but his hips were anything but sloppy

your eyes started watering eventually, he was so fucking deep, you felt him everywhere you couldn’t escape him, you couldn’t turn away, you couldn’t squirm all you could do was take it, take what he’s giving you, like his sweet girl would

you whines and moan going in one of his ears and out the next, he started rambling at some point “sweet sweet pussy” “fuuuck” “mhm you like that fat cock in you huh? oh yeah you fucking live for it” “such a cock slut for me baby, you take it so fucking good god damn” “mhm let hear those pretty little moans, let toru’ hear how good he’s fucking his princess”

he pace start quickening, he was close

fuck you were soo stretched out and tired but you kept going for him, kept taking it for him

“fuck look at you creaming around my shit, pussy so fucking good…m’close” his pace speeds up, full on pounding you know

your arms go around his neck, holding him in place and moaning up a storm in his ears, the tears had already fallen, he so good at breaking you, ruining you like it was nothing

“m’close satoru” you whine out

literal music to his ears

“oh yeah? cum around my cock then baby, do it. make your toru’ proud”

and just like that you snapped, holding him tight as ever, cuming and creaming all around him

you orgasm (unsurprisingly) triggered his own, with a loud whimper and one last thrust he filled you to the brim

“so so good baby you did so good for me ha-hah fuck”

you held him tight as humanly possible helping him come down from his high as he did for you

“t-thank you so much sweets, such a good girl for me…only for me” he whispered in your ear kissing your jawline tenderly

A/N: hai hai haii thx for reading also can you tell i think gojo is a tit man 😛(that’s also how i think gojo looks at you in the middle of the night when he’s horny^)

#jjk x black!reader #jjk fanfic #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo x black reader #gojo x black y/n #jjk gojo #anime x black!reader #black reader

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junkuna · 23 hours ago

Text

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your french girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 6 : saviour ˎˊ˗

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࿔ pairing - tattooartist!sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

I summary - mahito is here and he is a villain we dislike him, he is important ! ! just the usual banter but things start to get a little weirdddd with mahito

࿔ warnings - ok here we go, mahito being an asshole, as in making u uncomfortable while u tattoo him. mild violence, (pushing / shoving)

࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work

࿔ wc - 4.5k

a/n - forgot 2 mention i’m making a few tweaks from the original version on ao3 to upload here, i wrote this when i was balls deep in exams and i defo rushed some things, so if u see some differences that’s why !!

— enjoy! reblogs r appreciated ty 4 all the luv <3

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You woke up to the violent pounding of your own heart, your head stuffed full of cotton and regret.

Groaning, you flopped onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut against the cruel brightness leaking through the curtains. Your mouth felt like it had been stuffed with sandpaper. Every muscle in your body ached like you’d been trampled by a herd of elephants in steel-toed boots.

Never again, you thought bitterly, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the earth.

Your phone buzzed weakly on the nightstand. You cracked one eye open, grimacing as you fumbled for it.

No missed calls. No disasters. Just a reminder about your only client today—a small booking at noon. Praise be.

You sighed into your pillow, giving yourself exactly three more minutes of self-pity before you dragged your body upright. Every movement felt like a personal attack.

Shuffling into the kitchen, you went through the sacred hangover ritual: two painkillers, one giant glass of water, and the strongest coffee you could manage without your hands shaking too much.

The bitter taste slapped you awake a little. Just enough to stumble into the shower.

You let the water beat down on your head, trying to wash the nausea away, trying to scrub off the weird haze clinging to your memories of last night.

The bar. The drinks. The stupid giggling.

Yuji trying to say something and Sukuna cutting him off.

And—oh god—stumbling home with Sukuna, hanging off his arm like some drunk bimbo.

You squeezed shampoo into your palm with more force than necessary, scowling at yourself. It’s over. It’s fine. Move on.

By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you felt slightly more human. Still gross. Still achy. But upright.

You padded back into your room, grabbing a loose tank top and your old low-rise jeans from the chair by your bed. As you pulled them on, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

Your fingers hovered over the hem of your tank top.

Lower back, just above your jeans—there it was.

The stupid serpent Sukuna had inked on you. You stared at it for a long moment, memories flickering.

And then you remembered something else—a flash of his arm under the porch light.

The little flower. Still there.

You dropped onto the edge of your bed, staring at nothing.

Wait… did I actually see it?

Or was I drunk out of my mind and imagining shit?

You tugged your fingers through your damp hair in frustration. Everything about last night was a blur, soaked in alcohol and bad decisions.

Maybe it was real.

Maybe you wanted it to be.

You shook your head violently, standing up so fast your vision swam.

“Whatever,” you muttered to yourself, grabbing your bag off the chair. “I’ll check next time I see him.”

You yanked on your sneakers, ignoring the faint twist in your stomach that had nothing to do with the hangover, and slung your bag over your shoulder.

There were clients to tattoo.

You didn’t have the luxury of a man to pay your bills.

And you certainly didn’t have time to be daydreaming about some stupid little flower on Sukuna’s stupidly muscular arm.

You stumbled downstairs to the shop, every step sending a dull throb through your skull. The familiar scent of disinfectant and ink filled your nose—comforting, grounding. It helped. A little.

You flipped the sign on the door to Open, moving slower than usual as you went about the motions of setting up your station. Wiping surfaces, double-checking your machine, laying out fresh needles even though you already did it yesterday.

Muscle memory carried you through it, your brain still stuck somewhere between your bed and the half-formed memories of last night.

You were bent over the counter, sorting through ink caps, when a sharp knock rattled the door.

You blinked, confused.

You weren’t expecting your client for another half hour.

Straightening, you wiped your hands on your jeans and went to unlock it. The door creaked open, and you found yourself face-to-face with a man standing awkwardly on the threshold.

Tall. Skinny. Maybe mid-twenties. His eyes were a little too wide, his smile a little too eager. He had long, light blue hair. And stitches all over his face that seemed to hold him together.

Ew…Why did he look so weird?

“Uh, hey,” he said, voice jittery. “I’m here for the appointment?”

“Oh. Mahito?”

“That’s me!”

You frowned. “You’re early. Your booking’s at noon.”

He shrugged, stepping inside anyway. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, bouncing as he moved. “Yeah, I figured better early than late, right?”

You bit back a sigh. The logical part of your brain agreed—it was better than a no-show—but your pounding head deeply resented his existence right now.

“Fine,” you muttered, locking the door behind him. “Let’s just get you set up.”

He beamed like you’d handed him a medal.

You led him toward your station, mentally crossing out the ten minutes you were planning to spend mainlining coffee in peace. Whatever. The sooner you started, the sooner you could send him on his merry way.

As he settled into the chair, you stole a glance at the design he’d sent over when he booked.

A snake coiled around a dagger. Classic. Nothing too complicated. Nothing you couldn’t hammer out even half-dead from a hangover. But it wasn’t really your style, made you wonder why he didn’t take this hellish design to the epitome of hell across the street.

Still, there was something about the guy that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Maybe the way he kept tapping his foot. Maybe the way his eyes darted around the shop, like he was memorizing it. Maybe the weird too-long way he stared at your arms when you rolled up your sleeves.

You kept your head down, pretending not to notice, but the feeling crawled unpleasantly under your skin.

As you switched to a finer needle for the detail work, you broke the silence, letting your voice slice the tension in the room.

“You know,” you said, not looking up, “there’s a shop across the street that specializes in this kind of design. You probably would’ve been more at home there.”

The buzzing of your machine filled the room for a beat before he answered, you sit down at your station and begin sketching the stencil.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, his voice oddly light. “I know.”

You paused for half a second, glancing up at him under your lashes.

He was smiling again. That same stretched, too-wide smile. It was kinda gross, the way his stitches stretched taut over his cheeks.

You imagined what’d happen if they were to unravel, would he unravel?

“Just figured I’d come here,” he added, snapping you out of your thoughts. His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “More interesting artists over here.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, wiping a line of ink clean with a firm hand.

“Right,” you said dryly. “Because that’s why you booked.”

He chuckled, the sound skittering unpleasantly down your spine.

“Can’t blame a guy for wanting a pretty girl to put her hands on him, right?”

You stiffened instinctively, your hand pausing mid-motion.

Then you forced yourself to keep moving, burying the twitch of discomfort under a layer of professional detachment.

“Yeah, I can,” you muttered, keeping your tone clipped.

You worked in silence for a few more moments, the machine’s hum filling the air. It was almost soothing, if only the client weren’t so… strange.

Finally, you broke the silence, leaning back slightly as you checked the stencil. “Alright, so where do you want it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. You glanced up, expecting him to point to his arm or leg, or maybe even his chest. Instead, his gaze flicked toward his lower back, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“V-line,” he said, his voice low.

Your brow furrowed. Lower back? You could feel your professional instincts kicking in, the slight flare of irritation tightening your jaw. That’s an odd choice, you thought.

You gave him a skeptical glance. “That’s a pretty personal spot, you sure?”

He met your eyes, his expression too calm, too satisfied. “Yeah. I like it there. Thought it’d look good, you know, a bit more private… more intimate.”

A chill skittered up your spine as the weight of his words hit you. You cleared your throat, trying to mask the creeping discomfort crawling up your neck.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you sighed, exhaling slowly as you grabbed a fresh sheet of tracing paper. “Okay then. If you’re sure.”

He gave you an almost imperceptible nod, his lips curling into that too-soft smile again. “I’m sure.”

The next few minutes were awkwardly quiet. You focused on your work, trying to ignore the growing tension in the air. The spot he’d chosen—right at the curve of his V-line—made you feel strangely exposed. Not in a physical way, but in the subtle, unsettling way he watched you. His eyes never quite left you as you worked, the silence hanging heavy between each slow motion of your hand.

When you finally got the stencil placed, you checked it once more. “Alright, all set. You ready?”

He nodded. “Ready.”

You gave the machine a final test run, the needle buzzing sharply. And then, with one last deep breath, you set to work.

The tattooing felt… different. Even though you were in your element, you couldn’t shake the weird, uncomfortable energy surrounding this guy. He shifted every few minutes, tapping his foot again, and occasionally muttering under his breath as if talking to himself. He kept looking down at you while you worked, his beady eyes drilling holes into the top of your head.

You were just about done with the shading when he suddenly spoke.

“You ever think about getting one there?” He gestured vaguely toward the area you were tattooing.

You glanced up at him, your eyes narrowing.

“What?” you asked, not sure you heard him right.

“A tattoo there,” he repeated, his grin widening. “I think it’d look good on you. You’ve got the right body for it.”

Your stomach churned, but you ignored the discomfort, instead focusing on keeping your hands steady.

“I already have a tattoo, i don’t want another,” you said shortly, your voice sharp enough to slice through the uncomfortable haze in the room.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his smile twitched wider.

“Yeah?” he said, voice dripping with false casualness. “Really?”

You didn’t look up. You concentrated harder on the curve of the design, tracing the needle exactly where it needed to go.

“Just shut up,” you muttered.

He laughed—low, almost mocking. “C’mon. Not like it’s a big deal. Show me.”

The needle buzzed harder under your hand as your grip tightened. You forced yourself to finish the last line with precision before you sat back and switched off the machine, your heart thudding with an ugly pulse behind your ribs.

“No,” you said flatly, meeting his eyes for the first time. “I’m here to work, not entertain you.”

He held your gaze for a beat too long, the amusement on his face fading into something harder to read.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the discomfort show even though you felt like punching something.

After a second, he clicked his tongue and looked away, stretching leisurely like he hadn’t just made your skin crawl.

“Alright, alright,” he said, too easily. “No need to be so uptight.”

You said nothing. Just grabbed the wrap and the ointment, brisk and efficient, wrapping the fresh ink as fast as you could without being careless.

You peeled off your gloves with a snap and turned toward the counter.

“Aftercare instructions are there,” you said, voice cold. “Follow them. Or don’t. Up to you.”

He gave a low chuckle as he slid off the chair and collected his jacket.

He gave a low chuckle as he slid off the chair and collected his jacket. The tension in your shoulders only slightly eased—until he straightened, turned back to you, and asked, voice smooth as oil:

“Mind if I get your number? So I can follow up on the next one.”

You paused, gloved hands resting on the counter. Without thinking much, you shook your head.

“No,” you said flatly. “Not interested.”

His smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a flash of something dark. He took a step toward you—too close—and his fingers brushed the edge of the counter with enough force that the bottles rattled.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Don’t be like that.”

You recoiled, heart pounding. “I said no,” you repeated, voice cold and steady.

His jaw clenched. His eyes hardened. “Don’t be a bitch, you’re not even that pretty. I’m doing you a fucking favour.”

Before you could react, he lashed out, shoving his hand against your chest with unsettling strength. You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your stool.

“Hey!” you snapped, winded but furious.

He ignored you and lunged forward, slamming his jacket against the wall and knocking a framed print to the floor. It shattered against the tile in a spray of glass and splintered wood.

“Don’t test me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Anger flared through you, burning away your hangover haze. You grabbed your nearest tool—a small metal tube used for wrapping—and pressed it into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. He staggered, blinking, caught off-balance.

“Get the hell out,” you ordered, your tone deadly calm beneath the adrenaline.

He hesitated, chest heaving. The moment stretched before he shoved off the counter, sending a bottle of green soap skittering across the floor, and stormed toward the door. Before he left, he spat over his shoulder: “This isn’t over.” Then he slammed the door so hard the lock shuddered.

You stood frozen for a moment—heart racing, palms slick with ink and a slick sheen of sweat—before reality surged back in. You dumped out the chair and locked the door, the clack of the deadbolt echoing in the suddenly cavernous shop.

Glass crunched under your boots as you walked to the wreckage. You knelt and swept the largest pieces into a dustpan, hands moving methodically even though your blood still roiled. The small metal tube you’d wielded glittered on the floor; you stuffed it into a drawer as evidence—just in case.

The thought barely registered before the world tilted.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow in your chest.

The edges of the room blurred, the neon colors of ink bottles bleeding together like melting wax.

You gripped the counter. Hard. Fingernails digging into the wood.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale—

No, too fast, too thin, like you couldn’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how wide you opened your mouth.

Your legs gave out and you sank to the floor, back pressed against the wall beneath the shelves. The coolness of the tiles seeped into your jeans, grounding you just enough to realize you were having a panic attack.

You pressed trembling hands against your thighs, trying to remember what you were supposed to do.

Count things. Focus on one thing. Breathe slow.

But your mind was a jumbled, chaotic mess—flashes of his hand pushing at your chest, the sound of glass breaking, the tone in his voice when he said “this wasnt over”?

What does that mean? Will he come back?

Your body shook, small tremors you couldn’t control, your skin cold and clammy.

You hated it. Hated feeling cornered. Hated feeling small.

You squeezed your eyes shut and dug your nails into your palms.

Five things you could feel: the rough denim of your jeans, the hard floor, the grain of the counter, your sticky skin, the cold air hitting your neck.

Four things you could see: the broken frame, the dustpan, the harsh fluorescent light, the scuff on your sneakers.

Three things you could hear: the hum of the fridge, the distant city traffic, the rush of blood in your ears.

Slow.

Focus.

Breathe.

You sat there for what felt like forever before the panic finally ebbed, leaving you drained and empty, like a sponge wrung out too tight.

You wiped your face with the back of your sleeve and slowly, carefully, pushed yourself up to your feet. Your legs wobbled, but you stayed standing.

The counter clock ticked forward. All this and the day hadn’t even properly started yet.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold together all the pieces that felt like they might fall apart at any second. You needed to finish cleaning. You needed to make that call. You needed to—

The soft vibration of your phone buzzed against your hip.

You flinched instinctively, heart hammering again, but when you glanced at the screen, it was just a text.

Sukuna [11:56]: Busy?

You stared at it. Blinking once. Twice. And for some reason, the oddest wave of relief washed over you, unwanted but warm.

You didn’t answer right away.

Fuck. I mean, you didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

But the buzzing fear in your chest dulled just a little. Just enough to make you breathe again.

You stared at Sukuna’s message for a moment longer, the words flickering in your mind. It was a small thing, but somehow it felt like a lifeline. You had been holding your breath for so long, trapped in your own thoughts, and the simple fact that he had reached out made you feel just a little less alone in the chaos.

You took a breath, tried to push aside the tight knot in your chest, and typed back:

You [12:00]: Not busy, just cleaning up. What’s up?

The reply was swift, almost immediate.

Sukuna [12:00]: I’m coming over. 😛

Sukuna [12:00]: Shit, wrong emoji.

Sukuna [12:00]: I meant 👍🏽

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, even though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Typical Sukuna, teasing as always, as if he didn’t know just how much you were dreading the silence after everything that had happened. It wasn’t as though you didn’t enjoy his company—it was more the fact that right now, you couldn’t quite trust your own emotions. Everything felt raw, like you were standing on the edge of something, and you didn’t know which way to fall.

But he wasn’t going to let you wallow alone, was he? Much to your disdain.

The sound of the doorbell broke your spiraling thoughts.

You straightened up quickly, straightening your cami top and brushing at the sleeve of your jeans like you could somehow erase the heavy feeling inside you. The door opened with a faint creak, and there he was, leaning against the frame with that smirk you had come to recognize too well. His eyes skimmed over you, studying the way your shoulders were tight and your expression too carefully neutral.

“Don’t tell me you actually tried to clean this place by yourself,” he teased, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he stepped inside.

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, trying to hide the knot in your throat. “I was doing fine until…” You trailed off, the words suddenly feeling heavy and unspoken.

Sukuna followed you to the back of the shop, raising an eyebrow as he took in the disarray, the subtle signs of chaos you hadn’t even realized were there. His gaze lingered on you, though, too sharp and perceptive for comfort.

“I was cleaning,” you muttered, turning away to grab your gloves. “What’s it to you?”

He clicked his tongue, and you could feel the shift in the air, like he was no longer just here to tease. His voice softened, just slightly, when he spoke next.

“I just came to steal more ink. Had a rough client?”

“Something like that.”

“Let me guess, they didn’t like your shitty minimalist stencils and walked out last minute.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m seriously not in the mood with your bullshit today, okay? So, wanna tell me why you’re here?”

He tilted his head at that.

“Something’s off with you. What happened?”

You paused, fingers freezing in midair as you worked the gloves on. It felt like the world was holding its breath, and for a second, you couldn’t find the words to speak. The truth was too heavy, too raw, and part of you still couldn’t shake the unease that crawled beneath your skin. You had already replayed the encounter with the client in your head a dozen times, trying to convince yourself it hadn’t been as bad as it had felt. But you knew it had been.

Taking a deep breath, you finally looked up, meeting his gaze.

“I had a client earlier today…” you began slowly. “He was… weird. Like, really weird.” You hesitated, swallowing. “He… He wasn’t okay with me saying no.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened immediately, his posture shifting as his eyes narrowed in concern. “What do you mean by that?”

You winced at the question, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “He asked for my number, kept pushing me after I said no. And when I wouldn’t give it to him…” You trailed off, biting your lip as the weight of it all hit you again. “It was so stupid, he just got mad and broke the stupid picture I had on the wall”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened even further, his brows furrowing. “Did he hurt you?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, your heart hammering in your chest. You shook your head quickly, the words escaping before you could stop them.

“…No. What do you care?”

But Sukuna wasn’t convinced. Without warning, he reached forward, his hand closing around your wrist with a gentleness that caught you off guard. His thumb traced the edge of your skin, and before you could pull away, he stopped, his gaze dropping to the first signs of a bruise on your wrist.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. His face softened, and the edge of his anger seemed to melt into something quieter, something more concerned.

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “Did he do this to you?”

You couldn’t speak. You just stood there, staring at the mark where his fingers had been, feeling the warmth of his touch against your skin. You had almost forgotten about the bruise in the whirlwind of everything else.

Sukuna’s thumb brushed against it again, and you felt your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the panic attack from earlier. The anger, the protectiveness in his eyes—it made something in you want to crumble. You didn’t want his pity, didn’t want to feel small. But in that moment, you felt something else—something you hadn’t expected.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, “That shouldn’t have happened.”

”Well, yeah. I know it shouldn’t have. But it did—”

”I should’ve been there.”

You were surprised by the softness in his tone. Surprised by how… genuine it sounded. Everything about him usually screamed confidence, maybe even arrogance. But now, there was something else. Something deeper.

You looked at him, still holding your wrist, and you saw it clearly in his face—an expression of quiet sadness mixed with anger, as if he wished he could’ve been there, could’ve done something to prevent it.

You shook your head, trying to mask the vulnerability that crept in, pushing yourself back into that usual armor of indifference. “It’s fine. It’s over.”

But Sukuna didn’t let go. His fingers were still wrapped gently around your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your bruise as if it physically pained him to see a mark on your body, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world outside didn’t exist—just the two of you standing there, the weight of everything in the silence between you.

“I’ll be here next time,” he said, his voice low, but firm. “If anything like this happens again, you call me.”

“Uh, sure.”

You swallowed hard, eyes dropping to where his fingers still cradled your wrist. It was almost too much, the way he was looking at you—like you were something fragile, something worth protecting. And maybe it was the adrenaline still crashing through your veins, or maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to you, but the words tumbled out before you could think better of them.

“He said…” You hesitated, hearing the weight of the memory pressing against your ribs. “Before he left, he said… ‘This isn’t over. No idea what that means, I think he was just being angsty and throwing empty threats at me.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking sharply beneath his skin. His whole body went rigid, as if barely holding back some primal instinct. He dropped your wrist carefully, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he took a slow breath, and when he spoke, his voice was low.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, firm, like it was a promise. “I’ve got it covered.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sheer certainty in his voice. Sukuna, with all his rough edges and infuriating arrogance, didn’t make empty promises. You could tell by the way he said it—the way his shoulders straightened, the way his hands curled into loose fists at his sides—that he meant it.

You hated how much that comforted you.

You laughed a little, but it came out shaky, brittle. “What, are you gonna beat him up?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If I have to.”

You stared at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. Sukuna had never been the comforting type. His kindness was rare, almost accidental when it happened. But standing here now, seeing the unspoken promise written in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, you realized he wasn’t joking. If that creep so much as breathed in your direction again, Sukuna would burn the world down without a second thought.

And somehow, that thought was steadier than anything else you’d clung to all day.

You stepped back, crossing your arms over your chest as you tried to gather yourself. “Thanks,” you muttered, staring down at the floor, embarrassed by how much you actually meant it.

He didn’t press you, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s nothing. I’d prefer it if my only competition didn’t die on me, though. You’re the only one that challenges me.”

The words caught you off guard, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

You cleared your throat, desperate to lighten the thick, almost suffocating tension hanging between you. “Well. Only because you keep stealing all my blue ink.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You’re never gonna let that go, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

He smiled—really smiled—and for a moment, the anger and fear from earlier faded into something quieter, something almost easy. You realized, with a strange twist of your stomach, that this was starting to feel normal. Him barging into your life. You pretending you hated it.

Maybe you weren’t pretending as well as you thought.

Sukuna glanced toward the front door, then back at you. “You should get some rest. You look like shit.”

You flipped him off half-heartedly, but he just laughed, ruffling your hair on his way to the door like you were some grumpy cat he had decided to annoy.

As he disappeared into the night, the bell over the door jingling behind him, you finally allowed yourself to exhale.

The shop was silent again, but it wasn’t the same crushing loneliness from earlier. Somehow, it felt less empty.

And as you locked the door, flipped the CLOSED sign with a heavy sigh, and leaned your forehead against the glass, you noticed something.

You didn’t check if he still had the tattoo you did on him.

Fuck !!

————————

taglist : @beabamboo @snapcracklen

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camficdiner · 1 day ago

Note

[1.3]

[2.11]

[3.1]

[4.3]

You’re the best 😘

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 045

🍒 Thank you so much for your order — for trusting me with tenderness, tension, and a boy who never stopped trying. I loved every heartbeat of this one. Hope it made you feel something soft. 💌

🍰 Tips keep the diner open: ko-fi.com/camficdiner

💬 “It’s not your job to fall for me.”

✨ Description and prompts:

character: Luke Hughes

prompt: you’re the surgeon who operates on Luke after a shoulder injury; he begs you to handle his rehab

word count: 2k

type: slow burn, fluff, age gap, forbidden romance, emotional recovery

🍒✨🛼🧁

You hear the hush of sliding ER doors before you see them — the Hughes brothers. You know them, of course. Everyone does. But today, Luke isn’t the grinning baby brother in viral interviews or the explosive defenseman on highlight reels. Today, he’s pale, lips pressed tight to hide the pain, shoulder braced awkwardly, the swagger traded for silent fear. Jack walks beside him with tension in every step, and Quinn follows a step behind, jaw clenched, unreadable. Big brother mode activated.

You glance at the intake sheet again. Dislocated shoulder. MRI-confirmed labrum tear. Surgical candidate. Your patient.

You clear your throat and step forward.

“Luke Hughes?”

He looks up, and it hits you — he’s just a kid. Tall, yes. Famous, sure. But in this moment, his eyes are glassy with pain and worry. He nods silently.

“I’m Dr. [Your Last Name], orthopedic trauma and sports surgery. I’ll be the one taking care of you today.”

His brow lifts, surprised. “Wait — you’re the one doing the surgery?”

“I am.” You offer him a small smile, warm but professional. “You’ll be fine. We’ll get you through this.”

You watch him look back at Jack and Quinn, then at you. “And you’re sure it’ll… be okay?”

You nod, stepping closer. “I’ve done this more times than I can count. And I’ll be there the whole time. You just focus on getting better.”

He swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek. Jack squeezes his good shoulder. Quinn nods once — a silent thank you, or maybe a warning not to mess it up.

⸻

The operating room is cold. Bright. The kind of sterile stillness you’ve come to master.

You scrub in, gown up, mask on. The damage is more complex than you hoped — but not beyond you. The tear is deep, the tissue stubborn. It takes focus. Precision. Patience. But hours later, as you make the final suture, you know it: the repair is clean. Solid. Beautiful.

He’ll skate again. He’ll heal.

⸻

When he blinks awake, groggy and blinking against the light, you’re already beside him.

“Hey,” you murmur, checking his IV, then his vitals. “Welcome back.”

He groans faintly, then winces. “Hurts.”

“It will, for a while. But you did great. The surgery went perfectly.”

His eyes flutter, then focus on you. “You stayed?”

You glance at your watch, smile soft. “Just wanted to make sure my work held up.”

He chuckles — a hoarse, sleepy sound. “Still gotta rehab.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “You’ll be cleared in a few weeks. Then the physical therapy starts. I’ll be passing you off to one of our best rehab specialists.”

He frowns, but says nothing.

You don’t comment on the way he keeps glancing at you as you make notes on his chart. You don’t mention how his hand twitches, like he almost wants to reach for you.

Professional lines, after all.

But something shifted. You both felt it.

Wait—someone else?” he asks, his voice raw from sleep, eyes blinking up at you with something close to panic.

You straighten, clipboard pressed against your chest. “Our rehab team will assign one of the sports physio specialists. You’ll be in good hands.”

He looks away, jaw tightening. “I want you.”

You blink. “Luke, that’s not—”

“I trust you,” he cuts in, sharp and honest. “You were there before I went under. You were there when I woke up. You fixed me. I don’t want to start over with someone else.”

You hesitate, lips parting. It’s not protocol. It’s not wise. You know better.

But then the brothers show up.

Jack is the first to speak. “He doesn’t trust easily. He’s stubborn, yeah, but scared, too.”

Quinn adds quietly, “You’ve been the one thing steady in this whole thing. Just… think about it.”

So you do. Against your own rules, against policy, against everything you’ve practiced your whole career — you agree.

⸻

Rehab begins.

You stay professional. Notes, measurements, stretches. Exercises, pain management, rest periods. Over and over.

You see him fail. See his frustration when his arm trembles under light resistance. See him shut down when the pain returns. You watch the flicker of self-doubt in a boy who usually skates like the ice is his.

But you also see something else. Every time you touch his wrist to adjust his form, every time you meet his eyes across the therapy room mirror — he softens.

Something blooms. Quietly. Unsaid. But very real.

And it terrifies you.

Because you know better.

Because he’s younger.

Because he’s your patient.

But it doesn’t stop him.

⸻

A month later, his movement is fluid again. His strength is back. You log it in your file, check the final boxes. He’s ready.

And maybe that’s why he says it — because this is the end.

You’re collecting bands and rolling towels when he speaks.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

You freeze. Your hands still on the strap in your palm, your heart somewhere in your throat.

“I know I shouldn’t,” he says quickly. “I know you’re older. I know you’re my doctor. I know it’s wrong. But I can’t help it.”

You inhale slowly, turn toward him.

His cheeks are flushed — not from exertion. From confession.

You speak carefully. “Luke… you don’t love me. You love what I represent. I gave you hope when you were scared. I helped you move again. I’m not someone you know. I’m someone you depended on.”

He steps forward, but you lift a hand to stop him.

“You’re a kid,” you whisper. “You needed someone to believe in. That’s all this is.”

He swallows, eyes glassy. But he nods, just once.

You pick up your bag, your coat, your chart.

And you leave.

—

The sun is dipping low over the Hawaiian horizon, casting golden light over the surf and your bare legs. It should be peaceful. It should be enough. And yet, you haven’t stopped thinking about him.

You try. God, you try.

You walk barefoot through the markets. You drink from coconuts. You dive into waves and stay under as long as you can — like distance and saltwater might wash him off your skin.

But then your work phone buzzes.

An emergency contact.

You shouldn’t even be checking it. You’re on permit. You’re off the grid.

But something makes you swipe.

“Hey. I know you’re on leave… but Hughes is here again. Concussion. Pretty severe. I thought you should know.”

You don’t remember dropping your drink. You don’t remember how fast you ran barefoot off the sand, salt drying on your skin.

Hours later, the fluorescent lights sting your eyes as you push through the ER doors of the hospital back on the mainland. Still damp hair. Still sun on your shoulders. But your heart is already somewhere else — curled around the idea of him.

You find him in Observation Room 3.

He’s lying on the cot. Vitals are being monitored. His skin is warm with residual fever. Groggy. Bleary. His pupils respond, but slow. Classic post-concussion symptoms.

But he’s alive.

You breathe for the first time.

“Luke,” you whisper, voice tight.

He turns toward you sluggishly, blinking. “…Doc?”

You sit beside him carefully. His hand is cold, even in the overheated room. You take it gently, thumb brushing his knuckles.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re stable. The scans look good. Just rest.”

He blinks again. “You came.”

“I always come,” you murmur, then stop yourself.

But he smiles — doped up, hazy, and honest. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

You freeze.

“Even when I was on the road. On the ice. Every time I pushed my body, I thought about you helping me take that first step again.”

You swallow, heart thudding in your chest.

“I know it’s wrong,” he continues, voice slower now, softer, “but I want you. Still. Always.”

You should tell him it’s the medication. The haze. The fever.

But it’s not.

Not really.

Because you’ve spent months missing the boy who fought to move again. The boy who trusted you with his broken pieces. The boy who waited — even when you left.

So you lean in, careful and slow, and press your lips to his — soft, featherlight, the barest promise on his mouth.

“I want you too,” you whisper. “Even if it’s wrong.”

His fingers curl around yours.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel wrong at all.

#camficdiner #luke hughes smut #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes #lh43 imagine #lh43 fic #lh43 x reader #lh43

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crow-winged-wolf · 1 day ago

Text

I need motivation to finish and post my story. So... I'm posting the first "chapter" here, so peeps can criticize (Or go wild over!) my writing lol. Also, don't be surprised if black and white sketchy doodles crop up, a few scenes have stuck in my memory and I want to doodle them. Probably no color, but doodles yes lol. This chapter is called "Dinnertime" in my lineup of chapters, (Not ready to name drop the fic yet) It comes early in the story. The first full chapter that isn't the intro chapter. I truly hope you like it, you can read it below the cut. (Nothing NSFW, but the story as a whole is 18+. This chapter is PG 13 tho lol)

Dinnertime

She came into the dining hall to the sound of Lucanis busy at the kitchenette, Spite apparently over his shoulder and muttering something that was making Lucanis appear frustrated.

“No, stop suggesting that.” Lucanis growled, Rook catching his frustration.

“Spite, stop.” She commanded, the spirit looking up at her and scowling. She cocked an eyebrow at him, but couldn't tell if it helped at all as Spite grumbled something in her direction, but fell silent for the moment.

Lucanis sighed, shaking his head. “Thank you, but he's relentless today.”

“I'm sorry, I tried.”

“It's fine.” He nodded. “Do you need something? It's close to dinner, so I don't suggest eating anything, but if you want some coffee while you wait, I made a fresh batch.” He chuckled, motioning to the steaming coffee pot off to the side. Rook graciously took a mug, sipping at the slightly too hot liquid as she perched herself on the counter behind him.

Whatever Lucanis was cooking made her stomach ache with suddenly discovered hunger, her coffee now unsatisfying in comparison. She decided to strike up a conversation to distract herself from the hunger pains instead of just suffering in silence. “So, what were you and Spite arguing about before?” She asked as she rested her elbows on her knees, crossing her ankles and swinging them idly. It seemed like he wanted to answer her, but thought better of it and shook his head.

“Nothing that concerns you, Rook.” He mumbled.

“You sure?” She chuckled, Lucanis nodding hesitantly. “Okay.” She mumbled. For a Master Assassin, he was extremely transparent around her. “So, that smells amazing and somewhat familiar, what is it?” She asked, staring at the large pot of gently bubbling food. Lucanis hummed as he stepped away from his culinary creation, Rook watching in intrigue.

“I made chicken scampi, since I found out you are very much not a fan of fish.” He turned to find her sitting on the counter, looking rather proud of herself for being in his way. He wanted to be upset, but couldn’t quite summon the anger needed, instead settling her with a raised eyebrow. “It doesn't pair well with coffee, but… I have a few bottles of wine at the ready that work much better.”

Rook stilled, eyes flickering between the dinner simmering on the stove, and him. “You… you didn’t have to do anything special for me.” She stammered, sitting up slightly as he neared her.

“Yes I did.” A smirk pulled at his lips, Rook unable to suppress the smile that was trying to crack her face. She wasn’t used to anyone going out of their way for her when it came to her picky tastes, this was… good different.

“That sounds great, I'll tell the others!” Rook grinned, moving to get off the counter, but halting as he rested his hands on either side of her legs and leaned in close to her, caging her in.

“You’re on my counter.” He mused quietly with a smirk.

Rook smiled back, tipping her head to the side in unsaid defiance.“Well, you’re welcome to remove me, if you want.” Her voice was a low purr, her eyes darkening.

“Maybe I…” He stopped, eyes searching her face, then stepped back. “Sorry,” He breathed, Rook catching his wrists. Not again. He wasn't chickening out again. She pulled him into a hug, sighing over his shoulder.

“I’ll go tell the others dinner is ready.” She said morosely, Lucanis nodding. She waited until he hesitantly pulled away, sliding off of the counter and chancing another glance at him. She was close enough to just steal a kiss right now, but… She gently reached up, placing a hand at his collarbone. Hopefully that was enough for both of them. She saw his arm twitch, as if he wanted to place his hand over hers, but restrained himself. With a curt nod, she headed out of the dining area, Lucanis quietly watching her go.

I smell smoke. Meat charring.

“MIERDA!” Lucanis yelped, grabbing for the pot and stirring it, hoping it wasn’t actually burnt.

When she came back, it was with the majority of their companions, and to the sight of the table set for all of them, two plates in particular catching her eye. The wine glasses were already filled, the plates had food on them, they were side by side, and Lucanis was already sitting at one of them with his hands entwined and supporting his chin over it. He seemed deep in thought, sitting up straight when everyone came in. When Rook went to take a seat across from him, he gave her a disappointed look, glancing at the plate next to him.

Next to him? She circled around the table, pretending to examine the food in the pot before stopping in front of the set place setting. “Is that mine?” She asked gingerly in Antivan, glancing at the others to see if they noticed. He nodded shortly, Rook laughing quietly to herself. She set her hand on his shoulder as she swung her legs over the bench seat one at a time, sitting down and smiling clumsily at him. “Grazie.”

As she dropped her hand from his shoulder, he caught it under the table, leaning into her side. “We need to discuss your Antivan, you speak like an old nonna.” He murmured, his dialect different from hers and taking her a moment to recognize. Up until now, she knew he could speak Antivan, but didn’t know it was a different Antivan.

“Yes, it’s the same Antivan I’ve spoken since I was nine.” She laughed. “You’re the one mispronouncing shit.”

“Are you two gossiping about us in another language?” Harding giggled, looking between the two of them in a mock scolding manner. Both blushed as they shifted away from each other, a few of the others laughing at their reaction.

Dinner went by with fantastic company, and Rook discovering she loved chicken scampi. Lucanis was practically elated to see her devouring it so heartily and returning for seconds, many of their friends mentioning they weren’t used to the tiny Elf eating so much, but Nels didn’t care. This was amazing, and she was very vocal to Lucanis about it every chance she got. Mostly just to see him look embarrassed by the positive attention. She also had an inkling Spite was adding his own commentary too, as he was having difficulty looking at her at times.

When the others had left, she remained to help clean the dishes, Lucanis glancing at her out of the corner of his eye every now and again. “Is something wrong?” She laughed as she carefully dried the dish in her hands with the cloth, setting it on the pile to be put away.

“Curious about you.” He mumbled in Antivan, Rook stiffening.

“About?” She asked in Common, not playing into his game.

He gazed at her proper, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Where did you learn Antivan? No one speaks like that.”

“Salle. Everyone in Salle speaks like that.” She laughed, Lucanis's brow furrowing. “What? I was a de Riva, this shouldn’t be a surprise to you. We de Riva live in Salle.”

He made a surprised noise in his throat, shaking off the shock and resuming his work on cleaning the dishes. “I forgot you were House de Riva. That makes sense.”

“How did you forget?” She giggled.

“It makes sense why you speak like a Nonna. Viago was your Talon.” He chuckled. “And you did tell me you were a de Riva while in the Ossuary. Unfortunately, I was focused on other things at the time.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.” She nodded. “And I was House de Riva. I'm not as long as I'm exiled.” She murmured, her tone sad and pained. Lucanis noticed, smiling softly at her.

“We don't need to tell anyone, Rook de Riva.”

She laughed at how he rolled the r’s in her name, gazing up at him. “Well, as long as we are saying my name, it's actually Neliel de Riva.” She was partial to Nels, too, but one step at a time.

His smile grew wider, one eyebrow arching at her. “I was wondering. ‘Rook’ was a rather on-the-nose name for a Crow.” He dried his hands, holding one out to her. She took it cautiously, confusion etched across her face. “Lucanis Dellamorte.” He stated.

“I know who you are.” She laughed, even more confused.

“Yes, but did I introduce myself?” His smirk grew wider as Nels laughed louder.

“No you didn't. So Lucanis, and Spite.” She replied.

“And Spite.” He nodded in agreement, returning to washing the dishes.

“Who properly introduced himself by punching you in the face.” She muttered as Lucanis chuckled dryly.

You wouldn't let me. Talk to Rook. Spite grumbled.

“Yes.” He sighed.

“Has he done that recently?”

“No, he's gotten better since our agreement. Which reminds me, I should put a pot on.” He turned to attend to filling a pot with water and situating it on the stove, Nels looking around at the dining space. She remembered when they had first come to this place. Just the four of them. This whole area was dark, dirty, and lifeless. Shortly after Lucanis joined the group, he had it cleaned up and looking warm and inviting again. More chairs for the table, a fire in the hearth, and the pantry cleared out and replenished. She wandered over to the fireplace, turning a chair to face it and sitting down tiredly.

It was a rare moment of calm for her. She wasn't being called away, there were no urgent threats that she needed to attend to, no one was injured or dying. She could just sit and think. He caught the usually upbeat expression fade from her lips, her eyes dulling as the mask slipped and she set her arms on her knees and let her shoulders sag forwards. He knew that look all too well. She was tired. He wanted more than anything to bring her some form of comfort, perhaps tell her she could take the day off or something, but he knew that wasn't possible. The best he could do was gently hold out a mug of coffee to her, wishing to let his fingers start across her hand, her arm, her shoulder in support or comfort when she took it.

Instead, he pulled one of the other chairs over to sit in, close enough to count as company, far enough she was safely out of reach. She thanked him quietly for the coffee, blowing softly on the liquid before taking a sip.

Nels sighed forlornly as she crossed the small square, not entirely happy to have left the kitchen, both because it was dark, and because Lucanis was there. But she was exhausted, and falling asleep at the table was going to annoy him. And he would probably insist she use his cot if she was going to sleep, which would make her feel horrible for taking the only thing he could sleep on, even if it appeared painfully uncomfortable.

She winced as she searched for the source of the light. The fact that there was no day night cycle here was jarring. She was tired, but the light suggested it was the middle of the day. She waved tiredly at the Caretaker as he materialized at the base of the gaudy wolf statue, halting a moment later when he spoke.

“You are the only one to not shape your space to your needs.”

“Sorry?”

“No need to apologize, young traveler. Simply place your hand on the door and think about what you want.”

Neliel turned to regard the Caretaker properly. “Just… wish it into existence?”

“Yes.” Her eyes flickered to the dining area, the Caretaker noticing. “He requested repairs to the cooking area, more chairs for the table, and a chandelier. All fulfilled.”

“Ah. Well… thank you.” She mumbled, nodding. That room had been just a room she crashed in when exhausted for the longest time, it was going to be nice to have it feel more familiar. She dragged herself through the Lighthouse, pausing at the top of the hallway to her room, peering down the hall to the infirmary. She let out a short laugh as she drifted down that hall instead, pushing the door open slowly and letting it close behind her as she entered. “Varric? Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Neliel.” Spite rasped, the sound the closest to a pleased chirp he could manage.

“Yes, her name is Neliel.” Lucanis mumbled distractedly, trying to focus on his book.

“Nnnnnneliel.”

Lucanis rolled his eyes, glaring at the demon. “Are you going to keep repeating her name now?”

“Rook is easier. Neliel is prettier.” Spite purred, drifting closer to the door and reaching out. He recoiled from the barrier as the rune to keep him in activated, Spite frowning at the shock. Lucanis chuckled, shifting against the stone wall as he tried to pass the noise off as a cough. “You should visit Neliel.”

“No, I’m going to stay here.” He answered in that bored, flat tone again.

“She likes you. Won’t hurt you. Wants to be near you.”

Lucanis peered up from over his book at the demon. “Yes, I know.” He said slowly.

“Want to visit Rook.”

“Not tonight, Spite.”

“Not sleeping! Visit Rook! Neliel!” He advanced on Lucanis, stomping closer, his feet making no sound despite his attempt to be intimidating.

“Not tonight, Spite.” He said more forcefully, putting the book down to glare up at the demon, neither backing down. He might not have been as worried about being punched anymore, but he knew Spite had other ways of hurting him if he truly wanted.

“Not fair.” The demon pouted, crossing his arms and dropping to the ground like a child to sit in front of Lucanis.

“Sorry, Spite. A lot of things aren’t fair.” He mumbled. “We can visit later when everyone is waking up again. Or she might visit us.”

Nels was exhausted at this point as she dragged her feet down the hallway, rubbing at her eyes tiredly. Just a quick nap. She just needed to sleep for a few minutes. As she reached the door, she remembered what the Caretaker had said. Just… wish it? She pressed her forehead to the solid wood of the door, placing her palms on the worn surface, and closed her eyes. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be in her room again. The large bay window where her toxic garden grew, her bookshelves of stories and plants, the plush four poster bed with gentle indigo drapings, her sectioned off area for mixing her poisons… She really missed home. Fuck she missed home. She wanted her room in Salle back so bad. She had no idea if her belongings were even there anymore. Her plants were probably dead, her ingredients dried up, her bed repurposed for someone else to sleep in.

She sighed against the wood, opening her eyes slowly, staring at the dark grain in front of her face. She was foolish to think any part of the world would wait for her. That’s not how it worked, ever. She pushed the door open, sighing heavily and stumbling forwards to be met with that low, darkwood shelf, her trinkets littering the surface. As usual. Her eyes travelled up to… wait, was that her bed? The room was much different. In place of a fish tank, a hazy set of arched windows greeted her, a few empty pots littering the surface in front of it. Her bed sat against one wall, the ugly green couch stubbornly still in front of her with a shelf set along its back, but it seemed to fit in with the touches of green throughout the room. The walls were adorned with various Crow and plant related decorations where bookshelves didn’t cover, her new Antivan coffee press proudly displayed on a small cabinet to her right. Her direct left held her wardrobe and a chest for her weapons and weapon care.

What shocked her the most was the two side rooms. Two? One led to a washroom, complete with a tub, the other a small space with plenty of empty vials, decanters, tables, and wax. Makers blood, this was a poison mixing room. The whole place was reminiscent of her old room. She flopped down on the bed, moaning happily into the pillows. This could be her home. This was amazing. “Thank you!” She shouted at the ceiling, grinning wide enough to crack her face. This was what she needed.

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