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helioooss · 2 months ago

Text

your song

synopsis: after years apart, y/n, now a successful chef running her own restaurant in makati, finds her life briefly interrupted when sophia laforteza, her childhood best friend turned global pop star, returns home.

w/c: 15k+

warnings: swearing, slowburn, angst

a/n: heaps of filipino words and dishes used; this is an ode to home! also, my future restaurant’s name is concave so…

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the night air in your grandmother’s backyard was thick with smoke and laughter. anthony was sitting in the corner, half-cross-legged on a cracked monobloc chair, his old ibañez propped over his knee as he strummed through a chord progression he never quite finished. his fingers moved like habit, a little drunk and careless, but familiar in the way things were when you’ve known someone since you were nine.

diana had claimed the role of drink master again — her term, not anyone else’s. she poured red horse into mismatched glasses like she was tending bar at a family wake, wrist flicking slightly each time she tipped the bottle. kyle was by the plastic table, already halfway through the pulutan, a lazy grin on his face as he picked at the sisig you made earlier.

“this shit’s good, y/n,” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “you should serve this at concave.”

you shrugged, one leg drawn up against your chest as you nursed your drink. “too much prep. and people in makati want it artisanal now like, ‘elevated street food,’ whatever the fuck that means.”

someone snorted. you think it was anthony. maybe diana. the laughter came in waves tonight, a rhythm of remembering and forgetting, pausing just enough for something real to slip through before it got drowned again in the next joke.

the group had thinned out over the years; some moved abroad, a few married, one had a kid — but all four of you were still here.

even though diana was getting married.

“speaking of elevated,” she wiggled her eyebrows, wiping her fingers on a paper napkin before reaching for the bottle. “did you guys see sophia’s post last week? they were at some awards show in america. full glam, backless dress, the whole thing.”

there was a short silence; just enough for the name to settle in.

“she really made it, huh?” anthony strummed a few soft notes, like background music for the weight of it. “used to sit on that same stool you’re on, y/n, crying over her trigonometry homework.”

you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “yeah…she would act like it was the end of the world if she got anything below ninety.”

“remember her driver?” kyle grinned. “the old one who always got lost in pasay? guy called her ten times a day like he was in a hostage situation.”

“well, remember when sophia tried to say kwek-kwek in that american accent?” diana added, slurring a little but still sharp, still loud. “kwek-kwAAAK,” she mocked, holding her nose and puffing her lips like a bad parody.

the group cracked up. even anthony barked a laugh, though he kept plucking at a loose tune; probably something from a parokya song, low and familiar.

kyle choked a little on the spoonful of sisig he scooped straight from the serving dish.

your head tilted back as you laughed, really laughed, and it sounds like it came from somewhere buried.

sophia has always been different in so many ways, but you were close. painfully so. you still remembered the softness of her voice when she would call your name, the smell of her mum’s perfume on her school jumper when you hugged goodbye after visits. she used to send you voice notes even after she transferred schools, even when you couldn’t relate to her stories about cafeteria fights and international school problems, you would still reply.

“what a time,” anthony murmured.

no one said anything, the silence that followed wasn’t loud; instead, it was thick.

everyone knew it was coming, that someone was going to bring her up eventually. it was inevitable — like how you could you not talk of your childhood without mentioning the girl who made it out?

“katseye,” kyle broke the quiet, rolling the name in his mouth like he was still getting used to it. “my niece has her face on a pencil case, she won’t believe that i knew sophia.”

knew.

anthony chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “i saw her in an ad. some korean skincare thing, couldn’t tell if it was her at first. she looks different now.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your bottle. the condensation had already soaked into the tablecloth, leaving a pale ring where your drink sat.

“did she ever…reach out to you?” diana asked, careful this time. her voice softer. “you were pretty close.”

you shrugged. “once or twice. birthdays. new years. the usual.”

you didn’t say more, didn’t say how the last time she messaged was two years ago. how it was just a short, clean: happy birthday, hope you’re well. no warmth to it.

and it’s not like she owed you anything than that…but you thought you were more important than a short sentence.

but sophia, she was always looking past the gate; over the rooftops, past the wires strung like spiderwebs in the sky.

and you — well, you looked at her.

then, like someone flicked a switch, the memory passed. kyle reached for more sisig, diana lit a mosquito coil under the table and conversation shifted without ceremony.

she turned to you, refilling your jar before you could decline. “you working tomorrow, chef?”

“nah,” you replied, voice low, eyes still on your lap. “sunday crew’s got it.”

“concave’s always packed, huh?” anthony grinned, adjusting his grip on the guitar. “saw someone post about the wagyu kare-kare last week.”

“that’s leo’s recipe,” you said, leaning back and finally meeting their gazes. “i just plated it.”

“bullshit,” diana shot back. “kristoff says you make everything in your head.”

you shrugged; it didn’t feel like bossing.

it was more like waking up too early and going home too late, keeping inventory on your phone while waiting in line for rice deliveries and never having time for yourself, let alone anyone else — but they didn’t need to hear that.

not tonight.

they laughed at something stupid anthony had said, but your eyes had drifted to the bamboo fence, where the light from your grandma’s kitchen filtered through in weak slices. you could still hear them talking: about kyle’s ex who showed up at his gym, about some basketball game, about whether anyone wanted to go to tagaytay next weekend…but it blurred around the edges.

you took a sip of beer and leaned back in your chair as you thought about the last time you really saw her — before the debut, the contracts and when she stopped replying. she had red-stained lips from a street barbecue and her hand around your wrist, tugging you toward her car, saying you had to try the new taylor swift song on her aux.

she said she’d always write. that she wouldn’t become one of those people.

and just like that, sophia laforteza faded from the conversation. but not from your mind, not really, not in the way you hoped.

the red horse was beginning to settle in your chest, warm and heavy. the buzz in your ears had dulled the voices around you, just a little, like a layer of gauze had been pressed over the moment.

then kyle, mouth full of sisig, glanced your way. “hey.”

you looked up, startled by how gently he had said it. “yeah?”

“you got quiet,” he said, eyes narrowing in a mock squint. “what, are you still in love with her or something?”

you scoffed, too quickly. shook your head like it was reflex.

all eyes were on you. anthony had stopped playing and now your song by parokya ni edgar was spilling out into the yard, a little tinny through the old speaker. the intro played soft, like a memory you didn’t know you still knew.

and somehow it fit like it always did.

“come on,” anthony teased you in that tone. “it’s just us.”

you wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, heart thudding quietly. the air was thick again, the kind that stuck to your skin and made your shirt cling slightly to your back.

“it’s nothing,” you murmured, but your voice caught in your throat. “i mean — it was a long time ago.”

“that doesn’t make it nothing,” diana said, not unkindly. “i think deep down, we all knew. she was always fucking holding your hand and you chased her around.”

you stared down at your lap, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your shorts. you hadn’t thought about this in a while. not like this; with witnesses.

“when we were kids,” you started, voice quiet. “it was just easier to…watch her from afar. you know?”

the group went still in the way only close friends could. not exactly dramatic, they were just present.

“she was always…hard to reach. not because she was trying to be. she just was. always got picked up early, going to dance classes, international school. she’d come around in the summers and hang out like nothing changed, but each year…it did.”

you paused, scratching at a mosquito bite on your ankle, feeling the dull sting of it.

“i knew there was no point, not really. there were always boys, older ones, cooler ones. and i was just — me; just a girl in boy clothes who made her laugh sometimes, i carried her backpack when she’d forget it. told her which vendors had the best mangga’t bagoong.”

you shrugged, trying to bury something under the motion before continuing.

“i never said anything. what was the point? she’d never look at me like that. she was the kind of person you tell stories about, not someone who stays. even now…she’s like a ghost. just — shows up on my screen sometimes; all glammed up, perfect hair, perfect lighting. and then she disappears again.”

you felt the words dig into you on their way out. they didn’t sting exactly. they were just real in a way you’ve been avoiding.

“these days, i don’t think about her much. i’ve got the restaurant, i’ve got bills and staff to worry about. my back hurts from standing too long — real life’s really fucking loud.”

you took a breath. slow and steady.

“but every now and then — she shows up. and it’s like nothing ever happened, like i’m fifteen again and i still don’t know what to do with the way she smiles at me.”

the words sat there. no one moved to fill the silence. the night buzzed around you: cicadas in the tree, a distant karaoke machine somewhere down the street, the faint rustle of the neighbour’s curtains.

anthony strummed a slow chord again, soft and out of tune. it lingered.

“that’s some indie film shit,” kyle muttered finally, rubbing his chest like he didn’t know what else to do. “damn, red horse does that to you nowadays? you’re getting old.”

you laughed through your nose. “shut up.”

you leaned back in your chair again, glass cool against your palm. the love you had for her, it was all still there. not overwhelming, maybe a little suffocating.

and that was okay. maybe it didn’t need to go anywhere.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

five years ago

the rain had started somewhere along españa. one of those annoying late afternoon drizzles that came without thunder, just a quiet soaking that crept into your shoes and made the air feel heavier than it needed to.

the jeep you were riding moved in fits — start, honk, pause, inch forward, then brake again. the kind of crawl that made you check your watch three times a minute, even though you already knew you were running late.

by the time you got to the lafortezas’ house in forbes park, your hair had dried in uneven patches, your uniform smelled faintly of garlic and onions from lunch lab and your lanyard with your university ID stuck awkwardly to your chest.

the guard let you in without a fuss, he remembered you from before, gave you a small nod like he felt bad about how out of place you looked.

the house was alive with sound too and not just the sharp clang of glasses or the soft bass of music vibrating through expensive outdoor speakers — but voices; loud ones.

laughter that rang out from the pool area, old relatives talking over each other inside, the kind of family gathering that reminded you that sophia’s world was always louder, always busier, always somehow more than yours.

you stood near the archway for a second, unsure if you should walk in like you used to, back when you didn’t need an invitation, back when you were just there, all the time.

there was a part of you that waited for someone to stop you, they didn’t. one of the servers walking by gave you a polite nod.

you spotted her dad, godfrey, first. he was manning the grill like always, even with his button-down shirt slightly open and a cigar resting in a glass tray nearby. he looked up and grinned.

“look who finally showed up,” he said, flipping a skewer. “traffic?”

you nodded, stepping into the light as you bowed, the back of his hand briefly touching your forehead. “yeah, sorry tito.”

“no worries, kid. you hungry?”

“a little,” you admitted and he just laughed.

“you came straight from school?”

you glanced down at your stained shirt, your scuffed shoes. “yeah.”

“hardworking as ever,” he teased, not unkindly. “you’re doing good over there at ust, huh?”

“really trying to.”

he nodded, like that was enough; trying meant something. “she’s out back. by the pond. look after her!”

you chuckled, heels turning away from him. “i always do, tito.”

you knew exactly where he meant as you followed the path to their enormous backyard.

and there she was.

sophia sat on the edge of the stone walkway, her legs tucked beneath her, a nearly-empty flute of champagne in her hand. her hair was longer than you remembered.

she turned when she heard you, her face lighting up in the same way it always had, as if you were the only person she had been waiting for.”

“i thought you weren’t coming.”

you dropped your bag to the grass and sat beside her. “i was stuck on the road for hours. i left early but the jeepney broke down somewhere in quiapo — i’m sorry, piya.”

“classic, but still late,” she teased, nudging your knee with hers. “i’m glad you’re here.”

you looked at her profile, soft and strange in the warm light. she was beautiful without even trying.

“you look like a celebrity already,” you mumbled, brows furrowing.

she laughed quietly, sipping the last of her drink. “it’s the makeup.”

“nah, you’ve always looked like this; maganda.”

she glanced sideways at you then, her expression unreadable. you looked away first.

the koi stirred beneath your feet, rippling the water. you could hear the faint clink of cutlery behind you, the celebration continuing without her. or maybe without the both of you.

she leaned forward and fixed your collar, not even hesitating, her fingers brushed your neck and it made your breath hitch.

“you smell like garlic.”

you gave her a look. “you’re welcome.”

she laughed. then — without warning — she pulled you into a hug. and it wasn’t for show. not like earlier with her titas or the camera flashes or the formal poses. it was just her, warm and tight and real.

“i thought you really weren’t gonna make it,” she murmured. “i needed to see you.”

you didn’t answer.

there was a long pause when she pulled away; a silence where you could feel everything pressing up against the surface, but no one was brave enough to say it first.

“so…dream academy,” you said eventually, trying to keep your voice light. “sounds fake.”

she snorted. “i know, it feels fake to me but i’m going — i have the ticket and all that jazz. y/n, i’m really going.”

you nodded, a fond smile plastered on your face. “i know.”

and you did. and it was exciting. and you were proud.

but at the same time, something inside you folded a little. it felt like something had creased your chest without permission because this was it.

this was the before. and everything after this would be new and distant.

she looked at you then, like she could feel the same thing.

“i’m scared,” she admitted, voice low.

you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “piya, you’ll be fine. you were born to do this.”

“promise me something,” she bit her lip, nudging her knee against yours.

you glanced at her, waiting.

“don’t forget me, y/n.”

you blinked, surprised by the way it stung, it was getting too real. “piya —”

“i mean it,” she cut you off. “when i come back…you know. if i come back…i don’t want it to be weird. i don’t want us to be strangers.”

you wanted to say something honest: that you were already strangers in some ways. that you had spent the last few years slowly drifting, seeing each other less, learning how to fill your lives with other people, other stories. yet, she was looking at you like the girl who used to cry over algebra and make you listen to her sing in secret, like the friend who once stood outside your house with a stolen umbrella just so you wouldn’t walk home in the rain.

so, you nodded. “i won’t forget you.”

and you meant it, too. because how could you?

and then she reached up and tugged your lanyard over your head.

“hey —”

“i’m keeping it.”

“soph.”

“souvenir.”

“i’m gonna get in trouble.”

“worth it.”

you stared at her as she smiled, lanyard in hand, your face on the ID still as awkward as ever. and you let her have it because it felt like something small you could give. something real. a piece of this version of you, before everything bent into something else.

someone called her name from across the lawn. tita carla, probably. there was cake to be cut and photos to take.

she looked at you one last time. “i’ll see you soon, yeah?”

you nodded again, even though you didn’t believe it. even though you already knew — you would never see her quite like this again.

and then she was gone; taken by the crowd. and you were left standing under those lanterns, hands in your pockets, garlic on your clothes and a phantom weight where your lanyard used to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

makati at 4am was quieter than most people would believe. the usual heat had not yet risen from the pavement and the sky still held onto its last shades of dark blue as if it didn’t want to let go of the night.

the air smelled cleaner somehow: fewer cars, fewer cigarettes, less of everything. you liked this version of the city. no sharp edges, just soft engine rumbles and the occasional flick of a lighter from a security guard somewhere down the block.

you lived just a few minutes away from your restaurant, on the second floor of a quiet building tucked between a shuttered nail salon and a law office that hadn’t opened since the pandemic. your apartment was two bedrooms — too much space for one person, but you needed it. one room was mostly office and storage. the other was yours and in the living area sat your aquarium, humming low in the corner. a slow, glowing square of water filled with plants and one stubborn betta fish named pansit who outlived all the others. he swam lazy laps as you passed by, grabbing your apron off the back of the couch.

concave sat in one of those narrow alleys just off the high street, in between a luxury flower shop and a tailoring studio that catered to wedding clients and politicians. it was a location most restaurateurs dreamed of: central, walkable and expensive as hell.

the rent made your head spin sometimes.

the district lights always flickered too bright, and the kind of people who walked by at night never looked like they worried about money.

still, you liked being there, becoming a part of something that looked clean from the outside even if your hands smelled like vinegar and fish guts most days.

the delivery truck arrived a little after five like it always did.

the driver, tonio, though you weren’t sure if that was really his name — nodded in your direction. he never said anything more than what was necessary, same as he had every morning for the past three years.

there was a rhythm to it now, something almost respectful in the silence.

you opened the metal back door and started unloading: kangkong, eggplants, calamansi by the kilo, three trays of bangus on ice, a bag of frozen ube, half a sack of garlic, pork belly in clear packaging and two boxes of duck eggs, stacked and tied with orange twine.

no lemongrass — you stared into the crate where it should’ve been and let out a quiet curse.

“tangina,” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. “of fucking course.”

but you didn’t panic, you and leo would have to figure something out. one of you (was always him) would run to the market before it got too hot, haggle a bit, text the other something dumb about how god’s testing them again.

you started prepping before the sun had fully risen; chopped onions, boiled pork bones for broth, mixed vinegar and soy into plastic tubs for later. your body moved on memory.

your brain stayed somewhere else — thoughts mostly quiet, save for a dull reminder that you had only slept four hours again.

by the time the sun hit the windows, the others started trickling in. leo was first, as usual — his hair still wet from the shower, plastic bags in one hand and an old insulated mug in the other.

“guess what,” he said, holding up the lemongrass like a trophy.

you raised your eyebrows and gave him a tired thumbs up. “legend.”

kristoff came next, with his usual coffee order in one hand and a tray of eggs in the other. aira followed soon after, lipstick already on, humming something that sounded like ligaya as she unpacked tupperware full of garlic rice from home.

the playlist kicked in around 6:45, old eraserheads at first before bleeding into rivermaya. the speakers crackled a little when the volume was too high, but no one minded. leo started singing along without meaning to.

lunch service opened at eleven-thirty sharp.

you barely looked up from the grill when yohan came in, there’s a burn on your forearm from last week that hasn’t scabbed properly but you had no time to worry about it. tickets rolled in and stacked fast.

people asked for things that weren’t on the menu, pointed at photos on their phones, laughed too loud over iced tea. you worked through it, answered questions and nodded when you needed to. instructions were yelled at when something started to burn.

the kitchen was a flurry of heat and noise and movement. and through it all, you stayed planted. solid and sweating.

by two, the noise thinned, tables cleared and the room exhaled.

the team ate standing, as always — no time to sit, they reckoned. kristoff scraped the last of the kare-kare straight from the pot. aira found a pack of chocnut near the register and handed them out like party favours before leaving to see her boyfriend. leo held up the receipt from one of the tables.

“make sure yohan gets a thousand from that,” you sighed, shaking your head at thought of the shy kitchenhand as everyone else cheered for him.

“thanks boss,” yohan gratefully tapped your shoulder.

“five thousand pesos,” leo grinned, waving it. “cash. no note, just pure vibes.”

“well shit,” kristoff said. “guess we didn’t fuck up today.”

you watched from the doorway of your office, legs folded beneath you as you sat on an upturned crate, still wearing your apron, your ma’s pancit bihon in a container beside you. untouched. your hands were resting in your lap, wrists sore, fingers stained slightly orange from atsuete.

you heard the chime of the front door open, kristoff went out to check as your eyes curiously followed him.

after a second, he came back, hesitated before walking over to you.

“chef,” he said softly. “there’s someone here. umm, i think it’s chef godfrey.”

you looked up real fast; it took a second to register “what? seriously?”

“yeah.”

you got to your feet slowly, wiped your hands on a rag that didn’t help much and stepped into the dining area.

he stood near the window, wearing a button-down and linen trousers. same gold watch. in his hands, a small box. he smiled like he was surprised to be there too.

“tito,” you greeted. “you didn’t text.”

“didn’t want to give you a chance to say no.”

you walked over and gestured toward a table. “want anything? we’ve got some sinigang left. or i can get you something from the bar.”

he placed the box on the table, pulled out a chair. “red horse is fine, if you have any.”

you raised a brow. “oh? at this time of day? does tita carla know you’re here?”

“brought pulutan,” he added with a laugh, opening the box. “and she won’t know if you keep your mouth shut.”

you leaned over and laughed, he brought cheese rolls. the ones from that bakery in greenhills, the same ones sophia used to beg for after school like she didn’t have a fridge full of imported snacks.

“they’ve gotten smaller,” he frowned. “but more expensive like everything else in this damn country.”

you sat down across from him, both of you cracking open bottles like you had done this before, though you hadn’t for a while really.

you talked about concave, mostly. the insane rent. the stress of keeping a small team happy. your hope to maybe move it someday, maybe somewhere a little quieter; in quezon city, just somewhere with better parking.

he nodded through it all. sipped his beer and listened. then, halfway through the second bottle, he said it.

“sophia’s coming back.”

your shoulders stiffened before you could hide it. “yeah?”

“just for a few days. there’s a brand deal, promo rounds and she’s filming something at home — she was asking about you.”

“that’s good,” you stared at your bottle, the condensation on your fingertips.

“i told her i didn’t know if you’d want to see her. after all these years.”

you said nothing.

“i figured it was better to say this in person,” he continued. “there’s an intimate dinner at the end of the week. family, mostly. i think you should come. her team’s going to film it.”

you reached for another cheese roll, tearing a piece slowly between your fingers. “i don’t think she even remembers me.”

“you’re wrong about that.”

you looked up. “tito…i doubt it. we haven’t spoken in years.”

“and yet, she still asked.”

you didn’t reply. just took a bite. let the silence rest between you.

“just think about it,” he said gently.

you both sat like that a while longer. the beer was warm now, the box half-empty, the afternoon light softening into gold. you didn’t say yes and you didn’t say no either.

and neither of you rushed to leave.

some things were easier that way.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the next morning, the kitchen still smelled faintly of fried oil and last night’s vinegar, clinging to the walls like a memory that refused to clear. you opened earlier than usual. the silence helped. your hands moved on muscle memory, chopping onions into uniform pieces, brow furrowed, mouth set in that same neutral line you wore when something was stuck in your chest but you didn’t want to talk about it yet.

leo was already there and he was peeling garlic, badly. half the cloves still had skin on them and you were trying not to notice. or crash out over it.

“you’re unusually quiet,” he began, not looking up. “like…extra quiet.”

“you yap enough for both of us.”

he let out a soft cackle. “true, but you usually complain about something by now.”

you didn’t answer, just kept chopping carefully as your hands moved automatically. there was a pot simmering behind you and a container of cleaned bangus on the counter. you could feel leo watching you now.

“did you get laid or something?”

“leo,” you groaned, voice flat.

he whistled. “not a no.”

before you could respond, aira burst through the back door, her hair already up in a messy bun, eyeliner on point like always. she dumped her tote on the bench and grabbed a spoon from the drying rack, immediately dipping into one of the sauces without checking what it was.

“oh my god,” she muttered, licking her finger. “what is that? it’s like…happiness in liquid form.”

“sinamak,” you replied. “don’t drink it.”

“you didn’t eat your ma’s pancit yesterday,” leo pointed out, not leaving the topic alone.

“wasn’t hungry.”

he made a face and returned to peeling garlic, slower this time. you felt his eyes flick toward you again but he didn’t push it.

“so, uh…” he started, deliberately casual. “that guy yesterday.”

you paused for a moment. your knife hovered above a clove of garlic as you waited for him to finish the thought.

“older, gold watch, smelled like old money and dental appointments.”

you huffed out a quiet laugh despite yourself, but refused to say anything.

“was that chef godfrey?” he added, and this time he turned properly to face aira, who was unloading vegetables from the delivery crate. “as in godfrey laforteza.”

aira froze mid-crouch, holding a bundle of kangkong like she had just discovered fire. “wait, sophia laforteza’s dad?!”

you sighed; there it was.

“oh my god, oh my god,” she stood up straight, practically vibrating. “are you telling me that the godfrey laforteza was here and no one told me? you let me go see my stupid boyfriend?”

leo shrugged, grinning now. “i didn’t realise until he left — his back was facing the kitchen so we couldn’t see and kristoff didn’t say anything.”

aira placed the kangkong down like it was sacred. “do you know who his daughter is? she’s literally the reason i started contouring. i watched one fancam and it changed the shape of my face. oh my god. oh my god.”

you wiped your hands on a towel and leaned against the counter like it was no big deal. “we used to be friends.”

she blinked at you in disbelief. “you…what?!”

“me and sophia,” you repeated, voice flat like you were talking about the weather. “we sort of grew up together…but like different tax brackets and all that.”

she made a noise somewhere between a squeal and a choke, placing both hands on the edge of the counter. “i need you to repeat that sentence. slowly. with emotion.”

you raised an eyebrow. “we. used. to be. friends.”

“holy shit,” she whispered. “like, close friends? or like…you-commented-on-each-other’s-posts kind of friends?”

you reached for a pot behind you, pretending to focus on something else. “close like her snotty ass was over at mine all the time and the guards at forbes park knew me.”

leo leaned in now, voice teasing. “she stole her college ID too, as souvenir.”

“leo,” you muttered, warning him because she was definitely going to flip out.

she gasped so hard she nearly dropped the carrots. “wait — are you being serious? like she physically stole it? like in a cute way?”

“she asked if she could keep it,” you mumbled, smiling shyly. “i let her.”

her jaw dropped and she looked physically pained.

“why are you still here?” she asked, scandalised. “why aren’t you in an airport chasing her down with a bouquet?”

leo let out a laugh. “i’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

you felt heat rise to your neck and busied yourself with lighting the stove. the gas hissed, caught the flame and you stirred oil into a pan without thinking.

“it’s been years,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “we haven’t spoken since she left.”

that sobered the room a little. aira glanced at leo, then lowered herself onto a bench, the excitement in her face softening into something else.

“but…she’s back?” she asked.

“for a few days. a brand thing, plus her dad said there’s a dinner.”

no one said anything for a while. its been way too long now and you began to wonder what her voice sounded like these days.

“you thinking of going?” leo asked again.

you stared into the pan and watched the garlic start to colour. “i don’t know.”

she tilted her head. “you want to?”

you didn’t answer right away because you didn’t know how to explain the weird ache that came and went whenever you heard her name. how some days it barely registered, and others it clung to you like heat in the back of your shirt.

how you weren’t sure what was worse — seeing her again or not seeing her at all.

“i’m busy,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes. “we have a business to run.”

leo snorted. “cop out.”

“maybe.”

aira leaned her chin into her hand. “just wear something nice. you don’t even have to say anything, go see her.”

you stirred the garlic again, let it brown.

“just think about it,” she added, softer now. “you owe yourself that much, yeah?”

the smell of burnt garlic filled the room.

“shit,” you muttered, turning off the heat. you scraped the pan out into the compost bin and started again, slower this time.

no one pressed further. they didn’t have to.

the kitchen was loud again within minutes —spoons clinking, water running, someone restarting the playlist. rivermaya this time. hinahanap-hanap kita played low beneath the noise, as if the speakers knew something you weren’t ready to say yet.

and you let the thought of her linger, unspoken, like the smell of something once sweet still hanging in the air.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

five years ago

the weekend after sophia graduated, the sky above manila looked unusually clean - cloudless, wide, almost smug in how blue it was. your lola, alongside your parents, had left for the province earlier that day, which meant the house was yours for the weekend.

the family house in quezon had the kind of roof that wasn’t really meant for lounging, just concrete and rusting rebar poking from the corners, but you claimed it years ago with foldable chairs and old blankets, a spot to sit when the house felt too full or the night too quiet.

sophia had arrived just after seven, wearing shorts and a loose t-shirt that hung slightly off her shoulder. her driver had dropped her off at the corner because she insisted on walking.

she came bearing gifts: one large jollibee bag, four smirnoff mules sticking out the top and a plastic container of gravy she insisted was worth the spill in her bag.

“you told your lola?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes by the back door.

“that you’re crashing the night?” you returned a question, reaching for the bag of fries. “nope.”

“perfect,” she grinned.

you both carried the food and drinks up the narrow stairs to the roof, a towel tucked under your arm, a blanket you pulled from the cabinet smelling faintly of mothballs. the rooftop was still warm underfoot, the cement holding onto the last heat of the day. your neighbours’ radio played something low — maybe kitchie nadal, the echoes of someone else’s happiness.

“we’re celebrating,” she announced, grinning as she pulled the food out one by one on the roof, the stars above just starting to show. “high honours. second highest in the whole school. can you believe it?”

you shook your head and passed her a spoon. “i would’ve believed it if you passed math without crying.”

“that was character development, asshole,” she shot back. “besides, crying builds humility.”

you laid the blanket down between the water tank and the clothesline as you laughed at her, surrounded by rusting steel bars and old satellite dishes.

“cheers,” sophia said once you’ve settled down, cracking her bottle open against the metal pipe and raising it toward you.

you tapped yours against hers and took a swig. it was sweeter than you remembered. “this shit’s nasty.”

“well, can’t be picky, i brought the gifts and your only job is to consume them,” she snarked.

you both ate like you hadn’t had fast food in weeks, spooning rice straight from the paper containers, sitting side by side on an old blanket with faded cartoon characters printed across it.

the drinks were warm, but they still fizzed when opened and you continued clinking bottles like you were pretending to be older than you were.

“what now?” you asked, wiping gravy off your chin with your sleeve. “what’s next?”

she leaned back on her elbows, looking up. her hair spread out against the blanket like ink in water. “i don’t know. maybe take a break.”

“from what? being pretty and smart?”

“exactly.” she laughed, then glanced over. “i’m thinking of trying something…different.”

you raised a brow. “like what?”

she hesitated and you noticed it — not nervous, exactly, but something quieter. something still forming.

“i dunno yet,” she hummed. “something big.”

“whatever it is, you’d be good.”

“i might suck.”

“you won’t.”

she tilted her head toward you, her ponytail brushing the blanket. “you’re always sure about me.”

“someone has to be.”

you lay side by side on the blanket, her legs brushing against yours occasionally. the stars weren’t as sharp as they were in the province, but they were enough. the city around you still hummed: buses in the distance and a dog barking.

you didn’t talk much; not at first. your arms were close, then closer. and then her fingers found yours and didn’t let go.

her hand was warm and a little clammy from the bottle, but you didn’t mind. you didn’t even breathe too hard, afraid it might ruin the moment. she didn’t say anything either. just let the space fill with sound and the night stretch over both of you like a quiet promise.

you could feel her thumb moving in soft circles against yours.

“i still can’t believe i graduated with medals,” she murmured after a while.

“you say that like you were failing all year.”

“i mean, i wasn’t trying that hard. they just like me.”

you turned your head to look at her. her eyes were fixed on the sky, lashes catching the light of the nearest streetlamp. she looked older than she did last summer, but still had that same uneven tan on her arms from volleyball tryouts, nails still painted light pink and chipped at the edges.

she turned her face toward you now, the stars catching in her eyes.

“do you ever feel like you’re standing at the edge of something?” she asked. “like something big is about to happen and you can’t tell if it’s good or bad, just that everything’s going to change?”

“yeah,” you said. “i do.”

sophia smiled, slow and real. “good. then we’ll be scared together.”

you wanted to kiss her right then, but you didn’t - couldn’t. all you could do was squeeze her hand a little tighter and memorise the way she looked with the city lights flickering below her and the whole night sky above.

neither of you moved.

you finished your drinks and shared the last peach mango pie. one of your neighbours yelled for their kid to come inside, the air cooling down. you stayed on the roof until you both started to shiver, until the stars faded behind the first pale streaks of morning, until sophia fell asleep with her head on your shoulder, fingers still loosely laced with yours.

you didn’t sleep, just watched the sky change and wondered how long before you would lose this version of her.

before whatever was coming finally arrived.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the team had just settled into their usual late-morning rhythm when anthony showed up, slouched and sunburnt, with a guitar strapped to his back like it was a medical condition he refused to treat.

“oi,” he called out as he pushed through the front door, sweat already glistening along his hairline. “you still feeding stray musicians or what?”

you glanced up from where you were marinating pork belly, salt crusted on your fingertips, elbow-deep in prep bowls. “what time’s your gig?”

“twelve and nearby. rooftop bar in legazpi. they said there’s free iced tea, which means it’s gonna be a nightmare.”

you smirked and went back to massaging vinegar into the pork. “you just want free food.”

he gave you his best impression of innocence. “nooo, i want your company.”

“you wanna scab off my company,” you corrected.

“and your company.”

aira, who had been julienning carrots with the intensity of someone seeking vengeance, glanced over and groaned. “for fuck’s sake, him again?”

“hello to you too,” he grinned, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. “still can’t cook eggs without burning them?”

“still can’t sing without pretending it’s 2007?” she bit back, raising an eyebrow. “get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“i came for peace and nourishment.”

“you came to freeload.”

leo, somewhere behind the fridge door, coughed out a laugh. kristoff didn’t look up from stirring the adobo, but his shoulders shook with quiet amusement.

you shook your head and went back to slicing, but you were smiling now. there was something about anthony that always shifted the air when he arrived — like someone had opened a window and let in a breeze that was equal parts annoying and familiar.

aira sighed dramatically and reached for the leftover chorizo in the cooler. “you’re getting fried rice. no substitutions. no complaints. and i’m adding egg even though i know you hate egg.”

“can’t wait,” anthony chuckled. “truly, this is a restaurant built on spite.”

“you’re welcome.”

he slid into the bar stool by the pass and began unloading the contents of his pockets: a capo, his wallet, half a cigarette in foil. the guitar remained slung across his chest, awkward but somehow fitting.

you rinsed your hands and leaned against the sink, watching the chaos unfold with a quiet sort of fondness.

then, mid-moan about a previous gig that involved a flooded stage and a broken amp, anthony looked at you and went suddenly quiet.

“hey…umm, piya messaged me on facebook last night.”

your chest didn’t tighten immediately. it moved slow, like something thick dragging its way through water.

“piya?” you asked, like you hadn’t said that name aloud in years. which, technically, you hadn’t.

“sophia,” he clarified, more careful now. “she asked if i’ve heard from you because apparently…she hasn’t.”

silence fell like a dropped plate. even the pan aira had been rattling on the stove went still.

yohan emerged from the walk-in cooler with a crate of eggs and a raised brow. “who’s sophia?”

kristoff, ever the bearer of pop culture, didn’t even blink. “sophia laforteza.”

yohan stared. “as in katseye sophia?”

“yep,” he replied, flipping a slab of meat in the pan.

aira dropped the spatula. you didn’t say anything, your mouth had gone dry.

he was still looking at you, not accusatory, just curious. and maybe - maybe a little worried. “you haven’t checked your phone, have you.”

you looked down at your apron, then your hands. the faint cuts on your knuckles, the turmeric stain beneath your thumb nail. you hadn’t brought your phone, again.

it’d been three days now. you kept leaving it in the same place, on the corner of your dresser under a half-folded shirt, turned face down.

“i haven’t,” you admitted.

“y/n,” anthony winced, voice a little firmer now. “come on.”

you shrugged. “i didn’t feel like it.”

“she’s looking for you — she’s trying.”

“yeah, well.” you ran a hand through your hair. “she knows where to find me.”

aira leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “babe, i know you’re mysterious and deep and have a whole torpe heart thing going on — but that’s sophia laforteza. why are you trying to fumble so bad?”

leo chimed in from behind the fryer. “what if she’s standing outside the restaurant right now? what if this is like, her kilig moment?”

“don’t be weird,” you muttered, though the thought twisted somewhere low in your stomach.

she wouldn’t show up, would she?

anthony slid the plate of chorizo fried rice toward himself, but didn’t touch it yet.

“listen,” he said, more gently this time. “you don’t have to talk to her. or see her, but you should at least know what she’s trying to say.”

you nodded slowly, not agreeing; more like acknowledging. kristoff turned the stove off, someone turned the playlist down.

the kitchen didn’t resume its usual volume right away. everyone hovered in that pocket of quiet, watching you in the way people do when they’re not sure if you’re okay.

you looked out toward the front window, where the morning light was already starting to glare off the tiles.

sophia’s name sat in your chest like a coin pressed flat under your ribs.

maybe the message was nothing; maybe it was too late to matter; maybe it mattered anyway.

you stepped back toward the sink and turned the tap on, cold water rushing over your hands, grounding. you closed your eyes for a moment and let the sound fill the room.

behind you, anthony finally took a bite of the fried rice.

“aira,” he called through a mouthful. “this is surprisingly edible. are you okay?”

aira launched a spoon at his head.

the kitchen laughed once again, tension cracked open just enough for the morning to keep going. you dried your hands and walked back to the prep table.

you still weren’t ready to check your phone.

but maybe you were getting close.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it was just after eight in the morning and the kitchen was already hot and humming, the scent of garlic and bagoong thick in the air. kristoff was slicing tomatoes at the speed of a man who had nowhere else to be, while yohan fiddled with the fan in the corner that never pointed in the right direction.

you were leaning against the sink, phone pressed between your shoulder and cheek, stirring sinigang broth while staring at nothing in particular.

the line rang twice before godfrey picked up.

he answered on the second ring. “hello?”

“tito,” you began, voice still scratchy from sleep. “hi, it’s y/n.”

a pause, then the warmth you expected. “anak, good morning. i was just about to call you to confirm.”

you cleared your throat. leaned against the bench. “i, uh…i just wanted to say thank you again for the invite.”

he waited because he knew there was more to come. “everything alright?”

“yeah, yeah - nothing serious. one of my chefs, aira, is down with something. food poisoning, maybe. someone needs to cover service so i can’t make it tomorrow night.”

you heard a chair scrape in the background, faint clinking of glasses — probably preparations for the dinner you were bailing out on. he didn’t say anything at first, just let out a slow breath.

“that’s…a shame,” he replied eventually, voice still gentle. “i was hoping she’d get to see you.”

you looked down at the broth, watched the thin film of oil ripple as you stirred it slowly.

“thank you for letting me know,” he added. “you should see her this week, if you can. i think…it would mean a lot to both of you if you talked.”

his tone stayed polite, but you could feel the weight shift. something a little sad.

“yeah,” you muttered like a promise. “i will.”

you weren’t planning to, not really. the thought alone made your pulse skip and your stomach knot. not in a sweet way, not in a maybe-it-could-work way — just fucking tight and heavy.

like too much time had passed and the wiring inside you didn’t know what to do with her anymore.

still, you said yes because it was easier. and because godfrey sounded like he still believed in whatever you and sophia used to be.

you hung up after a few more words: safe, formal ones — and stood there in the kitchen, staring at the phone like it owed you something.

you didn’t feel relieved. just…stalled.

aira stood directly behind you, holding a bag of spinach. you turned just in time to get hit in the chest with a plastic bag. it bounced off harmlessly, but she looked like she meant it to hurt.

“you absolute fucking liar!” she hissed as she hit you once more.

you turned, blinking. “what the hell —“

“food poisoning?” she narrowed her eyes. “from what, y/n? the rice i cooked myself this morning and ate in front of you?”

you opened your mouth to speak, she smacked your shoulder again with the spinach bag.

“i didn’t think you’d hear me!” you put your hands up in defeat.”

“you used me,” she said, dramatically. “like a prop. like a false witness.”

“aira —”

“to lie to sophia laforteza’s dad. you’re going to hell.”

you put the ladle down and started laughing. “you’re being ridiculous.”

“you used me?” she gaped. “me? your innocent, hardworking, full-of-life staff member?”

you raised a brow. “you’re the one who took a three-hour break yesterday to go get lash extensions.”

“irrelevant,” she snapped, pointing at you dramatically. “you really lied to sophia laforteza’s dad and dragged my good name into it. that’s a sin, y/n. a literal sin.”

you pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh again.

“you’re going to hell,” she continued. “straight to the deepest, hottest level — no aircon. and i hope they only serve watered-down matcha.”

you let out a quiet snort. “i wasn’t planning on going to heaven anyway.”

she placed a hand over her heart. “you don’t deserve nice things.”

you rolled your eyes and went to the fridge, pulling out the tub of leftover atchara. “he said i should see her sometime this week.”

aira’s voice jumped an octave. “then can i go? text him! say your loyal, honest employee is free to represent you.”

you ignored her, opening the lid and giving the contents a stir.

“seriously,” she said, planting herself beside you. “i have an outfit picked out already. it’s tasteful but flirty. i’ll call him ‘tito’ and everything; maybe he’ll adopt me.”

“aira.”

“yes, ma’am?”

“i have a lot to do today.”

“you’re hiding,” she pointed out, softer now. “you’ve been hiding.”

you didn’t say anything, just closed the tub and placed it back in the fridge.

from the other side of the kitchen, kristoff called out: “what’s happening?”

she spun around. “chef y/n lied to god.”

“which god?”

“godfrey.”

the kitchen erupted into laughter as you let the noise fill the space again. it was warm and familiar — just loud enough to cover whatever it was you were still trying not to feel.

even yohan peeked around the shelves, smiling behind the fan he was still pretending to fix.

“god,” aira muttered, turning back to you, hand over her heart. “i would’ve died to go. you should’ve asked him if i could take your place. my body is ready.”

“you don’t even own a blazer.”

“i have a linen vest,” she feigned offense, insulted. “and a perfectly respectable skirt.”

you shook your head, trying not to smile. “i’ve got things to do, aira. it’s payroll day. i need to sort everything by lunch.”

she sighed, deflating, then threw the spinach onto the prep bench. “you’re a coward,” she yelled out. “and i say that with love.”

the rest of the boys chuckled, the tension melting back into the usual mess of clanging pots and overlapping instructions.

everyone moved around you again, the rhythm of the morning returning. you leaned back against the counter for a second, letting the noise swirl around you.

for a second you had opened your phone last night just to check your email, you told yourself. but there they were; texts from an unknown number…short ones.

“heard from dad you’re still in makati. didn’t know if you’d want to see me, but i’d really like to see you.”

“even just for coffee. no pressure.”

“there’s a lot i probably don’t have the right to say. but i hope you’re okay.”

the first message had come four days ago. you hadn’t answered any of them.

every time you read her name, your chest did that same thing: tightened, skipped, clenched. it was stupid. you weren’t sixteen anymore — you had rice to steam and salaries to divide, but still.

aira nudged your hip with her elbow as she passed by. “hell,” she mumbled under her breath. “straight to hell.”

you laughed again, low and dry, and reached for the spinach she’d abandoned.

“then at least i won’t be cold.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

seven years ago

it was too bright inside newport world resorts. you hadn’t known a mall could shine like that; every floor glossy, every piece of light somehow staged to make everything look more expensive.

sophia walked ahead of you, her arm looped through leon’s, her heels clicking softly against the marble. you trailed just behind them next to sophia’s mum, carla, close enough to hear snatches of their conversation but far enough not to be in it.

leon was one of sophia’s best friends, tall and confident in that quiet, magnetic way. he had that hair that always looked good no matter how humid it got and a voice that sounded like he had grown up near a mic. when he smiled, people looked.

you hated that you noticed.

“you alright?” carla asked, reaching a hand to your back. her voice was gentle, but her bracelets clinked as she moved, always sounding like she was about to announce something.

“yes po,” you answer, even though your knees felt a little weird and you kept adjusting the strap of your shoulder bag like it was a nervous tic.

she gave you a kind smile, one that felt different from most adults. it was like she noticed you. “you can drop the po, y/n. we’re not at school.”

“we’re going to the steak place upstairs,” sophia said over her shoulder, her voice light. “dad booked the private room.”

you nodded; didn’t say much. you’ve never been to a place with private rooms before. most of your lunches were in food courts or karinderyas, you almost wore your school shoes today out of instinct.

“we’re early,” carla murmured to sophia as you reached the escalators.

“he’ll make us wait anyway,” sophia replied, pulling her sunglasses up onto her head. “he always says twelve and then shows up at twelve-thirty.”

you didn’t know if she was annoyed or just amused. it was hard to tell with her; always had been.

leon waited for you as you reached the top of the escalator. “he’s a chef, you know that? her dad?”

you nodded. “yeah, godfrey laforteza.”

“have you met him?”

you smiled. “only at their house.”

he grinned. “this’ll be interesting then, i’m stoked to try the food.”

the restaurant was tucked into the corner of the resort’s ground floor, behind a set of frosted doors and a name you couldn’t pronounce. a host greeted you all in english, bowing slightly before gesturing toward the private dining room.

it was dim and warm inside, golden light spilling from above like syrup.

godfrey stood as you entered; gold watch catching the light. he smiled wide when he saw sophia, then clapped leon on the back with a kind of easy affection that told you this wasn’t the first time they’d met.

then he looked at you.

“y/n,” he said, more warmly than you expected. “you look taller.”

your ears went hot. “hi po, tito.”

“come, sit next to me,” he patted the seat next to him. “we’re trying the new lunch menu. i want to hear what you think.”

you didn’t move until carla gently nudged your back. “go on, love.”

you sat between godfrey and carla, across from sophia and leon. she looked at you briefly, smiled; her teeth were perfect.

the waitstaff came in like a small parade — trays of soup poured from porcelain teapots, vegetables arranged like ikebana, fish so delicate you hesitated before touching it.

godfrey talked about everything. the plating, the temperature, the timing. he said things like mouthfeel and balance of acidity, and you tried to keep up but mostly, you watched his hands as he sliced through a duck breast with practiced ease.

“you like food, don’t you?” carla asked beside you.

you nodded, wiped your mouth before answering. “yes po.”

“she makes mean pancit at home,” sophia added. “and mango float.”

godfrey leaned in slightly. “you wanna learn how to cook?”

“a bit,” you looked around, unsure. “not like this, i don’t think i could ever be this good.”

“this is all technique,” he waved a hand. “the heart’s what matters. you’ve either got it or you don’t.”

you didn’t say anything. but you felt something click quietly into place, right behind your ribs.

you looked at him. then at your plate. then at your hands. and just like that, without drama or realisation or applause — you knew.

you wanted to cook.

“you’d do well in a kitchen,” he mentioned, sipping his wine. “smart hands and curious eyes.”

carla beamed at you like she had already decided this could be your life if you wanted it.

you were still thinking about it: about the feel of the fork in your hand, the way the food made your chest open up — when sophia leaned into leon and whispered something that made him laugh. she touched his arm lightly, leaned her cheek against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you blinked.

something tight twisted in your stomach, sharp and unfamiliar. it wasn’t anger. not quite. it wasn’t sadness either. just a kind of…displacement. like you lost something before you even knew you were holding it.

you stabbed your fork into the plate a little harder than you meant to.

“y/n?” sophia turned to you, concerned. “you okay?”

you nodded. “yeah. just hot.”

leon passed you a napkin, still grinning. you took it, barely looking at him.

she turned back and you felt the moment leave you.

the rest of the lunch passed in a blur; you listened when they talked, laughed when you had to, but your mind had split. half of you sat at the table. the other half had already started picturing a kitchen of your own: the heat, the knives, the smell of onions hitting butter. the fire.

and somewhere deep inside that heat, you imagined sophia again. her hand not on leon’s shoulder, but yours.

you didn’t know what that meant. not yet.

but the ache stayed with you. it still does.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

saturday nights at concave always felt like a controlled collapse. the kind of exhaustion that made your fingers ache and your lower back throb with every step, but somehow still left you wired from the chaos.

tonight had been one of the busiest yet — valet queues doubling up, someone asking for a private dining room that didn’t exist, and a family of seven who insisted they were promised a window seat by ‘the guy who owns the restaurant’ despite not having a reservation at all.

it was past ten when the last table finally cleared.

aira was singing off-key into her phone, facetime angled towards the ceiling while she wiped down the counters with rhythmic aggression. her boyfriend’s laugh filtered faintly through the screen, followed by a dramatic “babe, i’m working!” which none of you believed for a second.

the rest of you sat on plastic crates near the back door outside, backs against the wall, the night air heavy with heat and frying oil. kristoff lit the last few cigarettes and passed it around, all of you taking slow drags like it was communion. there was a quiet bond that came with being this tired at the same time as other people.

“i still can’t believe she dropped that bottle,” leo began laughing, his voice hoarse from yelling over the pass earlier.

“ten thousand pesos,” yohan added, exhaling smoke through his nose. “and she cried like her dog died.”

you winced, leaning your head back against the concrete. “i felt bad. she was shaking.”

leo nudged your foot. “you told her it wasn’t coming out of her pay.”

“of course i did.”

he grinned. “see, that’s why you’re a terrible boss.”

“wow, thanks.”

“you care too much,” he continued, flicking ash off the side. “it’s gross.”

“good bosses don’t cry in the dry storage,” you muttered.

“you cried?”

“it was humid.”

they all laughed.

kristoff took a final drag from his cigarette, then flicked it into the old tin can near the door. “you know what’s worse?” he shook his head. “diana and i fighting last night.”

that got everyone’s attention as you all turned your heads slightly.

“about what now?” yohan asked.

he dragged a hand down his face. “i put her water bottle in the freezer. just the regular way. and apparently that’s…how you destroy the lining? or the metal? or our future children? i don’t even know.”

leo blinked. “damn.”

“she said it’s proof i don’t respect her stuff. then she said we should do separate laundry from now on.”

“over a bottle?”

“over a bottle.”

the sound of tyres crunching against gravel pulled everyone’s attention. it wasn’t loud — but sharp enough to cut through the rhythm of the moment. you all turned your heads in unison, squinting toward the end of the alleyway where the staff parking lot sat mostly empty.

“customer coming back for vengeance,” yohan muttered, flicking his cigarette over the side rail. “you know that lady who said the bangus was too bony?”

“lock the doors,” leo added. “she’s probably got a weapon.”

“the gun’s in the safe,” kristoff mumbled carefully, not missing a beat.

you were about to say something — something dumb, something to diffuse the rising tension when the driver’s door opened.

and godfrey stepped out, casual as ever in slacks and a light button-down, waving toward you like this was the most normal thing in the world.

but you weren’t looking at him.

your eyes were fixed on the passenger door: on the way it opened slowly, deliberately. on the figure that stepped out and stood for a moment, as if she was letting her eyes adjust to the light.

the yankees cap, the face mask, the black hoodie pulled tight around her. but the way she stood, slightly tilted to one side, one foot angled out like she might run at any second — it was all her.

you knew those eyes.

no one could hide that shade of brown from you. the way they scanned, half-expectant, like they were always waiting for a sign.

your stomach dropped, hard and low like it had missed a step.

“holy shit,” leo whispered, nearly dropping the cigarette.

“is that —“

what the fuck, you thought.

“yeah,” kristoff breathed. “the hell?”

yohan stood up so fast his crate tipped over. “i’m not ready for this, bye!”

then, like a well-rehearsed act, all three of them turned and made a mad dash for the back door; grown men scattering like roaches.

a bunch of traitors.

kristoff stumbled on his way in but still managed to shout, “aira!” and a split second later, you heard her scream. then the door slammed shut, the metal rattling in the frame, leaving you alone with her outside.

you were still sitting on your crate, legs suddenly unsure if they remembered how to work.

she started walking to you.

slow, steady steps that felt too loud in your ears. she lifted a hand and gave a small wave, a little awkward, like she didn’t know if it would be received.

you stood, finally, your knees feeling loose and unreliable. the heat from the kitchen behind you met the cool of the alleyway and it made your skin prickle.

the world shrank.

you could hear your own heartbeat now, thudding somewhere in your neck. the sharp scent of garlic still clung to your shirt; your hands, stained with soy and calamansi, hung at your sides.

and there she was.

sophia stopped a few steps in front of you. not close enough to touch, but enough to undo you completely — you saw it in her eyes.

the softness; the nerves; the weight.

neither of you spoke.

the streetlight buzzed above you. someone’s stereo played a slow opm song in the next building over. back inside, you could hear aira saying something very loud and incoherent, followed by someone — probably kristoff —shushing her in vain.

but none of it mattered.

you stood in front of each other, the past folded neatly between your bodies like a letter you had never opened.

she stepped closer, and in the light, harsh and flickering from the mounted alley lamp above the staff door — she looked older. more refined around the jaw, a little sharper in the cheekbones. the years had carved something into her face.

it wasn’t unkindness, but time. it was a life you hadn’t been part of, filled with late flights and green rooms and a thousand versions of her you would never get to meet.

a breeze pushed through the alley and caught the edge of her shirt. her hat dipped slightly forward as she pulled her mask down with careful fingers, revealing a soft, tired smile.

“hi,” she spoke, her voice small and steady.

you swallowed as you nodded once, your throat felt dry.

she glanced behind her toward the street, then back at you. “i didn’t mean to show up like this. i kind of forced dad to bring me, he said you didn’t want to see me yet,” she scratched the back of her neck, then added. “we had a whole argument about it in the car. like, full-on telenovela volume.”

her laugh was breathless, a little shy. “i hope you’re not mad at him.”

you shook your head, though your voice hadn’t found you yet. it felt like all your thoughts were stuck behind glass: still moving, but quiet.

“i just needed to see you,” she continued, taking a step closer. “i needed to hear your voice.”

the words landed hard. not cruelly, just…directly. she always had that way of talking — like if something sat on her chest long enough, it had no choice but to escape.

you felt like you were eighteen again, standing in a doorway too narrow for everything you wanted to say.

“how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice a little uncertain now, as if startled herself with the silence that followed.

that pulled you out of it.

“i’ve been good,” you managed to answer, though the word felt strange coming out. “busy, tired. you know, kitchen stuff.”

she smiled, nodded quickly, hands playing with the hem of her shirt.

you pointed to the stack of crates near the door. “you wanna sit?”

“yeah,” she exhaled like she has been holding her breath the whole time.

you both sat side by side on one crate, knees brushing slightly. her hands were in her lap. yours were still trembling faintly, so you pressed them into your thighs, grounding yourself in something solid.

you talked, slowly at first. about small things. safe things.

anthony still came by to steal food. she laughed, really laughed and said she wasn’t surprised. you told her about kyle, still waiting on his contract so he could go back out on the ships. she asked if he still sang backstreet boys during karaoke.

he still did.

you told her kristoff worked here now. “he’s marrying diana,” you added and her eyes lit up.

“no way,” she breathed out in disbelief. “they actually made it?”

“somehow.”

“who’s managing who?”

“depends on the day.”

she laughed again, covering her mouth. you watched her and felt something shift in your chest. not new, not really — it’s familiar in a way that made you ache a little.

your feelings for her weren’t coming back, they truly just hadn’t left.

they had gone quiet, buried themselves beneath years of busyness and the slow accumulation of adult life. but sitting here beside her, the memories began resurfacing — old pages being turned back over, softer with age.

sophia looked down at her hands. her voice was quiet when she spoke again.

“i cried when i saw the photos from your opening,” she continued. “i saw your mum. your lola. some of the old neighbours. even my parents. it looked like home.”

you didn’t speak.

“i’m sorry,” she added. “for not looking back.”

the silence stretched between you.

you looked at her, and the guilt in her eyes was real. it was…honest like she finally let herself feel it.

you nodded in quick understanding. “life happens sometimes.”

she turned her face toward you, brows furrowed like she didn’t expect you to let her off that easily.

“no, really,” you pushed. “you were chasing something; something big and real. and you got it. i don’t think you could’ve looked back even if you wanted to.”

her eyes glossed, just a little.

“i’ve always been proud of you,” you said, voice steady now. “even if we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives.”

she let out a breath, shaky and soft.

you leaned back against the wall, looking up at the empty stretch of sky.

“you’re everywhere now,” you added, smiling faintly. “can’t even get away from you if i tried. the billboards alone are stalking me.”

sophia laughed through her nose, wiping at her cheek. “those were terrible photos.”

“your face is literally flawless.”

“you’re delusional.”

“you’re still annoying.”

she grinned as reached her eyes and lingered.

neither of you spoke after that. you just listened to the low rattle of a tricycle turning into the alley, the soft clatter of dishes being washed somewhere inside, the low hum of the world continuing just beyond the corner of this moment.

you shifted slightly, looked at her. “you want a mule?”

her face broke into another smile. “yes.”

you stood slowly, legs stiff from the day. the city didn’t feel as loud anymore. the ache in your chest had settled — not gone, but softer. more in the lines of something remembered than lost.

then, you motioned toward the kitchen doors with a nod. she looked at you with curious eyes.

“you want to meet the team?” you asked, dusting your hands off on your apron. “if you don’t mind…they’re scared of you.”

she laughed, light and surprised. “i saw them run inside.”

you grinned despite yourself and pushed open the kitchen door, holding it open for her as she followed. and you felt it…that part of you that had never really closed the door on her.

the second you stepped in, everyone suddenly became very busy. kristoff was wiping down a perfectly clean shelf, leo had mysteriously found a clipboard to stare at like it held the secrets of the universe, yohan, as expected, remained hidden in the washing station, clanking plates like his life depended on it.

and aira - bless her soul - stood frozen in the middle of the room holding a bag of mangoes.

you looked around, unimpressed. “really?”

they all avoided your gaze, except aira. who continued to stand like a train was about to hit her at full speed.

“everyone, this is sophia, or piya, like i used to call her,” you introduced, voice dry.

sophia raised a hand, smile soft. “hi, sorry for barging in at the last minute.”

aira still didn’t move, the mangoes swaying in her hand.

thankfully, kristoff recovered first and stepped forward quickly. “it’s so nice to see you again, soph. been years, no?”

“way too long,” she responded, smiling at him. “i think the last time was…diana’s birthday party? the one where you both got food poisoning?”

“yes,” he nodded, grinning. “bonding through suffering.”

you caught a glance at aira, jaw slightly slack and eyes suspiciously glassy.

leo wiped his hand on a towel before offering it to her. “it’s nice to finally meet the legend,” he said, which earned a quiet groan from you. “i’m leo.”

sophia chuckled as she shook his hand. “you guys run a tight ship back here.”

“depends on the day,” he laughed. “today we survived.”

she turned to aira next, who hadn’t spoken or blinked. she approached slowly, like one might approach a deer in a clearing.

“hi,” she said gently. “i’m sophia.”

aira’s mouth opened but no sound came out. just a small, strange breath. she nodded once, violently, like she has been programmed under poor wi-fi.

“aira,” you winced in embarrassment. “say something.”

“is this real life?” she finally croaked.

sophia laughed again and, to everyone’s horror and delight, pulled her into a hug. aira’s arms hung limp for a moment, then she clutched her like they had known each other for a decade. over sophia’s shoulder, she mouthed oh my god at you.

“i love you,” she blurted.

you groaned. please no. “don’t be fucking weird.”

everyone laughed. sophia pulled back, still grinning. “and i love you too.”

aira looked over at you and added, “y/n loves you too.”

“aira!” you barked, already turning away. your whole body flushed hot, ears burning.

“i love y/n too,” sophia was trying not to laugh, her head bowed, lips pressed together in a losing battle.

you muttered something incomprehensible and walked off to grab the mules, still mentally screaming. your hands were shaking slightly as you popped the bottles open. you weren’t even sure from what — embarrassment, maybe. or something deeper. like your chest had been cracked open and every feeling you buried decided that tonight was the night to come home.

from the kitchen, you heard sophia’s laugh, low and warm. then her voice, teasing: “aira’s not sick.”

“she lied to you!” aira shrieked. “she was just too nervous to come.”

“you absolute snakes,” you muttered to the mules, then carried the bottles back out, just in time to see kristoff and sophia mid-conversation.

“so how’s diana really?” sophia asked.

“terrifying. but in a hot way,” he responded. “we’ve already got the wedding date. she’s in full planner mode, i just show up.”

“you guys are really getting married, that’s huge.”

“yeah, diana and i are doing the civil wedding first, we don’t have time to plan a big thing with all the restaurant shit going on.”

“i’m so happy for you guys!” she squealed, clapping her hands together.

“you’re next,” he said, looking past sophia, then directly at you.

fuck off, you mouthed.

sophia raised an eyebrow. “i’d need a girlfriend for that. at least.”

“head chef is single!” aira yelled out, a little bit too keen. and so much for promising yourself you wouldn’t go red.

you looked up. then immediately looked away, the bottle nearly slipped out of your hand.

“you good?” leo asked, grinning.

“chef hands,” you wheezed. “tired hands.”

it was a dumb joke, maybe. or maybe it wasn’t. you never really asked, never dared her. the memories of your hands touching hers, of sleeping shoulder to shoulder, of quiet moments on rooftops — those were things you kept somewhere safe, under glass, labelled friendship.

it never occurred to you that maybe…she saw it differently.

you took a slow sip from your bottle, unsure whether to laugh or pretend you lost hearing altogether.

the rest of the team had found their courage again. kristoff pulled out his phone and suggested selfies, to which sophia nodded without hesitation. they huddled in tight near the prep bench, yohan even emerging from the dish area —though he refused to make eye contact, hovering awkwardly in the background like he was summoned against his will, which she found charming and weird in equal measure.

then leo said: “okay, now just you two.”

you blinked. “what?”

“just you and sophia,” aira repeated, already motioning with her phone. “hurry up, chef, i got places to be.”

“i reek,” you mumbled. “i’ve been over a stove for twelve hours.”

kristoff frowned. “just put your damn arm around her and smile; be respectful.”

“i’m literally a health hazard.”

before you could argue further, sophia stepped in beside you, her body warm and familiar. without warning, she reached for your wrist and guided your arm around her shoulder like it had always belonged there.

you didn’t breathe, just smiled the most awkward smile you could ever let out.

your hand rested there: awkward, hesitant, too aware of her warmth. sophia’s body leaned just slightly into yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

snap. the photo was taken.

you stepped back so quickly you nearly dropped the bottle.

the team took a few more photos, then began to peel off one by one. kristoff was the first to wave goodnight, followed by yohan who mumbled something and disappeared again. aira said goodbye three times before finally leaving, and leo, as always, made sure the lights were off in the storage before stepping out with a tired salute.

you walked them out, flipped the sign to closed, and turned the lock.

the kitchen felt impossibly still after they left. the kind of quiet that only came after a long shift and a longer night. your muscles ached and your heart hadn’t stopped racing.

“i’m just gonna get changed,” you cleared your throat. “these clothes have seen horrible things.”

“okay,” she replied, voice soft now. like it was only meant for you.

you slipped into the staff bathroom, peeling off your apron and tossing it into the laundry basket. your shirt clung damp to your back. you washed your face with the cheap peppermint cleanser you kept in the drawer and stared at yourself in the mirror.

she was here.

sitting in your restaurant.

laughing with your friends.

you were halfway through drying your hands when the thought hit you full force: this wasn’t a dream. and you had no idea what it meant, for you.

you pulled on a clean white shirt, ran fingers through your hair and stepped out.

the kitchen was dim now, lights off except for the soft glow spilling from the bar. sophia sat alone at the counter, her bottle in front of her, fingers tracing the label.

you moved quietly to the stool beside her.

the hum of the fridge, the soft buzz of the light overhead…everything felt so much louder in the quiet. she looked at you, then looked away. but her smile stayed.

something inside you; something buried and stubborn, stirred like it had been waiting for this. for her.

and now it’s just the two of you.

alone again.

you swirled what was left of your mule, the ice melting slow against the glass. it only tasted good because of who you were drinking it with.

“so how did this place happen?” she began, gesturing vaguely at the restaurant around you. “concave - when?”

you leaned back against the stool, exhaling slowly. “three years ago.”

“i always wondered,” she hummed, eyes watching you fondly. “how?”

“dad got a payout,” you replied, fingers tapping lightly on the bar. “he was working in australia, had injury on site. slipped, messed up his spine. they paid out this ridiculous sum. more than any of us expected. he didn’t want to keep it.”

she turned toward you, her chin resting against her hand. “i didn’t know that.”

“he asked me what i’d do with it if it were mine,” you said. “i didn’t even think about it. just said, i’d build a place where i could cook whatever i wanted. and he said okay.”

her brows furrowed, soft with concern. “is he okay now?”

“he’s alright. limps a bit and retired earlier than he wanted, but he likes it. spends most of his time annoying my mum,” you looked down into your drink. “i still don’t think i deserved it.”

“i do,” she said, voice low before sipping her drink. “you’re always working hard; even when we were kids.”

you smiled and it surprised you how much it meant to hear that from her.

“lola’s still the same,” you added, shifting the subject. “stubborn. refuses to let the kasambahay do the laundry. still insists she’s stronger than all of us combined.”

“she probably is,” sophia chuckled.

“she probably is.”

“and your mum?”

you shrugged, but it came with a warmth you couldn’t quite hide. “she still makes me lunch. insists i don’t eat enough. dropped off sinigang last tuesday and then took half of my pantry in her bag.”

“that’s so her,” she giggled, shaking her head. you could feel her shoulder brush lightly against yours now, whether from the way she leaned or the narrow space between the stools.

you watched her as she spoke, the way her eyes lit up when she remembered things, like they lived in her just as vividly. it made something inside you tug gently at its roots.

“she always liked me.”

“she still does,” you answered, taking another swig at your bottle. “she saw you in a tvc last week and said, ‘that girl used to steal our shampoo.’”

“i did,” she admitted, not even sorry. “your mum had the expensive kind.”

you tilted your head, smiling into the rim of your bottle. “she still does.”

“you kept all of them,” she said. “everyone that mattered.”

you didn’t know how to explain that they weren’t just yours to keep…that they stayed because something about the way you lived didn’t demand that they love you from afar. but instead, you smiled and said: “yeah. somehow.”

for a moment, the silence returned — soft, comfortable. you watched the way sophia’s fingers turned her bottle slowly, the condensation pooling beneath it, catching the light.

then she looked at you, eyes curious. “so…is there anyone?”

you blinked, letting the question sit for a second longer than it should’ve.

“not really,” you shook your head too fast. “i think i’m too emotionally unavailable for that.”

she laughed, a small puff of air. “you? you’re being dramatic now.”

“i’m bad at saying things out loud,” you explained. “i think too much, miss my moments. then think about them for five years straight. not exactly a dream package.”

she looked at you like she wanted to argue, but only said: “you can cook. you’re a chef. you own a restaurant with a good bar. what else could a girl want?”

you gave her a look. “a girl who’s not afraid of commitment?”

“minor detail,” she chuckled, raising the bottle to her mouth.

you shook your head, but it was hard to hide the way your chest buzzed. not nervous exactly, the air shifted and you weren’t quite sure what it meant yet.

“what about you?” you asked. “anyone?”

sophia leaned her arms on the bar; just like you, her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the bottle. “there was someone for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

right.

the words stung in a quiet, unexpected way. not jealousy, but the faint ache of knowing someone else had been where you once wanted to be; that someone got to hold her in the ways you could only imagine and dismissed as daydreams.

it shouldn’t hurt, but it did.

you tried to mask it by swallowing another sip. the bottle was nearly empty.

your mind caught on the earlier moment — her casual joke about needing a girlfriend. the way she said it so easily. it hadn’t left you since. your thoughts kept replaying all the times you held hands when you were younger, how it never felt weird, but maybe it was always almost something.

maybe you were just too much of a coward back then to let yourself name it.

she was much closer now. not in an intentional way, but enough to feel it. your knees brushed and her arm warmed the air between you. the room was so quiet it felt like even the walls were listening.

“have you seen the letter?” she eventually spoke, voice softer.

you blinked, caught off-guard. “what letter?”

her fingers curled slightly around the base of the bottle. “before i left…i wrote you one. i didn’t know how to say everything, so i wrote it instead. tucked it in your recipe book with the red cover. the one you always carried.”

you paused.

the memory flooded back fast: the airport, that day. you remembered it in pieces; how you refused godfrey’s offer to drive you home, how you cried in the terminal bathroom and then boarded a jeep half-blind from tears. your hands trembling.

you groaned, running a hand through your face.

“i left the bag,” you said, burying your face in your hands. “soph, i left the fucking bag in the jeepney. i was crying like an idiot and i got off without it. my notes and my book with your letter.”

she went still beside you.

“i’m so sorry,” you added, looking at her. “i had no idea.”

her expression changed. not anger, not disappointment; something you couldn’t name. a bruise behind her eyes like she had just lost something all over again.

you wanted to reach for her.

“it’s fine,” she quickly dismissed. “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

but it did, you could see that it did. and you didn’t want to ask what the letter said, not tonight because her voice had gone fragile in that particular way people get when they’ve decided not to cry.

and you knew sophia — when she closed a door, she didn’t open it again unless she wanted to.

you both sipped the last of your drinks. the silence felt like it had weight to it; carefully holding something between you.

she began to talk again….about the summers you used to spend barefoot, catching dragonflies, the time she dared you to eat a siling labuyo straight and you cried for twenty minutes and your old teacher who threw chalk with military precision.

you laughed, reminiscing.

you didn’t say everything you wanted to say.

but she stayed and that had to mean something, too.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

part two

#sophia laforteza x reader #sophia laforteza #katseye x reader #kpop gg #kpop x reader #heliooosss #kpop imagines #katseye #sophia x reader

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inseobts · 5 months ago

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Captain’s Orders (Even the Silly Ones!)

luffy x gn!reader

because his captain’s orders are actually for the silliest reasons

words count: 1.2k

tags: fluffy, sfw, humour, gender neutral

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sun hangs high over the Thousand Sunny, casting warm rays over the deck as the crew goes about their daily business. It’s a relatively peaceful day—no marines, no sea kings, no sudden ambushes. Just the sound of waves and seagulls filling the air.

Which means it’s the perfect time for your captain, Monkey D. Luffy, to start handing out ridiculous orders.

Standing at the ship’s railing, Luffy puffs out his chest and grins wide “Alright, everyone, listen up!” he announces, hands on his hips.

Zoro, who is in the middle of his nap, cracks one eye open “What now?”

Luffy ignores him and points dramatically at you “Y/N! As your captain, I order you to give me a kiss!”

You blink “That’s… not how captain’s orders work.”

“It is now!” he declares.

The crew collectively sighs. This is nothing new.

Robin chuckles behind her book “He does have the authority, technically.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway “Fine...” Stepping forward, you place a quick peck on his cheek. Luffy beams like he just won a fight against an admiral.

“That’s the spirit!” He turns to Sanji next “Oi, Sanji! Captain’s orders! Make a cake for y/n!”

Sanji flicks his cigarette “You do realize I would’ve done that anyway, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun if it’s an order.” Luffy snickers.

Sanji sighs but heads to the kitchen nonetheless “At least he has good taste in orders.”

Nami crosses her arms, smirking “Luffy, shouldn’t you be giving real orders?”

Luffy tilts his head “These are real orders!”

“No, I mean actual captain stuff! You know, navigating, battle strategies, anything remotely useful?”

Luffy gasps as if she just suggested something absurd “That sounds boring.”

Franky walks past, adjusting his sunglasses “Honestly, I kinda respect it. Most captains would be barking orders about ship maintenance, but this guy? Priorities.”

“EXACTLY!” Luffy shouts, fist-pumping “See, Franky gets it!”

Chopper giggles “So what other ‘important’ orders do you have, Captain?”

Luffy taps his chin in thought before his eyes light up “Brook! Captain’s orders! Play a song so y/n and I can dance!”

Brook laughs “Yohoho! Of course, Captain!” He grabs his violin and starts playing a lively tune.

Luffy immediately grabs your hands, spinning you around the deck. “C’mon, y/n! This is fun, right?”

You laugh, stumbling slightly as he twirls you “Okay, okay, but you’re supposed to let me lead sometimes!”

“Nope! Captain’s orders—I get to lead the dance!”

Zoro groans, rubbing his temple “I swear, this idiot is impossible.”

Usopp sighs, sitting on a barrel “I don’t know why we even act surprised anymore. Hey Zoro, wanna dance?”

The ridiculousness continues for the rest of the day.

At dinner, Luffy slams his hand on the table “Captain’s orders! Everyone eats dessert first!”

Nami glares at him “Luffy, you always eat dessert first since y/n told you it's their favourite”

“Yeah, but now it’s an order!” He grins before stuffing his face with cake.

Later, when you’re sitting at the bow of the ship enjoying the breeze, Luffy plops down beside you and rests his head on your lap. He looks up at you with that signature playful grin “Hey, y/n”

“Hm?”

“Captain’s orders.” He pokes your cheek “Be happy forever.”

Your heart melts a little at that one.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair “Aye aye, Captain.”

The days pass with Luffy continuing to abuse his “captain’s orders” for the silliest reasons. At this point, the crew has learned to just roll with it—or, in Zoro’s case, ignore it completely.

Today, the Sunny is gliding across calm waters, and the sun is blazing. Too hot to train, too hot to run around, and too hot to do anything productive. Everyone is lazing around in the shade, enjoying a rare, peaceful afternoon.

Then, Luffy stands up suddenly from where he’s been sprawled out on the deck “ALRIGHT, CREW! NEW CAPTAIN’S ORDERS!”

The reactions are immediate.

Zoro groans, rolling over onto his side to pretend he’s asleep. Nami rubs her temples like she already has a headache. Sanji exhales a long puff of smoke. Usopp leans back against the railing, looking mildly concerned.

You sit up from your spot beside him “What is it this time?”

Luffy points dramatically at the sky “It’s too hot. Captain’s orders—everyone in the water!”

Robin raises a brow over her book “That’s just called going for a swim, Luffy.”

“Yeah, but this way, it’s official,” he argues.

Franky grins “Well, can’t argue with that. LET’S GOOOO!” He cannonballs straight into the sea, sending a massive splash over the deck.

Brook laughs “Ah, I’d love to join, but I’ll drown!”

“Just float in a barrel or something!” Usopp suggests.

Chopper looks hesitant “I guess I could use a break��”

“I will not be getting my hair wet” Nami says firmly.

Sanji is already setting out towels “I’ll get drinks ready for when you guys get back.”

Luffy turns to you and grins “Y/N! Captain’s orders—you have to jump in with me!”

You shake your head with a laugh “Luffy, you can’t swim.”

“That’s why you’re coming with me!” Before you can argue, he grabs your hand and leaps off the ship, taking you down with him.

The water is a refreshing shock against your skin. When you surface, gasping, Luffy is already grinning like a fool “See? This is fun, right?”

You splash water at him “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.” He laughs, flailing his arms to stay afloat “Now hurry up, I’m gonna drown.”

You sigh but swim over, letting him cling to you like a koala.

“Oi, Luffy, stop abusing y/n as a flotation device” Usopp calls from the deck.

“It’s fine. Captain’s orders” Luffy replies smugly, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You shake your head but smile, letting him hold on.

That night, after dinner, the crew is gathered on the deck under the stars. The sea is calm, and Brook is playing a gentle tune on his violin. It’s peaceful—until Luffy decides to disrupt it.

“Captain’s orders!” he suddenly announces “We’re having a cuddle pile!”

A collective groan echoes around the deck.

“No way in hell” Zoro says immediately.

Nami pinches the bridge of her nose “Luffy, not every order has to be something dumb.”

“Yes, it does” he insists. Then he turns to you with a grin “C’mon, y/n! Captain’s orders—you have to cuddle me!”

You sigh, already used to this, and pull him down beside you. He immediately wraps his arms around you like an octopus.

Robin chuckles “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in following this order.” She sits down beside Nami, and soon, Chopper is curling up between them.

Brook lies down on the deck “I have no body heat, but I’ll participate in spirit.”

Usopp grumbles, but even he leans against Franky.

Zoro, of course, remains at a distance with his arms crossed.

Luffy sighs happily, nuzzling into your shoulder “See? Best captain’s order ever.”

You chuckle, running your fingers through his hair “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it” he repeats, grinning up at you.

You roll your eyes but kiss his forehead “Yeah, yeah. Captain’s orders.”

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4mrplumi · 6 months ago

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( crow choir. entry two) ── ravens hiding in a shoe ( m.s | prev/next )

IMPORTANT author’s note at the end.

note: this entry is entirely re-written. you can read the first, now “non-canon” version here. events there do not apply to the current story.

crashed out on the couch with some abysmally boring show on the tv and the filthy humidity of your apartment is exactly how you expected to spend the week. your phone’s acting all funky while you scroll through a net-tabloid about oliver green with a plastic pen in your mouth, the cracked blue paint on it crumbling onto your lips.

you’ve long since tuned out the annoying buzz from the faulty lights in the corridor, the sound of them breaking through your door like the thieves that take cover at your place often, and you have to set your overheating phone down for a moment before you get up and wipe a hand against your face.

shortly after turning nineteen, you’d moved out with less than a word to anyone, figuring they’d piece together your whereabouts if they really needed to. and you doubt they do, since you’ve been living in genuine, peaceful, boring simplicity for a few months now. as peaceful and boring as it gets in gotham anyway.

you don’t have many friends, have a side job at a corner-store that gets robbed habitually on tuesdays and fridays, and have to shoo away loud kids playing at the front like an old man. it’s absurdly mundane, and you can’t help but calm down from your raucous everyday doings.

you’re finding peace in the silent shadows that you used to fear as a little kid, basking in them to make up for the lack of sun in the city. the more you grow older, the more you change. it’s expected of course, but it must be odd to not have anything really stopping you from ever-continuous change. some kids had parents doting over them turning into teenagers, teasing mood swings and scolding more often. some parents teared up when their kid turned old enough to be called an adult, feeling eighteen years slip through their fingers like sand. you don’t have a mother to wipe your tears or a father who wants to pat you on the back for a job well done.

growing up in the wayne manor is an experience envisioned as boundless privilege, written about in absurd fictions by wealth-worshipping teenagers from other cities, and scorned by the angrier lot of the unfortunate here in gotham. and you suppose it is. it is a privilege, and much different from the life you’d been living before. you guess you’ve payed your due for living so selfishly in that luxury by being ignored all your time there. you know your siblings also pay for that privilege, in more difficult, harsher ways, with fists and feet and rods and ropes.

changing, changing, changing. you think that for now, you’ve stopped changing, thinking back to the numerous times your mentality morphed to your surroundings like an asocial chameleon. when you were very young, freshly twelve and thrown into a house with your real father and a permanent family, you hated them. detested them even. you’d scowl and hiss at any glance from a brother, any dignitary waving at you at a gala and even the greenhouse plants that withered upon your arrival in dismay. you hated your fathers ploys at power and sauntering smiles, the skin with which he shook official hands and the pearly teeth with which he grinned. you hated richard’s comforting nod, and the way tim talked to guests, the way alfred always knew and the way bruce never did.

but you softened. you matured, is that the word? you saw them in a warmer light after hearing a girl squabble and wail at her patient father at the park and thought with a surging need, you wanted that too. so you smoothened out your frayed ends, stitched together competency. it would be hard to raise yourself to your brothers’ level, but you could try. among the chaos of being bruce wayne, being batman, being father and being vigilante, you’d resolved to be a beacon of peace for them.

but what beacon could you have hoped to be, if your light was so dull?

they didn’t ignore you, no. your father’s eyes glazed over you, like the block of your body was an insignificant dot among many others. like you were a clear champagne glass, like the ones served at his galas, to be nursed all throughout the event, but never indulged. you’re lucky others loosen themselves at drinks though, because you’d manage to craft quite a respectable social image among his associates and guests. grayson junior, an old lady draped in large, large pearls, had laughed, a charming little thing with only half his enthusiasm. a washed out, non-temperamental, unfeelingly warm version of your eldest brother. a stain of what he was, and a poor attempt at following his example.

but you twitched smiles through backhanded compliments about your inheritance in the family, the ushering prods at you to speak to your father about a deal (you’d never even dream to) and various vain offences made a speciality by gotham’s elite class. you’d endured all of that with half the mind to sock those prudish grins right off, so that your father would recognise your discipline and nod at you. he never even looked.

and after attempts after attempts after attempts at harbouring their favour, to grasp onto this life and make the best of it, never let go, you destroyed the little smudge of any real anger you ever had. you were reduced to a plain slate, an unused blackboard, a project in the making. you had no end goal, however, no final version. ever-changing.

you began to resent them, once more. miserably sulking over “how could they?”s and then, “how dare they!”s. you took to meaner methods of nagging for their attention. always being at the scene of some altercation at school, having prodded or initiated a fight between people was just a perfect look. you could justify any slight guilt at seeing bleeding lips curved into bruised scowls directed to you by thinking, your friends were much worse! so there’s really nothing wrong. those guys are odd anyway, they had it coming. but even that changes, and you once again erode to nonchalance.

your friends, however, do not change, redirecting their focus from messing around at school to sneaking into bars and clubs with comically fake ids, slipping into petty crime and street-fighting, racking up tickets on their profiles like medals. but you didn’t leave them, no, you were attached. forget rose-tinted glasses, yours were bright, hot, pink, finding a way to justify just about every brawl they stuck up, every man they mugged and every shot they downed while being well under the right age to. but gotham’s an odd place, it’s not too absurd to see a bunch of scrappy fifteen year olds running about with forks and foxes in their hair.

and you stayed this way, morbidly going through long, lonely days of watching your siblings live a life entirely parallel to yours. an ache that carved down from your chest and across the first bones of your ribs became a permanent one, and your throat would sting far too often to be considered normal. you’d kick and scream and fight with anyone you could, breaking into gushing tears the second they looked away. always conflicted and always changing, it messed with you, especially with no one to tell.

your family would be out at night, fighting the very same thugs that your friends are turning to become, all while you languished through the day counting bills and reading licenses off the wallets they pocket. after particularly violent exchanges, you couldn’t even look at the warmth that radiated off of bruce’s hand on damian’s shoulder, dick’s grin at tim or cassandra’s strange card game with duke. you couldn’t want to be a part of them, because you knew that maybe, you never would be.

yes, they have bigger problems. and yes, you blend perfectly into the blur of all the hooded and masked faces of gotham, and yes, you never do any real harm. but you can’t imagine being caught, returning to such unpleasant ways of life despite being given a hand at the one offered to you on a gold-plated platter. guilt and pride fought with their fists in your head, the second beaming at the idea of their surprise and notice if you ever made a mark, and the first ashamed at the thought of it at all. but you couldn’t live this life.

so when it got too heavy, you made the quick decision to leave. you’ve been changing so much, doing so much. moving out of the manor with all the necessary legal requirements was the tamest of them. you made all the proper requirements, choosing to call alfred after you moved out with just the slightest hesitance, worrying that he’d snitch you out in a way that doesn’t seem right. doesn’t justify your decisions.

and it’s after your budding malevolence for the lame-vigilantism stream of gotham’s legality is relocated from the estate’s concrete, and into the plywood of your apartment, can you really feel satisfied with yourself. when you hide a scrambling girl with a gun in her sleeve from the officer that knock on your door a minute later, can you feel satisfied.

admittedly, it is petty to be harbouring the same small-time criminals your family tries to turn over, but who cares? your friends are among the lot, those who couldn’t escape gotham’s gravity and leave, coming through your door with botched noses and empty barrels, and you wouldn’t turn them over. especially not to people who turned you away. there’s an ebb of sadness, a doubt that asks if you could have turned out different, and you squash it with the joy you get at seeing the vexed silhouettes of the caped crusaders perched on terraces from your window.

and with a tremendous stretch and a yawn, you pull yourself and your stiff joints out of thought, going to open the main door after a squealing notification from a regular visitor asking you to open the door. the people behind the door change, but at least they always come back.

it was troubling to say the least, when alfred informed bruce of (name)’s relocation. of course, he’d expected at least a little knowledge of it from the kid themselves, but didn’t dwell much on that. according to his accounts and alfred’s motionings, (name) was well and enough the age to own an apartment, own it legally and without trouble, and sludge through the days just fine, since they’d speak regularly with alfred.

he does bristle at your unsaved contact number, noting it from alfred and resolving to call you later. he does however send it to the kids as well, asking them to check in on you incase they haven’t recently. he doesn’t know if they met up with you after you left.

right now, he’s more focused on a little branched out gang that the commissioner, gordon, was troubled with. the week had been relatively quiet, spending patrol through stopping little crimes and such. offering a little assistance wouldn't take up any time, and was a productive way to spend little time too, according to him.

he went through witness files, the crimes all regular, as regular as they get. robberies, violent fights, keying cars (bruce purses his lips at the immaturity) and more. one case however, sticks out. the members of the gang, group even, considering their lower than low presence in the crime world all seemed to disappear right after making turns outside an apartment owned by an elderly estate manager. bruce deduced that it must be their hideout, but couldn’t really risk chasing them in, since the building was well occupied by civilians too and it’d be difficult to figure out their exact residence without prior investigation. not to mention, a little background check assured him that the man running the place was not affiliated with the people gordon was motioning at, other than the fact he presumably (and unknowingly) was housing them.

but what caught his eye was the disappearance of a girl near the same place. a profile by another victim of the gang’s mugging described her as somewhere around twenty years old, or just an exceptionally old looking teenager. according to the poorly kept case files one of GCPD interns, she was not identified among the regulars, and did not leave the building like the rest of them.

the whole thing was very mundane, low-profile, and her disappearance could also be swept away as just a reconsideration of career choices on her behalf. a new member, who decided quickly she didn’t want to be a part of it all. of course, that’s rarely ever the case in gotham, and could very well set a stage for a suspected murder, kidnapping.

first things first, simply a checkout of the place should be enough to confirm any further decisions that he’d tell gordon to carry through. in the meantime, he ought to check in with the league, the asylum, crime alley and nightwing. bruce can be described as paranoid, even if very few people can say it to his face.

he prefers being prepared. if not the strongest or the fastest, he can be the most prepared. maybe, he was prepared for this too.

“(name),” tim sighed, “won’t answer my message.”

bruce had put him to reaching out to his older sibling, over a number he’d spent a few minutes memorising before texting. dick, present at the time, insisted he called, but quit after getting a look.

he leaned over the back of the couch to see, staring into the chat. “let me see,” he prodded, “maybe you’re being too blunt,” tim raised an eyebrow at him, “not everyone can be as persuasive as me, you know”.

tim drake - 21:32

where are you

(name) - 21:43

tim

you moved out right

where’s your address?

(name)

why are you asking?

tim

can’t i?

dick cringed at the screen, exasperated as he asked “really? right in the face like that?”. tim just rolled his eyes, frustrated, a little embarrassed. “just scroll.”

tim - 21:45

sorry

where are you

(name) - 21:56

dude

why do you want 2 know.

tim

bruce wants to know

read

(name)??

read

“very suspicious,” dick proclaimed, poking his shoulder, “i can’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell you. so surprising.” tim frowned, taking his phone back and frowning “look, i tried didn’t i? but if they’re not responding, i’ll have to tell bruce,” he ran a hand through his hair, “i don’t think he’d be much less conspicuous about (name) not telling us their address.”

dick nodded. when he first moved to bludhaven, he’d wanted a start as his own man, without the help of the batman or bruce. maybe (name) wanted the same? tim shouldn’t have said bruce wanted to know, he thinks, could’ve played it off as a “i want to visit". he suggests the thought, only be faced with an awkward smile on tim’s face.

“i don’t know if that’d work,” a short reply, “me and (name) never really talked much. it’d be strange to just butt in like that.”

dick hummed, resting his chin on the couch’s head in thought while he spoke “me and (name) have… talked a bit. send me their number, i could ask,” he elbowed tim’s head gently, joking, “one-up you.”

“you don’t have (name)’s number?”

…

“never had the chance to get it.”

your thumb grows numb from pausing at an awkward position on your phone. stuck on the same chat for about six minutes. two new numbers messaging you on the same day, both from your brothers. you’d assumed it was a new phone from one of the girls, but the first was from tim’s saved contact, his personal one. of course, since you’d read the message, you had to respond, sending in an aloof question mark to dismiss him.

when the second one, an unsaved contact, messaged you with a whole lot of exclamation points after a waving emoji, you’d assumed it was a rebooted number of one of your guys. but no, of all people, it was richard grayson, your older brother. you weren’t daft when he sent in a message asking the exact same thing, your address, saying he “wanted to visit”.

did he take you for an idiot? you know it’s bruce who wanted to know, as stated so bluntly by your little brother. even if he did want to visit, you’d go five floors down hell before letting him come over. a thumbs-down reaction and shutting your phone off did what you wanted it to, slamming a figurative door in his face.

but what makes your whole body go numb and buzzing is when your bell rings. it’s out of habit of course, not a lot of people ring the door unless it’s the landlord or a visitor’s family member, with prior notification first. it could be just one of them, if it wasn’t nine in the evening. the only people who clocked in at this time were your friends, and they never rang the bell.

you peek through the keyhole, and your breath stills. it’s then when you back up from the door, cursing as an unnamed objecy clatters to the floor and miraculously, doesn’t break. you can hear the wooden plank of the floor outside tense, and you just know the person outside heard it. you can’t play off a “no one’s home” game this time, and considering who’s behind the door, you don’t assume she’ll leave peacefully.

you have to gather yourself, level your breathing, skim through quick backups depending on whether she’s looking for (name), her sibling, or (name) a crime affiliate. it’s been a minute, and you quell your nervousness, wiping your lips after biting them so hard, to open the door.

cassandra cain looks surprised, and her narrowing eyes make you nervous, even as you lean against the doorway. you pray she doesn’t read through that, giving her the blankest look you can, the same one you give to the neighbours when they come to complain about the noise.

silence. you speak up first.

“cass… andra,” you add, a slight hesitancy when you remember yourself, “hi?”

she tilts her head at you staring up with a look that could be described as innocent, if her lip didn’t unconsciously twitch when you glanced away for a second. gosh, even after having knowledge of her intellect, you’re still messing up. get a hold of yourself.

she drops her arms from where they were crossed, giving you a knowing look. yes, cassandra, i’m here, you want to say after deciphering that glare with a little trouble, holding it back. what’s she here for? you didn’t give anyone even an inkling of your whereabouts. did alfred snitch? but you never told him either. did bruce figure it out? no, you think morosely, you don’t think he’d do all that.

you try to play it off, a hand to your head, staring down with just the slightest feigned frustration, hoping she takes the hint. “look kid,” you say, voice carefully dry, “i’ve got shit to do, you need something?”, with a seconds’ hesitation, a little demeaning comment slipping out of your mouth before you can stop it, habit, “or are you girl scouting for bruce?”

nice. great way to go. not only does she know that you’re purposefully avoiding him but also that you don’t want him to know. your sister is incredibly adamant to being loyal to him, worryingly so, and you know she won’t let it go. you’re no trained mind-reader like her, if you can call it that, but even your heart rate spikes at the subtle tensing in her jaw.

she points at your apartment, careful, slow. and you frown, obviously. no, she can't come in. she drops it, looking away.

silence stretches on before she exhales sharply through her nose, taking a step back. she’s leaving, you understand anxiously. you know she won’t listen to you if you ask, know she won’t answer any of your questions either, but you try anyway.

“going off to tell bruce are you?” she pauses, turning around to face you again. you’re put off, straining the rest of the sentence so it doesn’t sound odd. you want to say, beg, don’t tell him, you want to say, snarl, get out. instead you just draw your shoulders in and return inside, shutting the door. man, you messed up.

bruce is only momentarily distracted by tim and dick’s hushed talking, weary of what they’re up to, before quickly focusing back to the apartment layout he’s handed by the owner of the building, a mister ford, after requesting for it through a burner account. cassandra’s there too, dressed in gear to leave for patrol in a bit, getting a head start before bruce does the same. he’d sent her out to check the place out, maybe set sights on figures she could suspect to be a part of the trouble he was reviewing earlier, time-pass assignments to sludge through the dullness of the evening.

and she comes back with results, circling an east facing room on the third floor on the flat plans. he can’t help but notice a slight moment of hesitance before she does though, turning to bruce with her grimacing full-face cowl, a silent statement. he thinks about asking her, but decides against it. if she’s worried for their safety, thinks them to be innocent, or doesn’t want them caught, she must want it for some reason. he’ll make sure the GCPD knows after sending gordon's intern the file later, in hardcopy via an open window or softcopy through yet another burner account.

but it’s then when he catches a stray hiss from tim, a “just tell him later,” and pulls away from the screen for just a second. “tell me what?” a brief sombre octave to his voice, he knows it’s not wise to leave tim, of all people, hiding something. especially not moments before patrol.

the boy just shrugs, shaking his head, “nothing important,” he lies, “err… bludhaven stuff.” dick blanches, gesturing in a “what the hell?” manner and cassandra inclines her head. bruce sends in the file, before turning around with the slightest frown to his face. if you have something unimportant to say, the unsaid message floats through the room, say it now, before patrol.

before tim can though, dick gets to it first, a hand to his head in perplexed motion; “you know how you told us to check in on (name)?”.

bruce responds plainly, “i asked tim.” dick’s lip turns downwards just a hint as he lets his arm down, “i’m getting to that.”

“(name) didn’t respond to his,” dick jabbed a thumb in tim’s direction, “message, so i tried. won’t answer mine either.”

“so, you don’t know where they are?” bruce finishes for him, a hand yo his chin in thought, “it’s fine, tim, dick, i’ll see to it later. carry on with patrol, and if you have the chance to, look for robin and tell him to return to the cave.”

it’s funny to dick how easily he slips between proper names and aliases, even if the surroundings are occupied only by associates. paranoid, he thinks, uselessly so. cassandra clears her throat, causing everyone to turn to her, glance in her general direction since she's so well hidden.

she points at the screen, the file sent to a contact with the police department’s logo as its profile picture. her voice is soft, but holds a small, uneasy reluctance to it.

“(name) was here.”

oh.

oh?

INTERACTIONS, REBLOGS AND ASKS VV APPRECIATED!!

- woah. re-written entry?? whatever for?? i overestimated myself.. got carried away and derived way off my ideas.

i have plenty things to add and a hollow head full of things to talk about which ill eventually get onto depending on everything. don’t take my characteristics VERY seriously and dont shy away from feedback.

thank you for reading!

# taglist: @cxcilla @strwberryglass @c4xcocoa @yaoizee @secretsandwriting @sirenetheblogger @charlenexoxo1 @mirabilis-polaris @jsprien213 @tfimherewhy @yuyuzi-ling @crazycaoticsimp @m0na-lis4 @trashlanternfish360 @thehammerx4 @ninihrtss @kaitense1

#saria's 💤 writing #saria 💤 says #'25 run: crow choir #dc x reader #neglected reader #x neglected reader

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crimsoncheckin · 1 month ago

Text

Don't Touch What's Mine

Hell was never quiet, but tonight felt off.

The streets hissed with distant laughter and flickering neon, but your instincts kept screaming something was wrong. You walked a little faster, boots clicking over cracked pavement, one hand clutching the inside of your coat where your dagger rested—his dagger. A gift from Alastor, your eccentric but fiercely protective lover.

He was supposed to meet you by now. He always kept time like a symphony—perfectly punctual. But something had delayed him.

You turned down a side alley, hoping to cut through quicker—

—and that's when it struck.

A shriek and a blur. A hulking demon leapt from the shadows, claws flashing. You barely had time to scream as it slammed you into the wall. Pain exploded in your side; blood splashed down your shirt.

“Such a pretty thing,” it growled, licking its teeth. “Bet you taste just as sweet.”

You gasped, your vision swimming—but then the air changed.

Everything froze.

A sudden burst of static screamed through the air, warping reality around you. The temperature dropped like a body into ice water. Even the demon faltered, growling and backing away.

The hum grew louder.

And then… he appeared.

Not walking. Not striding. Tearing into existence.

Alastor.

But not as you usually saw him.

He wasn’t smiling.

No devilish grin, no twinkle of amusement. Just rage—raw, pulsing, dangerous. His eyes glowed a deep, infernal red, wide with fury. His antlers crackled with dark energy, twisting like thorns. Shadows slithered off him in waves as the full force of his demon form unfolded.

The alley flickered like an old television screen.

The demon took one look and ran.

Too late.

“DON’T—TOUCH—HER!”

Alastor's voice split through dimensions, distorted with multiple tones and radio static that cracked bone and ruptured air. The demon didn’t make it far before the shadows surged from Alastor’s coat like a wave, engulfing it.

There was screaming—then silence.

Just the low, familiar hum of his radio.

You slumped to your knees, breath shallow, head spinning.

Then arms—strong—wrapped around you.

“Shh, my darling. I’ve got you now,” he whispered, voice still flickering with residual distortion. His form was still monstrous: taller, darker, soaked in shadow. But his touch was heartbreakingly gentle.

You weakly smiled, pressing your forehead to his chest. “You came. Just in time.”

His arms tightened, his monstrous frame curling around you protectively. You felt his claws twitch where they hovered behind your back, like he was still holding himself back from going after whatever might still be lurking.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The moment your blood was spilled… I’ve never known rage like that."

Your fingers brushed his face—his skin was colder, static still rippling beneath it—but he leaned into your touch. The monster beneath the showman, laid bare only for you.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You scared the hell out of me... but not because of your form.”

He blinked down at you, surprised.

“It scared me because I thought I might never see you again.”

His face shifted—his smile returning, this time smaller, real.

“My dear, if anything ever tried to take you from me, they’d be tuning into oblivion.”

You laughed weakly, and he gently picked you up into his arms like you weighed nothing. The alley flickered again—then fell into stillness, wrapped in the echo of a demon’s love.

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor #alastor the radio demon #female reader #x reader #reader insert

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demie90s · 2 months ago

Note

paige x dancer reader, paige shows up for her comps ( like red bull freestyle battle type competitions) and is just being a huge simp and biggest supporter for reader and her hyping up reader goes viral

(Ion know shit bout dance but I watched honey and dance moms)

ᴘᴀɪɢᴇ ʙᴜᴇᴄᴋᴇʀꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

She Got That Dog In Her

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re known in the underground dance scene for tearing through freestyle battles like it’s personal. Paige is known for being one of the most composed players in college hoops. But when she shows up to your Red Bull-style comp and loses all chill—screaming, hyping you up, and jumping like a groupie—she ends up going viral right beside you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, Humor, Real-Time Performance Chaos

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Crowd energy, public affection, lots of slang/hype

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: ‘You see that? That’s my girl’ energy, sports girlfriend turned hype beast, loud love in low-light rooms

The warehouse smelled like sweat, smoke, and something electric. Bass thumped through the floor in waves, rattling soda cans and old scaffolding. You rolled your shoulders out, jaw tight, headphones in, tuning everything out. Not because you were nervous—this was your thing—but because you knew who was in the crowd tonight.

Paige Bueckers. Hoodie low, curls tied up, pressed up against the barricade like a fangirl who swore she wasn’t gonna make a scene.

Yeah, okay.

You’d told her not to come. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because she doesn’t know how to act when it comes to you. You knew the second the beat dropped, she’d forget all about staying lowkey.

And she did.

The moment your name got called, the crowd screamed—but Paige? Paige was the loudest. “LET’S GO, BABY!” she yelled, voice cutting over the music. “YOU BEEN THAT. SHOW ’EM.”

The girl next to her turned, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that…”

“Mhm,” someone else said. “That’s Bueckers. And that’s her girl.”

You stepped into the cypher with your shoulders loose, body already catching the rhythm. The DJ dropped the beat—heavy, aggressive, drums hitting like punches. You locked in, footwork slick, arms sharp, each move calculated and wild at the same time. The crowd fed off it.

Paige? Paige looked possessed.

Phone out. Hoodie off. Screaming over every hit. “OH MY GOD,” she barked when you did a flip spin off the floor. “NAH, YOU NASTY FOR THAT.”

You cracked a smile mid-combo.

The DJ switched the track, and your opponent tried to match your energy, but it wasn’t close. You were cleaner, faster, more in control. Paige knew it too—she was already waving the imaginary white flag from the sideline, shouting, “Y’ALL BETTER JUST HAND HER THE CROWN NOW. WE AIN’T GOT TIME FOR THIS.”

By the time the final round came, she’d lost all composure. She was standing on the edge of the floor, barking like she was your damn hype man. “YUP—SHE ATE YOU UP. STAY DOWN.”

Her voice cracked from yelling. She didn’t care.

The final move? A spin into a low freeze, held just long enough to burn. You rose with a smirk, the crowd losing it around you.

And Paige?

She jumped the barricade.

Not far. Just enough to reach you the second you walked off the floor, hands on your face, kissing your cheek like you just dropped 40 in the Final Four. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen,” she breathed. “You bodied her. I’m talking buried her.”

You were sweaty, grinning, still breathing hard. “You were supposed to chill.”

“I tried,” she said, beaming. “You’re too good. I blacked out.”

What you didn’t know until later was the video. Someone caught the whole thing—Paige screaming, gripping the barricade like her life depended on it, yelling “THAT’S MY BABY” while you danced like you were on fire.

It went viral before you even got out of the building.

Comments rolled in:

“Paige Bueckers got no chill when it comes to her girl and I LOVE THAT FOR HER.”

“Imagine dancing like that and having Paige lose her mind front row. Goals.”

“They’re a power couple and I’m sick.”

“She don’t even act like that on the court 😭😭😭”

You saw it all later, sitting on the hood of her car, legs over hers, eating drive-thru fries. She held the phone up, laughing.

“Okay…I might’ve gone a little overboard.”

You leaned into her shoulder. “Nah. I like you loud.”

She kissed your temple. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t ever gonna be quiet about you.”

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raghaziel · 11 days ago

Note

Can you make sub Sam Monroe whining for pussy and a little drunk??

Sam Monroe x f!reader (smutt) Summary : (req) Warnin :Sexual content, sub! Sam Ragh's note : Let me know if you want to be notice ! Sorry but english isn't my first language so be nice !

Sam Monroe was the most controversial person on campus. Some feared him, others found him dangerous, enigmatic, but most agreed he was mysterious and intriguing, the kind of person for whom one could easily fall into chaos. But you saw good old Sam as that clumsy wierdo who can't have the luxe to express his feeling. He never was. Yet you'd managed to break through his shell and enter his bubble. With time, he'd managed to make room for you in his life, in his daily routine. Of course, everyone was surprised when Sam showed up with a random girl on campus. Well, he walked behind you, making sure to glare at any student who looked in your direction. Sam was like that, you had to let him come to you and not force any interaction or physical contact. Just like a kitty.

“Fuck, Y/N!. ”You hear Corey from the living room “Your dramaqueen is about to fuck everything up and there's no way I'm assuming his ass alone.”

You quickly excuse yourself from the people you were chatting with to join Corey in the living room where most people were clutching. You weren't a fan of parties or social gatherings like this, but dating one of the campus drug dealers earned you an invitation to this kind of crap. Well, not you, Sam. But there was no way Sam was going out without you, even if he was selling them drugs, he didn't apprehend them. It was their wallets he was interested in, not them.

You smiled and nodded. In time, Sam's friends had accepted you and you'd ended up becoming one of them, even if they sometimes hesitated to take you along for the ride. You were sure this was the result of Sam threatening you behind your back: he didn't want Corey to drag you into their bullshit.

As you enter the large dance hall, you hear muffled noises, the smell of alcohol rises like a warm wave and you begin to smell the ambient weed. Then you search the crowd for a familiar silhouette, only to discover with amusement the spectacle before you: Sam with a huge beer stain on his black perfecto, trying to tune his bass. The problem? He's completely drunk and can't even hold his guitar properly. With a few clumsy gestures, he struggles with an invisible force and nearly knocks Corey's drums over.

“Fuck man, you're a real piece of trash, be careful!”

“Fuck you, your descendant and your ancestors.” Sam growls through his teeth, clenching a worn mediator between his lips. “I'll show these assholes what REAL music is.”

You move forward between the drunken dancers until you manage to pull yourself up alongside Corey, who gives you a look full of despair.

“Baby, I think you should let them work it out.”

“Holy shit, but don't you understand that-” As soon as he looks up at you, his gaze suddenly softens. The cloud in his eyes dissipates, his face relaxing considerably. "Y/N, is that you? Oh baby, I've been looking all over for you!"

Without hesitation he cracks the mediator on the floor, abruptly drops his guitar and wraps you in his arms, no longer letting you see the light of day.

“My girlfriend, my sexy little girlfriend with a beautiful leather skirt.” He leaned in, his nose buried in your hair, inhaling deeply. Your scent filled his nostrils, the familiar musk of your perfume and the underlying aroma of your skin, clean and warm, undeniably you. He sucked you in like a hungry man, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "Damn, I thought I'd lost you in that crowd. I looked everywhere, kitten."

His hips rolled against yours, a slow friction that expressed relief and something else, something more exciting. He was aroused, you could tell by the way he pressed himself against you, the thick line of his sex nestling against the curve of your buttocks through the leather of your skirt. His hand slid down, caressing the hollow of your hip, his fingers digging under the hem of your skirt to caress your bare skin.

“Come on, rock star,” you murmur. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

“No.” His grip tightens around your waist, his mouth grazing your jaw. "Stay. Right there. I just want to feel you."

“I'm not going anywhere,” you promise, your fingers slipping under the collar of his jacket, slowly removing it. "But we're not doing this here. We're going upstairs, okay? Just you and me."

He whines, half-protest, half-drunken envy, but you don't wait for his response: you slip your hand into his and start guiding him through the crowd. He follows you without question, like a dog without a leash, but faithful to you. The upstairs bathroom is cramped and dark, lit by a buzzing light that flickers slightly. You close the door behind you, blocking out the bass and drunken laughter. The noise disappears like a lid on a boiling pot.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click. The bathroom is warm from the party heat leaking upstairs, the air heavy with faint weed smoke and damp clothes. Sam stumbles in, his boots scuffing the tile as he nearly crashes against the sink.

He whines your name like a curse and a plea.

You catch him by the wrist before he can completely collapse, guiding him down to sit on the closed toilet seat. He drops heavily, legs falling open, head tipping back against the wall. His cheeks are flushed, lips wet and parted.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Everything’s spinning. Why is everything spinning?”

“Because you drank like an idiot,” you say gently, pulling off his sticky leather jacket. It lands on the floor with a thud. “And maybe because you’re high too. God, Sam.”

He reaches out blindly, grabbing your hips and pulling you between his legs, his face pressing into your stomach with a long, drawn-out groan.

"I’m hard, baby.” He groaned, letting his head fall back against the door with a dull thud. “Fuck—hurts. Can’t think. Just wanna be inside you, please.”

His voice cracked at the end like a whimper, and your breath caught. Sam Monroe — campus delinquent, cocky frontman, violent, vulgar Sam — was looking at you like a kicked puppy. His hips rolled up slightly, the bulge in his jeans obvious now, strained and twitching.

“Need you to ride me,” he moaned, sloppily grabbing for your wrist and guiding your hand to his belt. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll let you do anything, just—please—touch me.”

“Sam—”

“You don’t get it,” he said, nearly crying. “I can’t breathe without you. You’re the only fucking thing that makes it quiet in my head. Just… sit on my dick or I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart pounding. He was unraveling in front of you — needy, desperate, trembling, drunk out of his mind but still so hopelessly focused on you. His lips trembled, his eyes glassy, voice breaking into pathetic little gasps.

“I’ll beg,” he whispered, leaning closer, his breath hot against your neck. “I’ll beg all night. Just let me have it. Just once. Right here. On the floor. Fuck the party. Fuck Corey. I just need you.”

You cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek. “You're such a mess.”

He nodded eagerly. “Your mess.”

You giggle softly, and he freezes for half a second, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the stars. His lips twitch into a lazy, dazed smile — crooked and beautiful in the most unhinged way.

Then something clicks in his expression. A little spark of clarity. Sam realizes he’s got a shot — and he’s not about to waste it.

“God, you’re my fucking heaven,” he breathes, voice hoarse with want and worship.

Before you can say anything, he lifts your shirt just enough to bury his face in the skin beneath your ribs, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach. His nose nuzzles you like he’s memorizing the scent of you, the warmth of you, like it’s the only real thing left in his spinning, drug-laced world.

Then his hands slide down to cup your ass, fingers flexing, squeezing gently — like he’s checking to see if you’re still real. You gasp as his grip tightens, his breath catching at the sound.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, rocking forward where he’s seated. His hips grind upward, slow and desperate, searching for friction against your leg. You glance down and see the obvious bulge straining hard against his jeans, twitching with every breath he takes.

“I need you so bad it hurts,” he mumbles, barely holding himself together.

His fingers tremble as they slide up your thighs, reaching for the hem of your skirt. He pauses, eyes darting up to you, like a silent question.

You don’t stop him.

With a soft, reverent growl, he hooks his fingers under the fabric and pushes it upward — clumsily, drunkenly — until your panties come into view. And just like that, his whole expression changes.

His pupils blow wide. His tongue darts across his lips, and his breath quickens like he’s just been shot in the chest. shuddered at your touch, your fingers in his hair igniting a spark that raced down his spine. His hips jerked forward, seeking friction, desperate for any scrap of contact. The hard line of his cock strained against his jeans, twitching with every shallow breath he took. He groaned, low and guttural, the sound rumbling through his chest.

“Holy shit…” he whispers. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

He lowers his head, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of your panties, his teeth gently scraping your hipbone.

“You wear these for me?” he asks, voice low, ruined, aching.

You don't answer. You don’t have to. Your hand slides through his hair, tugging lightly, and he moans into your skin.

“You’re mine,” he mumbles. “Say it.”

His lips are hot, his hands greedy and clumsy on your thighs.

“Say you’re mine, Y/N. Please.”

“I’m yours, Sam. II will always be yours."

A sigh of relief, as if he'd just been pardoned by heaven. Without waiting, he pushes a finger into you, and when he sees you blush and gasp, he mimics you, absorbing your expression as if he were in front of a work of art.

At the same time, his hand moved between your thighs. He pushed your panties aside, the damp lace a barrier no longer. His fingers met your slick heat, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound a rumble of male satisfaction. You were wet. So fucking wet. Wet for him. Because of him.

He pushed a finger into you, your walls clenching greedy around the intrusion. He shuddered at the feel of you, hot and silky and perfect. His thumb found your clit, circling the sensitive nub, and he swallowed your cry with another searing kiss.

He broke away, only to watch your face. His eyes were dark, the blue nearly eclipsed by the black of his pupils. They were riveted to your expression, absorbing every flicker of emotion, every hint of pleasure. He looked at you like you were a work of art, a masterpiece to be studied and worshipped.

"Fuck, babe," he rasped, his voice a wreck of pleasure and possession. "You're perfect. So fucking perfect." His finger pumped into you, slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit with a relentless pressure. He worked you, stroking your walls, coaxing out your pleasure.

His hands are shaking now — not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of what he’s feeling. One hand grips your ass, holding you close, possessive and desperate. The other slides down, catching the back of your knee, guiding your leg up, slowly, reverently, until it rests across his shoulder.

He’s not rough. He’s not even confident. He’s starving.

“Please,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his breath hot and ragged. “Please let me... I need it, I need to taste you—”

You feel him bury his face between your legs like he’s praying — like you’re the altar and he’s the sinner with no redemption left except what he finds in your skin.

Soft murmurs fall from his lips, incoherent and sacred.

“Mhh... that pussy...” he groans, dazed. “Smells so fuckin’ good... you don’t even know... you don’t know what you do to me.”

He moans again, low and broken, completely at your mercy. His hands are gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to hold on or he’ll fall apart.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles, his lips brushing fabric and skin alike. “Wanna worship you. Want to make you feel good... let me make you feel good, please, baby.”

There’s no cocky smirk, no bad boy swagger. Just Sam, messy and wrecked, begging for the privilege of being close to you.

You look down and meet his eyes — glassy, dark, shining with need.

And he smiles, soft and ruined.

“I’ll be so good,” he whispers. “For you. Just for you.”

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen characters #hayden christensen x female readers #hayden christensen x reader #imagine #ask!#sam monroe fanfiction #sam monroe x reader #sam monroe imagine #sam monroe #smutty smut smut

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ashthesalamipiece · 24 days ago

Note

heyy can you do a couple interview with bakugo and y/n (both are married and heros) and y/n was asked about her first kiss to katsukis surprise it wasnt him-but another guy from middle school they met at high school and dated after graduating she had never told about him before so literally pouted like a baby in front of the interviewer and...national tv? also how are you these days? hope you are doing ok

Im okay thank you sm for asking♡♡

Enjoy loves♡

"Wait—It Wasn't Me?"

Bakugo Katsuki x Married Hero!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Humor, Married!Pro Hero AU, Interview Shenanigans

Word Count: ~1.6k

---

The camera light blinks red. You're live.

Across from you sits Mina Ashido, today’s guest host on the Hero Hype Morning Special, beaming like she’s sitting on a gold mine of gossip.

Beside you, Katsuki Bakugo leans back on the couch, arms crossed, that signature scowl barely softened by the ring on his finger—and the fact that you’re tucked comfortably next to him, your hand resting on his thigh.

He’s been surprisingly calm. (For him.)

Until now.

“So!” Mina chirps. “You two are one of Japan’s most iconic hero couples! You met in high school, trained together, and got married five years ago, right?”

“Yeah,” you say with a smile, “after dating for a while post-graduation. He proposed during a hostage rescue mission.”

Bakugo shrugs. “Timing was perfect. Had the ring on me. S’not my fault the guy started crying harder than she did.”

“I was under fire, Katsuki.”

“I still got down on one knee.”

“You were bleeding.”

“From a scratch.”

Mina giggles like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week. “God, you two are disgusting—but I love it. Alright, fan question time! Someone asked…” She grins, reading from her tablet. “Who was your first kiss?”

You blink.

Bakugo smirks.

“Obviously it was me,” he says confidently, cocky as ever.

You pause.

You hesitate for just a moment too long.

Then, with an awkward little laugh: “...Actually, it wasn’t.”

Silence.

Like, dead air.

“…Huh?” Bakugo says, turning to look at you.

Mina freezes mid-sip of her coffee.

You smile, sheepish. “I mean—it was in middle school? Just a tiny thing. Behind the gym. His name was Yuuto something. He wore... bad cologne and played trombone.”

“Yuuto something—” Katsuki chokes. “WHO?!”

“Oh, god,” you groan softly, covering your face.

“You told me I was your first—!”

“I said you were my first real kiss. There’s a difference!”

“You never mentioned some punk-ass trombone kid—”

“Because it didn’t matter! It was middle school! He bumped teeth with me and cried afterwards!”

Mina is absolutely losing it behind her cards.

Katsuki, however, looks personally betrayed.

Live on national TV.

Eyes wide, jaw slack, and slowly—slowly—his bottom lip starts to pout. Full-on baby-mode. He shifts away from you like you just told him you liked Todoroki’s cooking more.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, seeing it. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pouting on national TV.”

“I thought it was me.”

His voice cracks. The great Ground Zero, the nation's strongest offensive hero, is crushed by a boy with bad cologne from ten years ago.

You lean closer, whispering through your laugh, “Katsuki. Love of my life. Please don’t sulk in front of the studio audience.”

He glares. “I can’t believe this. Ten years, married, and I’m finding out like this?”

“It was barely a kiss!”

“Then why’d you hide it?!”

“I didn’t hide it—I just didn’t think it counted!”

Mina waves toward the cameras, absolutely thriving. “And there you have it, folks! Hero power couple in shambles! Tune in next week to see if they survive this traumatic middle school memory!”

“Mina. I will blast your car,” Bakugo growls, pink in the ears.

You sigh, patting his thigh. “You know you’re the only one that’s ever mattered, right?”

He grumbles something about trombones under his breath.

You lean in, kiss his cheek (on live TV), and whisper, “And you're definitely the only one who’s ever made my knees weak.”

That gets him. He blushes hard, ears practically glowing now. He grunts low, but doesn’t push you away.

In fact… he hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you in closer, still pouting—but now with a little smugness bleeding back in.

“…Still shoulda been me.”

You smile into his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “but don’t worry. You were the last.”

His head turns slowly. “Wait—how many were there—”

“Commercial!” Mina yells.

---

Later that Night…

You come out of the bathroom to find him in bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone.

Still sulking.

You climb in next to him, pulling the blanket over both of you.

“Still mad?”

“Trombone guy.”

“Still?”

He looks at you.

“I’m gonna find him.”

“Oh my god—”

“Blast him straight off the map.”

You laugh into his chest, heart full.

He kisses the top of your head and mutters, “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I do know that.”

“And that I kiss better than anyone.”

“That’s true.”

“…Say it.”

You grin.

“You kiss better than anyone.”

He finally relaxes, arms curling around you.

“Damn right I do.”

#my hero academia #reader #mha x reader #bhna #fluff #bakugou katsuki #bakugo #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #funny

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captainmalewriter · 7 months ago

Text

Hair on Hair

Twas the night before Christmas Day at Paul Martin’s house. Paul had just finished preparing all the necessary ingredients for the big Christmas dinner he’d be making tomorrow. His family would be flying in sometime in the early afternoon. He couldn’t wait for his little nephews and nieces to come bursting through the door to greet their Uncle Paul. Paul smiled at the warm thought.

With his work in the kitchen complete, Paul retired to his bedroom. As he walked down the hallway, Paul couldn’t help but notice the loud snoring coming out of one of the guest rooms. It was his cousin-in-law Mark sleeping in there. Paul scowled. He and Mark didn’t see eye-to-eye. But despite their tense relationship, Paul was still willing to offer up his home for Mark when he said he needed a place to crash at for a few days before Christmas. He was still family after all, in-law or not. Paul simply couldn’t say no! That said, Paul would’ve appreciated some help getting everything ready for when their family came… Mark was no help at all. He just stayed out all-day and only returned at night to sleep while Paul did everything.

“Whatever. That asshole will be gone after Christmas anyway,” Paul told himself. He went to his room, got ready for bed, and fell asleep soon after tucking himself in.

As Paul and Mark slept soundly that night, a mischievous spirit had entered the house. The magic spirit giggled as it ran around the property, only stopping when it stumbled across the two sleeping men. An idea struck the spirit at the sight of them. With a cheeky grin, the spirit pulled out a flute and played a strange tune. The spirit’s melody echoed throughout the house. Both Paul and Mark began tossing and turning feverishly in their beds.

After a few minutes of the spirit’s music playing, a strange light began coming out of their solar plexuses. A long, ethereal serpent made of glowing light erupted out of them. Paul and Mark went limp once it left their bodies. The serpents swam around the air, dancing to the rhythm of the spirit’s flute.

“Go, my brethren! Inhabit your new bodies!!”

The serpents did as they were told. Paul’s spirit swam over to Mark’s room and dove straight into his chest. Mark’s eyes shot wide open from the impact. Paul’s spirit was as big as he was. Mark squirmed as the hefty spirit stuffed itself inside his thin frame by force. His hands and legs trembled as the invading spirit took up more and more space inside of him. Every corner of his body was filled with Paul’s essence.

“Uuugghhhh!!” Mark groaned loudly. It felt like his body was being stretched from the inside out! Even without Mark’s own spirit present, his body was too tight of a fit for Paul’s big spirit. With Mark’s body already filled up, the spirit had no choice but to make space. In doing so, Mark's body underwent significant changes.

Mark's flat stomach blew up in size. Within seconds, his gut bloated out until he had the same beer belly as Paul. His firm pectorals grew in size, giving Mark a massive chest with plenty to grab and squeeze. Mark let out a heavy sigh as the transformation wave moved down to below the belt. His long dick grew shorter yet thicker until he had a beer can for a cock. His balls hung lower from their weight of being filled to the brim with warm spunk. His cute, little butt ballooned in size too. His glutes grew larger and larger until he had a massive peach. Mark had a real man's ass now— big, jiggly, and covered in hair, to the point that even his crack was obscured from how hairy it had become.

His long locks of wavy hair fell off in clumps until he had a cleanly buzzed head. The spattering of facial hair Mark had from not shaving in a while began growing at unnatural speeds. Mark threw his head back in pleasure as his mustache and beard grew longer and longer with thick, curly black hair. By the time Mark's new beard finished growing, it was long enough to touch the top of his chest. Before the transformation, Mark had only a few lines of hair on his chest and armpits. His bushy pit hair curled from how long they had grown and with a fine, musky scent to boot. His chest was covered with a healthy layer of hair. Every inch of Mark's newly beefy was covered in hair— completing his transformation to his uncle-in-law Paul.

Meanwhile, Mark's soul flew over to Paul's room. It slithered towards Paul's limp body and burrowed inside of him through his chest.

"Nnn... Ooohhhh!!"

Paul let out a loud moan as Mark's soul filled his body causing his senses to flare back to life. However, while Mark's body had to grow to accommodate its new owner, Paul's body had to do the opposite.

Paul had much more body space than Mark's soul needed. All the extra body mass melted away like magic within minutes. Paul's massive gut deflated until he had visible ab lines and a V line waist. His chest firmed up to a set of firm pectorals. The short stubble on the top of his head grew out until he had a messy, unkept mullet that matched his cousin's hairstyle. The massive amount of body hair Paul possessed fell off in droves, leaving behind a furry treasure tail on his stomach and slight dusting of hair on chest.

The only place Paul remained hairy was his groin. If anything, his bush had to grow longer to match Mark's unshaven forest of messy pubic hair. Paul had no idea his cousin outclassed his body hair in that regard. The feeling of his fingers getting caught in the curls of his bush as he rubbed down his newly slim body made him harder than anything else he could remember. Even his girthy cock was much too thick for Mark's dick to slip into. It fit him like an oversized condom! Deep, sensual groans escaped Paul's lips as he grabbed and groped his transforming junk. His cock lost some of its width but more than made up for it with its new length. By the end of it, he had an impressive 8 inches. He had become both a shower and a grower with his new endowment! Just like Mark, Paul had been completely transformed until his appearance matched his cousin's.

Bear had become otter. Otter had become bear.

Now that it had completed its trick, the spirit let out a naughty giggle and disappeared into the night. Meanwhile, Paul and Mark were now wide awake in bed. Their bodies had just under total transformations, but their minds were too fried from the dopamine of a sudden soul swap to fully process what had just happened. There was only one thing on both their minds— to get off with each other.

Paul ran like a track star to Mark's room. He busted through the door, where Mark was waiting for him a smirk and a hand wrapped firmly around his hard as a rock, thick member.

"Heh, you want this big dick, don't you? Come sit that ass on this beard while you service my cock, pretty boy," Mark sneered with his new baritone voice. Paul did as he was told without hesitation. He wasn't sure what came over him. A total top like him wouldn't be caught dead begging for dick the way he was, but Paul didn't care in that moment. All he cared about in that moment was getting Mark's dick all the way down his throat until his nose was buried deep into his pubes.

"Oooo... Yeahh just like that, show me what you can do with that tongue...!"

Sensual sounds filled the room as Paul sucked Mark off. He positioned himself so that his ass was right up to Mark's face. Mark grinned with delight as he grabbed and played with handfuls of perky, man ass, occasionally smacking it hard to remind Paul who that ass belonged to. He licked his middle finger and slipped it inside Paul's tight hole. It resisted penetration at first, but slowly gave way as Mark eased his finger in.

"Mmm!! Nnnghh..." Paul moaned with delight. His noises only grew louder as Mark replaced his finger with his tongue. The bitter taste of Mark's pre filled his mouth. It turned Paul on even more than before. He pushed his butt back against Mark's face. The feeling of his thick, full beard rustling against his bare ass and Mark's tongue wiggling deep inside his hole sent him straight into heaven, causing to drip his own pre all over Mark's furry belly.

They kept this position for a good while— Paul deepthroating Mark while he licked his ass in every direction possible. They eventually realized this position wasn't gonna be enough to satisfy their cravings and decided to take turns fucking each other— raw.

Paul buried his lengthy member deep inside Mark's obscenely hairy hole. The feeling of his sensitive cock sliding in and out through all that hair sent waves of pleasure rolling throughout his mind and groin. Coupled with the sight of his own burly, bear body jiggling and groaning with every thrust he gave Mark, Paul loving every second of topping a man who was twice as big and hairy as he was now.

As for Mark, he quickly learned just how much fun topping could be. Just seeing the tip of his cock slowly disappear into Paul's ass was insanely erotic, unlike anything he had experienced before. Just the feeling of his old hole enveloping his girthy member with a tight, warm embrace was almost enough to make Mark shoot out hus load right then and there. Thankfully, he was able to hold on and start pounding away at Paul. The sounds of a whiny bottom begging for him to go harder and deeper coupled with Paul pawing at his hairy chest... It drove Mark insane. He was grunting like a madman driven by fiery lust!

The room became drenched in the loud sounds and musky smells of two men fucking like wild animals. Their sweaty, hairy chests pressed against one another as they fucked for a solid hour— flipping whenever one got too close to finishing. Only once they couldn't take the building pressure in their balls did they finally stop.

Paul and Mark laid next to each other in bed. Each man with a firm grasp on their new cocks, jerking faster and faster with bated breath. Their mouths were mere inches away from each other. Unable to resist temptation, they leaned in each other and locked lips. Lips smacking loudly and tongues wrestling for dominance until finally they both shot out their heavy loads at the same time. Load after load came rushing out of them like a glorious white eruption. They each let out a long sigh of relief as they became drenched in each other's fluids.

Fully satisfied, Paul and Mark kissed once more before embracing each other, wrapped in the warmth of sexual satisfaction. They dozed off in each other's arms— unaware that a mischievous spirit had swapped their bodies, and that the family would be knocking at Paul's door in less than 12 hours for Christmas dinner.

Now how's that for holiday hijinks?

#male body swap #male body switch #male transformation #male tf #male body theft #permanent change #hair growth tf

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neurotica-tales · 1 month ago

Text

Yandere Ariel (Arien) Headcanon

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

For part 2, click HERE.

Other Yandere Fairytales: Yandere Cinderella (Edric) Headcanon, A Merman's Forbidden Love (Yandere Male!Ariel x Reader)

To find my master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Unlike some other fairytale characters, Arien is someone with a soft heart. Having been sheltered in the kingdom of Atlantis under the protection of King Triton, he's always had a naive outlook concerning life.

Even when he was young, he'd form intense attachments—falling in love with surface-world trinkets, storm-shattered ships, and fleeting glances of humans dancing on the shore.

His fascination with the human world was never shallow; it was romantic, almost sacred.

So when he met you—a real human who looked at him not as a curiosity but as someone worth knowing—his heart didn't stand a chance.

The story of how the two of you first met is simple—deceptively so.

It happened when Arien was still just a young merman, brimming with restless energy and a defiant streak that clashed constantly with the rules of his undersea world.

He wasn’t supposed to go near the surface. Everyone in the kingdom of the deep knew that. The surface was dangerous, forbidden—filled with strange creatures and cruel humans who trapped merfolk in nets and cages.

But Arien had never been one to blindly obey. Not when the sunlit shimmer of the ocean’s ceiling called to him like a siren.

So one night, driven by nothing more than rebellious impulse and curiosity sharp as coral, he rose to the surface for the very first time.

And that's when he saw you.

You were walking along the beach, close to the edge where the sand meets the sea and the moonlight spilled like silver ink across the waves.

Your silhouette was framed against the sky, starlight dancing in your hair.

And Arien... Arien forgot to breathe.

It was supposed to be a brief glimpse. A foolish risk, a dare to himself. But the moment his eyes found you, the rest of the world dissolved. You weren’t frightening or monstrous like the tales said.

You were radiant. Gentle. Real.

He watched as you sat down on the sand, sitting just far enough so you don't get wet from the waves.

You didn’t know he was there, floating silently a few meters away, just beneath the surface. His heart pounded in his chest like the deep drums of a whale’s call.

Your hum filled the air. A soft, clumsy tune. He didn’t know the song—but now it lived in his bones.

He imagined singing the song with you. How wonderful would it be if he could sing a duet together?

Then the wind changed. You looked out into the dark, directly toward where he floated unseen, and he swore—he swore—your eyes met his. For the briefest moment. A flicker. His heart stopped.

But then thunder cracked overhead. You flinched. You stood and ran, and Arien, panicking, dove beneath the surface like a frightened animal.

His chest heaved. His skin burned. He could still feel the ghost of your gaze on his body.

That night, Arien didn't sleep. He didn’t eat. He swam and swam until his muscles screamed, until the saltwater blurred into blood. But none of it hurt as much as leaving you behind.

So he returned.

Again. And again. And again.

Every night, he waited beneath the cliffs. Sometimes you came. Sometimes you didn’t. But the hope that you might was enough to keep him coming back.

It stopped being a fascination.

You became an obsession.

You were always just out of reach. Laughing at the stars. Running your fingers through tidepools. Letting your voice drift out over the sea like a cruel song meant for him alone.

Did you know what you were doing? Could you feel his eyes crawling over your skin from the depths?

He began collecting things you left behind—fragments of cloth, broken sandals, even a dried flower pressed into the dirt where you'd once knelt. He took them to his cave under the sea and arranged them with trembling reverence.

Every object became a shrine. Every whisper of your name was a plea to the ocean itself.

He spoke to your things as though they were you when no one else was around. He imagined the sound of your voice answering back and practiced conversations like confessions in the dark.

And when his brothers questioned his absences, he lied. When his father forbade him from rising again, Arien stopped answering altogether.

He didn’t care.

You were his.

The first human to smile without cruelty. To touch the world so gently, as if even jagged stone didn’t deserve pain.

How could he stay beneath the waves, knowing you existed above them?

He began asking dangerous questions. Seeking dark answers.

What can he do to meet you at long last? To see you up close. To talk to you. To hear you say his name. For him to call you his.

He would carve himself open with his own claws if it meant standing at your side.

You didn’t know it yet, but you belonged together. Arien had seen it. Felt it. The first moment he laid eyes on you, something ancient shifted inside him—something that tasted like destiny, like salt and blood and bone.

He would walk on knives if it brought him to your doorstep. And he would find you. He would stand in the sun beside you. He would have you.

And if anyone—anyone—stood in the way?

Let the tide drag them under.

#yandere #yandere headcanons #prince #princess #yandere prince #male yandere #ariel #yandere ariel #yandere fairytale #fairy tales

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trancylovecraft · 9 months ago

Text

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ WANDERILLUSTREOUS!: PROLOGUE!

(YANDERE GENSHIN VARIOUS x READER)

[F/N] [L/N], A twenty-two year old college student goes about her mundane life. Most people would describe her as content, And maybe [F/N] would've described it as such too- Her life. Over and over again, Day after day, The cycle never stops. That is, However, Until she suddenly drops into Genshin Impact out of nowhere. In any other case, [F/N] might have been glad to be there. In a fantasy land where she had only ever visited in her dreams, With a feeling she couldn't describe flooding her entire being. However, [F/N] couldn't be further from excited.. She had never played Genshin in her life. [F/N] threw her head into her hands, Holding back the urge to scream. “I’m absolutely screwed, Aren’t I?”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚AO3 LINK *ೃ༄

GENDER: Femme LIST OF YANDERE'S: https://pastebin.com/ErsuA2cz SONG: Larger Than Life - Pinkzebra NOTE: SO UHM HI. THIS IS THE PROLOGUE TO UHM MY NEW FIC UHHHH- so ive been getting into genshin big time and uhm ive kinda got a new hyperfixation now so hERE IT IS IN WRITTEN FORM.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ MASTERLIST *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ NEXT PART

What the actual hell?

[F/N]'s breath hitched in the morning dawn.

Her body was heavy like a weight was pushing down on her chest, Her eyes hazy, Yet they sparkled like stars under the dawnlight. Beginning to trickle down her face at the chill that batted in her eyelashes.

What was this?

This feeling.

Dew trickled down her face, Fresh from last night's rain and glimmering in the breaking dawn.

She tried not to itch at the frigid trails, No matter how much they unsettled her skin. Tried not to move around in the mush of the mud, Because the way it was settled cushioned her back just right.

The wind blew throughout every blade of grass, Every sweet flower and dandelion around. Leaves rustled on their branches, Little robins hopping around and tweeting their tune. The smell of dew and saccharine was rife in the air.

She breathed it in, Her lungs flooding with life.

It was so blinding, The sun, Burning at her eyes yet she couldn't find it in herself to close them. Not when the sky was so beautiful, So wonderful. Shades of aurora pink and sunset yellow splotching across the great canvas above, Birds sailing across it, Their wings struck wide and free as they only grew to be dots in the distance.

How could [F/N] ever look away?

She breathed in, A fresh wave of air entering her body. That feeling no one could describe, That chill that coated her skin, Her body completely at peace. Eyes forever staring up at the open sky that welcomed her with open arms.

Tranquillity, Serenity, Exaltation. None of them were a good fit to the way [F/N] felt in that single moment.

Her mind fluttered for a second, Flickering on like the ember on a lighter.

Her eyes widened, Memories rushing back into her mind.

"Wait.. Where am I?!"

⭒❅✸✪✸❅⭒

Well.. This is bizarre.

"There's absolutely no way.. This can't be real.." [F/N] muttered in utter horror. Her eyes wide, Body rigid as she stared dead at the figure standin- No. Not standing, The correct term would be floating.

What looked to be a small little girl floated mid-air, Only a few feet away. Her eyes big and round, Shaded the colour of the night sky and staring happily at [F/N]. She was oddly dressed in a poofy, intricately embroidered white dress and matching elvish boots.

[F/N] stood on the shore of who-knows-where, Having dragged her aching legs out of the field she had found herself in and had somehow got here.

A shoreline with impossibly beautiful sights, Crystallin blue waves crashing against the unlittered sand and leaving frothing seafoam in it's wake. Rocks and other formations cracked out of the water, Homing the chittering crabs and other sea-life that dared to venture there.

Not to mention the surrounding cliffs, Rocky and unbelievably high, Unlike any kind of cliffside [F/N] had ever seen. She could've been convinced she was somewhere near the swiss alps. It was beautiful, Absolutely beautiful.

And it made [F/N] all the more uneasy.

"This- This is just impossible..!" [F/N] held her face in her hands, Breathing unsteady. She would've began pacing if not for the fear she had for the crabs and their chattering pincers, Eyeing them warily from the gaps in her fingers.

"Are you alright? Paimon is worried about you!" The girl- Paimon, Gasped as she watched [F/N] hastily shuffle away from the beach crabs, Hands sliding up to grasp clumps of her hair in distress.

[F/N] took a jolting step back when Paimon floated a little too close, Startled by sudden movement. Her eyes snapped over to look at the fairy, Darting from head to toe, Affirming that it was that odd attire that she was wearing.

Sure- She was oddly dressed. But the weirdest part?

[F/N] recognised her.

And [F/N] had fished her out of a whirlpool in shallow tide.

"Paimon thinks that you need to take a deep breath in! Crabs are scary, But they can't be worse than that whirlpool you saved Paimon from! Paimon would've been a goner if it wasn't for you..!" Paimon cheers as she claps her hands, Giddy expression on her round face as she drifted nearer to [F/N].

She, In turn, Let out a rather shaken yap.

"I-I.. I didn't even know I could do that..?! I don't even know why I even tried that..!"

This.. This was Paimon? Paimon, The mascot of Genshin Impact, And she was floating right in front of her thanking her. Directly. This couldn't have been real, [F/N] must've hit her head on something or other-

Like.. There was no way this could be real, Right? There must be some rational explanation. A dream. A coma. Some really deep sleep that [F/N] just needs to pinch herself out of, Right?

Though if the twigs scraping at her ankle as she walked earlier wasn’t enough..

[F/N] sniffled.

Ugh. God. This was all so confusing.

"I can't.. Just please, Tell me I'm dreaming, Paimon. Tell me this is all just some big scenario I've dreamt up inside my head and that I'm gonna wake up any minute now.." [F/N] almost pleaded as her knees began to buckle, Lowering as she collapsed, Shins burying into the sand of the shore.

This couldn't be happening, It just couldn't.

"Paimon doesn't understand, But she knows how it feels to feel scared and confused..!" Paimon said, In attempt to console her. "Do you wanna tell Paimon what's wrong? Maybe Paimon can help you out!"

[F/N] lifted her head from within her hands, Breathing uneasy as she watched Paimon slowly float down to her level. This was real, Wasn't it? How could this be a dream, [F/N] knew what dreams were like, Both lucid and otherwise, And it was nothing like this.

[F/N] let out a shuddering breath, Trying to calm her nerves, Swallowing back her apprehension.

"Yeah.. Yeah- You're right- I should tell you what's wrong, I'm sorry- I just saved you and now you need to deal with me breaking down in front of you.." [F/N] smiled nervously, Trying to laugh off her unease and discomfort- Though not very successfully.

Where would she even begin?

How could she begin?

[F/N] groaned as she hunched over, Collapsing onto her backside instead of her knees. Damn. [F/N] felt like she was stranded on an island, But at least the sand felt nice against her skin.

"I.. I don't think I'm from this world."

"Huh..?" Paimon tilted her head to the side, Eyes lighting up at the claim.

"I.. It's hard to explain but.. I'm not from this world- I think I might have somehow been transported here by.. Well.. I don't know how. One minute I was lying in my bed and the next.." [F/N] trailed off, Shaking her head as she felt her hands grasp the hems of her shirt.

Breathe in, Breathe out.

"It happened so quick.. I.. I was just up late reading on my phone when suddenly some kind of light just swallowed the room." [F/N] continued on, Trying to make sense of what had happened to her. "It.. It felt so sickening- It made my head begin to throb but then.. But then I felt great, If for only a second.. And then I woke up in a nearby field.. My bed nowhere in sight."

Paimon listened on, Her frown getting more and more present on her round face. [F/N] continued on, Her voice beginning to shake as she looked up at Paimon, Who .

Paimon hmphed.

“So.. If Paimon understands this correctly.. You’re from another world? You’re not from Teyvat..?!” She seemed almost astonished by the thought, Almost in disbelief at the mere thought that [F/N] wasn’t from around here.

She couldn’t blame the poor fairy, [F/N] was just as confused as she was.

“Yeah.. It.. It’s kind of hard to believe- I know. But you need to understand that one minute I was lying in bed- The next- I was here!” She stressed, Her voice sounding more and more strained by the minute.

It was hard not to break down again, Not to try lose her mind.

“Hmm..” Paimon hummed in thought as her sparkly eyes roamed over [F/N] and her sweaty/dirty attire. It was strange clothing. Nothing like Paimon had known- No cloaks- No skirts- No intricate leather corset with floral designs-

No. [F/N] was wearing a large pastel-pink hello-kitty t-shirt she used for pyjamas, A pair of oversized fleece bottoms to match, Flowing down to her heels. Paimon hmphed at the sight of the mascot, Hand on her chin in thought.

Damn, [F/N] wished she had proper shoes.

“Well.. Paimon believes you! Paimon doesn’t think that anyone wearing something as weird as that can be from around here!” Paimon concludes, A triumphant smile crossing her face as well as her arms, Poofy sleeves puffing up along with her rosy cheeks.

[F/N] let out an awkward giggle.

“Yeah.. Uhm.. Where is here anyways?” She asked as she looked around, Eyes roaming across the steep cliffs and the flowing grass rife with the wind flowing through them. Blinking as she swallowed back her trepidation.

“Mondstadt! One of the seven regions of Teyvat! Oh.. Wait, You probably don’t know what Teyvat is, Huh..” Paimon hummed in thought.

Mondstadt?

Wow. [F/N] really had been Isekai’d, Huh.

Now, Of course, In any other situation- In any other fanfiction or anime that [F/N] had read watched and watched, This would be a dream scenario for her. There was even times where she had wondered what it’d be like

Chewing on her pen as she did her schoolwork, Conjuring up scenarios in her head as she tried to get some shut-eye, Or just walking down the street on the way to her part-time. It was all apart of her routine, Daydreaming, Sometimes she’d even consider it something she’d like to happen.

In one of her favourite animes perhaps where she could be the insert that everyone loved and rooted for. She could be the person envisioned in her head. A guilty pleasure if you will, But [F/N] wondered who didn’t have those?

That’s what her ‘x readers’ were for.

It was an escape, A get-away from her ordinary life.

But to be completely and utterly honest?

…

[F/N] had never played Genshin in her life.

She threw her head into her hands, Holding back the urge to scream.

“I’m absolutely screwed, Aren’t I?”

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breakmeoff · 2 months ago

Text

Blow

pairing: jackson wang x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, SMUT: toxic reader, public groping, hands stuff (m. receiving), switch!jackson, degradation kink, rough unprotected p in v, spanking. MDNI, 18+ only

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: jackson can't count how many times he's tried to quit you, but the hold you have over him is impossible to resist. you know how much he is still addicted to you, and you can't help yourself from trying to make him blow.

note: this fic is loosely based off of the song blow, and in no way am i insinuating this is how he would behave in the real world. and if any woman treated him this way irl i'd hunt her down and gut her like a fish. 😇🤭 as always, thx for reading :)

Masterlist

Present Moment - The Gym

Jackson’s feet repeatedly hit the belt of the treadmill at a steady pace, maintaining his running speed of 6 to 7 miles per hour. Cardio had always been in his daily regimen, though he had been going at it for longer than his usual 20 minutes.

Tuning out the noise around him with his Beats headphones sitting over his black baseball cap, keeping time with the pumping trap music, Jackson’s eyes focused on the street outside of the window he was facing. Well, less focused than glazed over, his mind obviously somewhere else.

Having joined this gym several years ago and staying on a consistent schedule when he wasn’t traveling, Jackson had come to befriend others who worked out simultaneously on a similar basis. Like many other fitness enthusiasts who were members at this particular location, their habitual routine made it easy to form a bond.

Jackson’s closest gym friend, well… truly real friend at this point, was Henry - general counsel for some tech company he could never remember the name of. On any usual day, Jackson would crack a joke when Henry walked in late, or would rib him about being out of shape if he missed one too many days in their pattern. Today however, Jackson’s consciousness was nowhere to be found.

“Yo Jacks!” Henry called out to his friend, only to be met with silence. Figuring he just had his music up too loud, Henry walked a little bit closer and tried again. “Jackson!” Still… nothing.

Finally, Henry walked up to Jackson’s machine and stepped just to the side, enough to wave his hand in front of his friend’s face. “Yooooo… twinkle, twinkle, where’s the k-pop star?”

“Fuck!” Jackson yelled, ripping his head phones off and was startled so abruptly he nearly tripped on the treadmill belt. Bracing himself with a white-knuckled grip on the machine’s handrails, he stepped off onto the side rails while clicking the speed button down on the digital screen.

With a deep laugh, Henry used his clean towel to whip Jackson in the arm now that he was back in the real world and at a pace that he could hold his composure. “You were fuckin’ comatose there, man.”

“Gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack, shit…” he sighed, grabbing his own towel from the handle near the control panel on the front of the machine and wiped his brow.

“My bad, my bad…” his friend repeated, holding his hands up in surrender as he turned and walked over to the chest press not too far away. After adjusting the seat to the correct height, Henry sat down and faced Jackson again who was now reaching for his water bottle and stepping off of the treadmill. “What’s got you all… that?” He asked, waving his hand dramatically in Jackson’s direction.

After chugging a half of his bottle, Jackson side eyed his friend and swallowed. “Nothin’ man… just slept like shit.”

Raising both of his arms to grasp the handlebars on the piece of equipment, Henry lifted a brow. “Long night?”

“You could say that…” Jackson started, lifting his hat and readjusting it on his head. “Passed out in the back of my car.”

Henry snorted, shaking his head as he began his reps. “Better you than me. But shit, why didn’t you just call a fuckin’ ride share?”

“If I wasn’t fucking wasted, I probably would’ve. Way smarter idea than waking up in my back seat blacked out from the night before.” Tipping the water bottle back up to his lips, he finished the remaining liquid in two long drinks.

After finishing his first set, Henry brought the machine back into resting position and paused, eyeing Jackson more scrutinously. “This has Y/N written all over it…”

Turning his back on his friend, Jackson walked over to the lat pulldown machine, straddling the seat until he bent down to sit on it.

“Jackson…” Henry’s voice was low, accusatory. “Tell me you didn’t let her sink her vicious little claws into you again…?”

Jackson reached up to the handlebars and pulled them down. “Who… my dirty little secret that keeps me awake?” He muttered, eyes focused on the mirror across the room, unable to make eye contact with his friend.

“Fuuuck… dude, she’s gonna ruin your life, I keep telling you to let her go.”

Turning to look over at Henry, Jackson lifted the corners of his lips in a mocking laugh. “Yeah but you know what? I got a problem… think I’m into it,” he said with an unconvincing smile, poorly justifying his actions.

Henry scoffed, setting himself up to do his second set of reps on the machine he was seated at. “Damn right you got a problem…”

Letting go of the handlebar on the lat machine, Jackson dropped his head in shame, resting both of his hands on his thighs as he groaned loudly at himself. “Dude, I even felt her coming and I couldn’t escape…”

“At least you can admit you fucked up,” he said between reps, exhaling heavily.

Still not yet lifting his head, Jackson growled at himself in frustration, ripping his hat off the top of his head and threw it aggressively at the wall nearest him. “I did it again. I’m in the belly of the beast. Again.”

Henry shifted his gaze over to Jackson who was clearly going through it, and moved the handlebars back to their resting position, dropping his own hands to his lap. “What’s so special about her? You’re normally so fuckin disciplined, I don’t get it with her…”

Squinting his eyes shut, Jackson inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds and exhaled shakily. “She’s like a drug.” Finally shifting in his seat, he angled his body to face Henry fully, getting more animated with his hand motions.

“Or… or you know like the moment when you first take a drag off of a cigarette after the longest time? And it’s just like… everything?”

Letting his eyes flutter shut, he straightened his posture, mimicking bringing a cigarette to his lips. “I take a hit… and let it burn my lips…” fully going on with the story, Jackson slowly licked his lower lip.

“I breathe her in,” Jackson paused, inhaling again dramatically, holding his breath. “...and I hold it in my chest,” he continued through gritted teeth, his chest puffed out with the inhale.

Henry quickly interrupted, “Aaaand then you die of lung cancer because you have a horrible addiction that’s gonna kill ya!”

Jackson exhaled, eyes open, slumping back into his previous position of despair and regret. “Yeah well I don’t think they’ve come up with any patches yet for manipulative bitch exes.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, he mumbled to himself before shifting back in the correct position on his machine again. “How'd I let it get this far?”

Last Night - The Club

Perched on a barstool at the end of the overcrowded space, Jackson lifted his head and casually waved over one of the bartenders. ‘Another Henny please… neat.” he asked, motioning to his now empty double-old fashioned glass. The bartender nodded in acknowledgement, and Jackson shifted in his seat to look over his shoulder at the dance floor.

Nodding his head to the beat of the music, he idly tapped on the bartop as he looked around over the rim of his black rimmed Gentle Monster sunglasses. A few moments later, he heard the bartender return with his new glass and he reached for it with a smile. Before Jackson could spin back around, the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he shivered involuntarily.

“Come here often?” The voice was syrupy sweet, laced with something devious, and oh too familiar. Pushing his frames back up further on his nose to hide his eyes behind the black lenses, he barely turned his head over his shoulder and saw you.

He didn’t even let his attention linger on you for more than a second before he turned back around, facing the bar, and brought his glass to his lips, taking a small sip.

“Aww, c’mon Jacky,” you said sweetly, placing your hand gently on his shoulder in an attempt to get him to turn back to you. “Not even a hello?”

Every time he ran into you, the same thing always happened. He’d drink too much and you’d sucker him back into you like the evil succubus you were. Not this time, he was determined.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Conniving Shrew.” Jackson said blankly, still not shifting to face you.

“Don’t be like that Baby…” you said, moving so now you were standing just to his side, facing him fully. “You know you miss me.”

Taking another sip of the strong brown alcohol, Jackson gave one short nod of his head. “Yeah. Like the black plague.”

With Jackson’s glass still in his hand, elbow resting on the bartop, you reached forward and took the vessel from him. His eyes, invisible behind his sunglasses, followed your movements. Bringing the rim of the glass to your lips, you took a small sip of the amber liquid and let it linger on your tongue before swallowing.

“Mm… still drinking the good stuff.” You said appreciatively. Before handing the glass back to him though, you lightly drug the tip of your tongue against the outside of the glass, collecting any droplets that remained on the rim.

Jackson kept his expression blank, though he retrieved the double old fashioned that you’d just defiled and brought it back to his own lips, silently praying that the alcohol would soon take effect to help him cope with this bitch.

“Ugh, fuck…” Jackson said, crinkling his nose in disgust after taking a sip from the same area your lips and tongue previously were. “You taste like cigarettes…”

“Oh please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I bet if I…” pausing, your eyes shifted to his baggy black shorts and without permission or warning, began digging into one of his oversized pockets.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jackson said, pissed off, raising his arms like he couldn’t believe you had the gall. Just as he was about to grab your hand from his lap, you pulled it back with a nicotine vape pen dangling from between two long, slender, perfectly manicured fingers. “Bingo.”

”Yeah well when your cancer sticks start tasting like Watermelon Ice then maybe you won’t be so disgusting,” he snapped, yanking his vape back from you. “I’d also appreciate you not trying to grab my dick anymore, thanks.”

“Hmm, well maybe not Watermelon Ice but…” you said softer, shifting further into his space, brushing your lips against his ear, “you didn’t seem to mind when I tasted like that Blow Me Blueberry cock ring you loved so much.”

Jackson’s jaw tensed with your wet, hot breath against his skin. Closing his eyes to try to steady his slightly elevated heart rate, he lowered his glass to the bartop. Clearing his throat, he craned his neck, stretching out his taut muscles. “Turns out I have a new allergy to fake.”

Your arms slowly moved to drape over his shoulders, leaning against his side, so close that your breasts pressed against his bicep. “Loosen up, Jacky. We had some good times, remember?”

Inhaling sharply, Jackson turned his head and eyesight to focus on the back of the bar and his drink in front of him again, trying to ignore the fact that you were clinging to him.

Inching forward again, you pressed your plush lips, stained bright red, against the side of his neck just below his ear. Jackson’s eyes fluttered shut with the gentle pressure, clenching both of his hands into fists. Right against the spot you’d just left a light lipstick mark, you blew cold air lightly against him causing his skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Giggling softly at his reaction, you whispered again, voice thick with saccharine. “See, I still know what makes you tick.”

With a smirk playing on your lips, you turn fully towards the bar, elbows resting on the sticky wooden top. Tossing your hair over your shoulder nearest to him, Jackson can’t help but get a whiff of the recognizable, sweet scent of your products - sugary vanilla mixed with a hint of something floral.

The bartender made his way over to you, and standing on your tiptoes, you leaned further over the counter to get a better look at some of the bottles. With your arms accidentally pushing your breasts together from the low cut neckline of your dress, and the dangerously short hemline which was inching up your backside the further you bent over, it was obvious from anyone paying attention that you were looking to get some.

Lifting your eyes to the bartender who was obviously staring down your dress, you flashed him a bright smile, exaggerating your position even more. “Can we get 2 shots of Moutai, please? And stick it on his tab.” You added with a wink, pointing your thumb over to Jackson.

Ever the gentleman, and not a stupid or blind man, Jackson noticed your dress creeping up your thighs and quickly shifted off of his barstool to stand behind you, protecting your ‘virtue’ from any unwanted eyes. Watching the swift change in his position, you glanced over your shoulder to him and laughed. “I’m a big girl, Jacky. I know what I’m doing. You don’t need to protect me.”

“Oh, cool. So I’ll just let you flash your bare ass to the club then?” He asked sarcastically, faking a step to the side to let you resume your position.

“Nah, you’re right. This is better.” Pushing yourself back from the bar a tiny bit, you moved to brush your ass against the front of his shorts. Instinctively, Jackson’s hands lifted to either side of him, not wanting to give you the wrong impression that he was enjoying your over the top advancements.

The bartender returned with the two shot glasses, which you reached for before turning around, fully facing Jackson again. His eyes, still hidden behind his dark lense sunglasses, picked up on the two small glasses in your hands. “You know that shit’s strong right? And I’m not taking care of you if you pass out in a corner somewhere.”

With a giggle, you shook your head. “That’s why one of them is for you, silly. We’re gonna party like we used to.”

“Ahh… no, I’m good.” Jackson reached for his glass of Henny on the bar, and held it against his chest like a form of protection.

“C’mon Jacky,” you pouted. Jackson just stared at you, silently wondering how he ever fell for your phony tactics. But, seeing as you weren’t about to leave him alone any time soon, he reached for the shot glass.

“Nuh uh!” Your smile was wicked, one eyebrow lifted teasingly. “Not gonna make it that easy for you.”

Rolling his eyes, he groaned at your brattiness. “Fuck. Fine. Let’s get this over with.” There had always been a certain way the two of you enjoyed shots historically. And simply taking them out of the glass was never an option with you.

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth as your grin grew, you looked down to the front of your dress and tucked one of the cold shot glasses between your breasts, resting perfectly in your cleavage.

“You’re fucking annoying, you know that?” Jackson deadpanned, sighing in disappointment.

“Yep, don’t care. Quit your sniveling and drink up, baby.”

Sucking in a breath, Jackson leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the rim of the glass perched securely between your tits, brushing his nose against the soft skin between them before tipping his head back and swallowing the harsh, burning clear liquid with the shot glass still between his teeth.

Once the glass was empty, he reached up and grabbed it from between his lips, hissing harshly at the sting of the 106 proof liquor. Cringing slightly from the burn, he shook his head and dropped his eyes back down to you. With a nod of his head, he motioned towards the other full glass between your fingers. “Your turn.”

“Yep, and I choose to take it from there…” you lifted your empty hand, pointing at his mouth, one of your fingers lightly flicking his bottom lip.

“You’re insane.” Jackson said, not moving from where he stood.

Your hand near his face went to rest on his shoulder while the other brought the shot glass closer to his lips. “Tip your head back like a good boy…”

A cold shiver ran down Jackson’s spine with your praise, another involuntary move he hated that gave him away. With a grunt of frustration, he lowered his jaw and tipped his head back just enough.

Leaning forward, you poured the cold, clear liquid onto his tongue with a smug smile. Once it was emptied into his mouth and his lips closed, your hand that was previously on his shoulder went to the back of his head, and you tugged him closer to you, pressing your warm lips roughly against his own.

With a gentle brush of your tongue against his lip, he took the hint and opened his mouth again to transfer the Moutai into your mouth. With a satisfied moan, you swallowed as quickly as you could, hardly giving him a chance to back away before your tongue slid into his mouth.

After his initial shock and instinct to back away, Jackson’s eyes fluttered shut with the familiar taste of liquor, hint of menthol cigarettes, and something specifically you. Despite his best intentions, he’d always been weak for you.

Lifting his free hand, he moved it to the side of your face, thumb gently caressing your cheek close to where your lips met, shifting his feet closer to you as he tilted his head, deepening the intense kiss. With a deep groan, Jackson pulled his lips away, forehead resting against yours. “Fuck… you pull me back every time I quit you.”

“Stop resisting it…” you purred. Taking a baby step back, you tipped the bottom of his glass of Hennessy, hinting to him to finish what remained. Jackson obliged, tipping his head back to swallow the rest of the deep amber liquid.

Once the glass was empty, you reached up for it and placed it, along with the two empty shot glasses, on the bartop. Turning back to face him, you outstretched your hand, grasping Jackson’s and pulled him away from the bar.

Like a lovesick, lost puppy, Jackson dutifully followed behind you. Finally stepping down a dark hallway towards the restrooms, you walked like you were on a mission, but were halted when he yanked your arm to stop you. Backing you up against one of the walls, Jackson placed both of his hands flat against the hard surface on either side of your head, caging you in.

Tipping your head back to look up at him, you frowned, noticing those black sunglasses still hiding his eyes from you. Lifting a hand, you reached for his frames and he grabbed your wrist quickly, pushing it against the wall behind you. A dark smile spread across your face, loving his attempt at taking control of the situation. Little did he realize, you still had him in the palm of your hand - almost.

“What’s wrong, Jacks? Cat got your tongue?” You teased, your free hand now pressing flat against his chest. Jackson swallowed and you watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, a hint that his resolve might be weakening.

Your fingertips slowly began to trail down the front of his body, past his belt, and just over the soft fabric of his shorts before you pressed your palm roughly against his stiffening cock. Sucking in a harsh breath between his teeth, he dropped his head to look down at your hand now rubbing over him.

Unable to help himself, he shifted his hips closer to you, pressing further into your hand. Arching your back off of the wall, you tried to draw him closer to you, your grip over his length getting firmer as you whispered to him. “I know you miss me, Baby. Let me take good care of you again.”

Jackson moaned lowly, lifting his head just enough to lean over and pressed his warm, wet, parted lips against your collarbone. “Girl, you got me dripping sweat…”

Testing him, you tried to pull your arm down from his grasp and were surprised when you met little to no opposition. Reaching your newly freed hand forward, you grasped the waist of his shorts and boxers, pulling them away from his body.

Your hand that was previously groping him through his clothing now slid effortlessly down the front of his body, your palm hot against his bare abdomen. Jackson made a strangled noise as you wrapped your fingers around his shaft and slowly began stroking his length.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually enjoying this,” you whispered, the palm of your hand now caressing the head of his cock, the precum smearing between your hand and his heated flesh.

Increasing the pressure and speed of your movements, you reached with your free hand to grip his chin between your index finger and thumb, tilting his head up to force him to look at you once again. The look on his face was dripping with want, his plush lips parted in a breathless gasp, chest rising and falling heavily.

A dark, sinful, dry laugh slipped past your lips. Tilting your head to the side, you studied his face, still gripping his chin with one hand and pumping up and down his slick cock with the other. “Look at you, like putty in my hands… I bet you’d do almost anything for me right now, huh?”

Jackson’s hips jerked further into your hand sloppily, your words always doing something to him. The heady combination of your skillful hands, cold teasing and the thrill of knowing anyone could walk by and see you in a compromised position was dizzying. “Tell me what to do,” he panted, sweat starting to bead along his hairline. “I’ll do anything…”

Letting go of his chin, you leaned forward, ghosting your lips over his neck tortuously slowly. Humming against his flesh, more sensitive than ever, you murmured. “First… you’re gonna make a mess in your pants,” Jackson moaned loudly, absently fucking himself in your hand. “And then you’re going to take me into the bathroom and fuck me hard enough I’ll forget my own name.”

Noticing the sporadic movement of his hips, you could tell that he was getting close. But you also knew you didn’t want to give it to him that easily. “Fuck, fuck, I’m…” Jackson stuttered, pressing more of his weight into his hands against the wall.

“Don’t stop baby, shit, don’t stop now…” Huffing out a breath, you could see his eyebrows pinching together, about to lose himself. “Shit, you got me ready to…” and at that exact moment, you stopped your hand and pulled it out of his pants.

Jackson lifted his head to look at you again, his sunglasses sliding down his nose, breathing heavily and knuckles turning white they were clenched so hard. “What the fuck, Y/N?” He cursed at you, groaning loudly in frustration.

“Bathroom. Now.” Grunting, Jackson shifted himself in his pants and then grabbed your wrist and forcefully pulled you into the nearest single occupant restroom. Slamming the door shut behind you, he roughly grabbed your hips and backed you up against the sink.

“You’re such a fucking bitch…” he said through gritted teeth.

“And you fucking love it,” you seethed in reply.

Spinning you around, he placed his hand on your back between your shoulder blades and pushed you down into a bent position, gripping onto the sides of the sink. You lifted your head just enough to look into the mirror in front of you, watching the darkened expression on Jackson’s face.

Roughly forcing the hem of your short dress over the curve of your ass, he laughed mirthlessly. “Of course you’re not wearing any panties. God, you’re so desperate.” Jackson said dismissively, running one of his hands over the curve of your ass before spanking it hard, causing you to jolt forward further over the sink with a filthy moan.

“Worst fucking part is I fall for it every,” he paused, smacking his hand against your ass again. “...fucking,” smack, “time,” smack.

By this point you were starting to writhe under his hand still pressing you down and the sting against your ass.

Dropping his hand to the front of his shorts, he swiftly unbuttoned them and drug the zipper down, pulling them and his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring out from its confines.

“Every time… let you play me like an instrument,” he seethed, bending his knees a little to angle himself better, pressing the tip of his angry red cock against your now soaked entrance. “But I’m addicted to it,” Jackson grunted, fucking his entire length into you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out beneath him, straightening your arms in an attempt to push yourself up from being so far bent over. Watching you try to gain some sort of control back, Jackson reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair and pushed your cheek flat against the dirty, cold porcelain right next to the faucet. “Ohhh no… you and your body feels like disrespect, and I’m fucking tired of it.”

“Jackson,” you whimpered, eyes squinting shut at his powerful thrusts, relentlessly fucking into your tight cunt.

His whole body tensed up, determined to make you feel every last inch of him. “You wanted this,” he growled, his hips slapping against your ass cheeks with his force. “You begged for this, remember?”

His pace was ruthless, somehow fucking into you deeper each time. Every roll of his hips was precise, and he knew exactly how to get you to start to crumble for him.

“Hate that I’m addicted to it, your filthy, tight pussy…” Jackson sputtered, his hand between your shoulder blades moved down to your lower back, forcing you to arch beneath his touch.

You began babbling desperately, fully at his disposal, and despite the tears forming in the corner of your eyes, you loved every second of it. And just took it.

Jackson’s movements became erratic, a thin sheen of sweat spreading across his exposed skin. Through gritted teeth, he dangerously rasped between grunts. “At least this time,” he paused, fully seated inside your throbbing cunt as he pulled your head back forcefully with his grip in your hair. “I’m the one who controls when I blow.”

tag list: @angel-writes-here @jqtsblyth @magicshuhua

let me know if you'd like to be added!

#jackson wang x reader #jackson wang ff #jackson wang fanfic #got7 jackson #jackson wang #got7 jackson wang #jackson wang smut #jackson wang x female reader #the magic man fanfic #Spotify

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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thinking about calling pogue!rafe over because your hot water isn’t working and he’s acting all annoyed but he’s lowkey kicking his feet at the fact that he gets to be in your home. maybe even asking him to stay after your shower so you can cook him something as a reward and play house for a bit 🩷🩷🩷

ೀ 🐰 ‧ ˚ 🪽 ⊹˚. ♡

my favourite thing about pogue!rafe is that he acts soooo inconvenienced by your presence. he hates kooks, think they’re so stuck up — so he can’t help but feel to push you away. always referring to you as a ‘stuck up little girl’ whilst he’s only a couple of years older than you. he’d done some work on the house before, and whilst your parents are away you literally don’t know who to call to fix your hot water problem so you try him, pacing around your room.

at first during your call, he tells you he’s got a shit tonne of work to be doing on other houses and doesn’t have time to drop everything for a kook princess. he can practically see your little pout through the phone, but keeps up his attitude until you thank him for his time anyway, sadly throwing out a little “no, i understand it’s okay. i’ll probably just hit up that jj maybank. i heard he’s pretty handy.” and suddenly he’s changed his tune, physically sitting up from his slouched position to be all “shit, okay fine… fine. i’ll be there in twenty minutes just — just don’t call anyone else a’ight?”

he’s sulking when he turns up with his tool box and that muscle tank and shorts with paint and dirt on them — unable to stop sucking on your bottom lip because he’s just so big and strong. he’s ignoring your lustful gaze with everything in him as he walks through to your bathroom. “lets just get this out the way, yeah?” he drawls as he gets to work.

you sit on the sink and swing your legs, not leaving him alone as he works simply chatting his ear off, seemingly unphased by his blunt replies, finding creative ways to shut you down like reminding you “yeah, uh you’re my little sisters age.” however you seemed totally unscathed, only working harder to prove you’re grown enough to take him.

“should be workin’ fine now so uh… just wire me the money n’we’ll be good. doin’ overtime right now so i kinda just wanna go home.” he waves you off and you step infront of him.

“you’re finished working?”

“di’nt i just say that kid?” he drawls and you grin, dragging him to your lounge.

“perfect! look i really wanna thank you specially for bein’ so helpful to me even though it’s clear you don’t want to. let me cook you dinner. please? i got beer and uh… i’ll make it really good. oh please rafe, my parents are away and i’m all alone.”

he sighs like it tortures his whole being, but he couldn’t deny that your house was super nice — nicer to hang out in than his shitty little fishing shack that he calls a home. he’d heard the cops had been sniffing around for him wanting to talk about a little ‘altercation’ he recently wound up in and didn’t have the energy to deal with that. no one would suspect him in the kook princess headquarters.

he cracks open a beer and lounges on your couch watching tv as you prepare the food for him before sticking everything in the oven and heading upstairs to shower. he doesn’t notice your presence disappear until you’ve returned in the tiniest little night gown and damp hair, leading him to the dining room where you serve up his food.

“some real housewife shit, huh?” he can’t hold back his smile as you seat him infront of a hearty meal. you feel all warm at the implication, shrugging modestly.

it’s inevitable that you wind up in his lap after he’s eaten, having sat with him and flirted — leaning over the table with your tits practically spilling out. you can’t quite recall how you got there, in between telling him you had nothing on under the nightgown and him telling you that it wasn’t his fault that men had primal instincts or some shit like that — but soon he was pulling your dress up to your waist and stuffing himself inside you, roughly fucking up into you.

“oww, rafey!” you whine at how rough he’s being with you, not used to being treated like anything but a princess. he can tell it’s an act though, and you truly do love it from the way your walls contract around him.

“nah, nah you knew what you were doin’ inviting me here. what were — were you just sittin’ around with a fuckin’ wet pussy waitin’ on your moment to invite me round n’let you fuck on me? huh? that was this is?” he bucks his hips, holding onto you to completely take control from below, bashing you against the table with each thrust that was certain to leave bruises.

you whimper, pressing your body to his trying to win over some affection as you sniffle. “just got such a crush on you, rafe.” you mewl and he scoffs, taking that moment to pick you up in his lap and place you on the dining room table instead, gaining more control so he could keep rutting into you.

“sick’a you little kook girls tryn’a — tryn’a use me like im some little experiment that you can toss to the side afterwards.” he complains, gripping your hips and practically using you like a toy. if he wasn’t holding you up, you’d be completely limp.

“dont want you with other girls! not — not gonna get rid of you i just want you.” you defend, and finally he slows his punishing pace to catch his breath, staring down at you analytically with parted lips, dick twitching inside you at the confession.

“that right?” he deadpans and you nod, teary eyed. “that why you let me in this princess cunt raw? huh? no protection or nothin’? just… just hoping i pull out? ha…” he chuckles maliciously, starting to push in deeper once more, upping his pace just a tad. “yeah… yeah maybe i should nut right in here—” he caresses your lower tummy making you whimper, completely at his mercy with your legs split. “knock up some kook pussy. won’t just be a phase then will i? nah baby… nah you’d be stuck with me for life.”

he’s got a sick smile on his face, but what he’s not expecting is for you to grip the back of his neck, your bottom lip wobbling with a serious look in your eyes. “do it.” you command and his face drops a little, realising that maybe he was dealing with a girl that had it bad for him. that, or you’re trying to get some sort of revenge on your parents. either option made his dick throb.

ೀ 🐰 ‧ ˚ 🪽 ⊹˚. ♡

#anon #rafe cameron prompt #pogue!rafe

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jessesluvr · 1 month ago

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WOW what do you think about Maria and Tommy doing a Valentines day themed party in Jackson for shits and giggles and they do a love mail during the party and Reader writes something for Jesse but doesn't say her nameeeee and he spend DAYS trying to figure out who wrote such thing about his smile and his biceps and he even thinks Ellie and Dina did it to mess with him

to the guy with the smile (and the biceps) | jesse x reader

author’s note : this was so cute ! i super duper liked this request :’)). tysm !!! inbox and requests are always open !! take care my lovelies ! <3

summary : every valentine’s day, jackson gets a little weird—but nothing tops the anonymous love letter jesse receives praising his dimples, his biceps, and the quiet way he makes the world feel safe. when he sets out on a mission to uncover the mystery admirer (totally convinced it’s not you), he has no idea the person he’s been searching for has been right in front of him—watching, hoping, and maybe just a little in love the whole time.

word count : 1.3k

valentine’s day in jackson was supposed to be a joke.

maria had said it herself—grinning, waving her hand dismissively as she and tommy stapled heart-shaped cutouts to the mess hall walls.

“just for shits and giggles,” she’d told you, smirking as she enlisted your help to string paper garlands above the windows. “lord knows we need a little weirdness that doesn’t come from clickers or patrol drama.”

and jackson delivered.

the party was warm and strange and laced with the kind of small-town charm that only came from people who hadn’t celebrated anything frilly or pink in years. dina had worn a cowboy hat covered in glitter. ellie played a painfully off-tune acoustic version of can’t help falling in love in the corner. someone made a pink cake with powdered milk frosting. and in the middle of the party, maria unveiled the “love mail” box—red, heart-covered, obnoxious—and told people to write anonymous notes to their crushes or friends and they’d be read aloud at the end of the night.

you hadn’t planned to write anything.

but then you saw jesse—laughing, flushed from the cold, hair tousled from his patrol with tommy, dimples showing as he shoved ellie lightly for making some dumb joke—and something in you cracked like brittle ice.

so you grabbed a card. and you wrote:

to the guy with the kindest smile and arms that look like they could carry the whole world if you asked him to—you make even the coldest days feel warmer. i don’t know how you do it—maybe it’s the way you laugh, or how you always hold the door without thinking twice, or how you somehow manage to make people feel safe just by being around.i see you. on patrol, in the mess hall, laughing with your friends, helping with the kids, lifting crates like they weigh nothing... you’re steady. good. the kind of good this world doesn’t have a lot of anymore.so this is just... a thank you, i guess. and maybe a little hope that someone sees you the way i do.happy valentine’s day, jesse.

you didn’t sign it. just dropped it in the box and turned away before you could regret it.

the letters were read aloud by tommy, who stood at the front of the mess hall with the kind of theatrical gravitas usually reserved for reading eulogies or bedtime stories to the twins. people were laughing, whistling, elbowing each other at every sweet or embarrassingly thirsty message.

then tommy pulled yours from the box. he cleared his throat, raised an eyebrow, and read it.

silence fell. real silence.

a few soft "awws" drifted from the crowd. you kept your head down, busying yourself with a half-eaten cookie and trying not to combust. you could feel jesse freeze from across the room.

when tommy finished, he whistled and said, "well damn. whoever wrote that—marry 'em."

everyone laughed. jesse didn’t.

he was still staring, brows drawn, jaw slack. like someone had pulled the air out of his lungs.

you peeked.

his cheeks were pink. his eyes flicked around the room, scanning every face. suspicious. searching.

the rest of the night passed in a blur—music, dancing, more notes—but jesse stayed strangely quiet.

and the next morning?

it began.

"ellie."

"no."

"you didn't even let me ask."

ellie raised an eyebrow from where she was fixing her boots outside the stables. "you were gonna ask if i wrote that love letter about your smile and your biceps. no, i didn't."

"you and dina pull pranks all the time."

"sure. but i don't write soft poetry about your arms, dude."

"not even once?"

she made a face. "gross."

jesse spent the entire next week quietly losing his mind.

he asked everyone. he tried handwriting analysis. he inspected every female-leaning patrol buddy he had, making small talk, throwing out baited lines like, "been thinking about how cold it's been on patrol," just to see if anyone bit.

you watched from the sidelines, amused and terrified.

every time he looked at you, you wondered if he knew. if he felt it. but jesse never asked. just smiled and teased and went back to his sleuthing.

you tried to move on. but then you caught him in the library one night, holding your letter like it was made of glass.

"you know," he said softly, not looking up, "whoever wrote this... they saw me. not just the outside stuff. they saw me."

your heart thumped.

he smiled down at the page.

"i'm gonna find them."

you swallowed hard. "what if they don't want to be found?"

jesse finally looked at you.

"then i’ll wait."

by midweek, jesse was spiraling in that weird jesse way: quiet, focused, overly polite, eyes scanning every room like he was solving a murder.

you caught him one afternoon at the dining hall, halfway through a very serious interrogation of poor cat, who had been scribbling in her sketchbook when jesse pointed to her cursive.

"looks kinda similar," he mumbled. "did you write this?"

cat blinked. "what? no. i don't even use hearts when i dot my i's."

you nearly choked on your soup.

he paced the hall, asking maria if she'd seen who dropped what into the box. tried to get dina to confess again. brought up a patrol switch from two months ago as if it held the key to the mystery.

and still, he never asked you.

until that friday.

it was snowing. the quiet kind of snow that muted the world and turned even the harshest light soft. you were walking home from the armory, hands in your coat pockets, when you saw him leaning against your porch railing like some kind of drama protagonist.

he straightened when he saw you.

"hey."

your stomach flipped. "hey. everything okay?"

he looked at you with those eyes—warm, a little nervous.

"i have a question. one you don't have to answer. but it's been driving me crazy."

you bit your lip. nodded once.

he pulled something from his coat pocket.

the letter.

"was this you?"

your breath caught.

you could lie. you could laugh it off. you could pretend.

but jesse—he looked hopeful. not smug. not cocky. hopeful.

so you nodded.

he exhaled like you’d knocked the wind from him.

then, he smiled.

not his teasing grin. not his charming smirk. something soft. real. something that made your chest ache in the best way.

"can i... take you to dinner? or whatever counts as dinner in jackson?"

your laugh came out shaky and bright. "yeah. you can."

he stepped closer.

"you really think i have the kindest smile?"

"and the best biceps," you teased.

he beamed, cheeks pink from the cold and something warmer underneath. "guess i better start living up to the hype."

and when he leaned in to hug you—just a hug, his arms warm and solid and home—you melted. you buried your face against his shoulder, laughing softly when he squeezed a little tighter than necessary.

"i knew it was you," he whispered into your hair. "i hoped it was."

"really?"

he pulled back just enough to look at you, nose almost brushing yours. "you're the only one who looks at me like that. like i’m... worth all those words."

you were smiling so hard it hurt.

"you are."

and when his forehead rested gently against yours, and his fingers slipped between yours like they’d always belonged there, the cold didn’t matter. the awkward party, the pink cake, the glitter cowboy hat—none of it mattered.

you’d found each other.

and the whole town would be talking about it by morning.

#jesse x reader #tlou jesse x reader #jesse tlou #tlou jesse #jesse oneshot #jesse fluff #jesse tlou x reader #jesse tlou imagines #tlou jesse oneshot #tlou fanfics

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deadhands69 · 6 months ago

Text

My Hero

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

Fluff. …very dark weird fluff. Hurt/comfort ish. Warnings/content/etc: gn reader, suicide attempt, hostage situation, canon-typical violence/destruction, reader is mentioned as having hair.

It’s too cold to sleep and you can’t stop coughing.

The puffy cloud-shaped night light on the wall taunts you. Its childlike innocence doesn’t belong in a place like this. Whatever this place is.

With the damp floor, low ceiling, and cool air you think it’s a basement. Or a cellar. You aren't sure if either of those are common in Japan though. Maybe some sort of underground tunnel that was walled off. Whatever it is, it’s been your prison for a while now and probably will be for the foreseeable future.

You cringe at the thought.

Without seeing any outside light, you have no way to know what time it is. How many days it’s been. It's been eighty-nine sleeps since your unceremonious arrival here, each time marked by a scratch on the grimy wall with the back of a metal chopstick.

Eighty-nine times you laid your head on the hard ground in an attempt to find some fleeting repose from your situation.

Eighty-nine times you’ve closed your eyes only to be haunted with nightmares of the walls that surround you. And that fucking cloud light. It’s been far too long with nothing else.

There’s seemingly no reason for anyone to keep you down here, so you have no way to predict what they’ll do with you. Thus far, you seem to be mostly forgotten.

At first, you were convinced heroes would rescue you. So you waited. But no help ever came.

And you can’t save yourself, your typically strong quirk doesn’t even work down here. So, you cried until you had no more tears and screamed until your throat was too raw to make more than a whimper.

You’ve long since given-up hope that anyone will come barging through the door and deliver you to safety. No, it’s been too much time. No one knows you’re down here; you’re dead to the world by now.

Countless days have been spent wishing you could change the past. You shouldn’t have gotten in that van for a “free tour". You should have told someone your itinerary, rather than giving a vague “going to Japan for the week” to your coworkers before leaving. Fuck, you even made jokes that if you don’t come back it’s because you decided to move here.

Regret overtakes you in waves: it’s all you have left after your hope slowly died.

Well, that and more wishing.

Praying.

Anything.

It’s all become the same; none of it is working.

You crave sunlight. Longing for the days you could stand-up straight, eat real food - rather than the occasional bowl of rice that’s slipped to you through a small hole in the door. What you would give for a single strawberry.

Your daily water accumulates in a cup beneath a dripping crack in the ceiling. Each drop echoes through the room. Initially, it drove you to madness. Yet the alternative, death by thirst, sounds worse. Eventually, you learn to tune it out altogether.

At this point, you’ve forgotten what clean water tastes like.

If this is a bad dream, you’d do anything to wake up already.

Ten sleeps and seventeen bowls of rice ago, a thought crept in. At first you tried to dismiss it but the more time goes on, the louder it gets.

At this point, it’s screaming. You can’t ignore it any longer.

You’re ready.

Crawling to the light, you pause to consider. This isn’t how you wanted it to end, but it is how it is. Every voice in your head leads you to this one last desire: end your time in here at all costs.

Grabbing the plastic cloud, you tip the light out of the socket then slide it back in just enough to illuminate the room again. The prongs are shorter than you expected, slightly different than home, but you still think you can make it work.

You picture everyone you've ever known: trying to remember the details of their faces. Images of better times run through your head, for the first time in months. Settling into a memory of a warm summer day, the golden light softly peaking through the trees. You let it surround you as you slide a metal chopstick between the blades to complete the circuit.

There’s a loud pop. A shock runs up your arm, spasming along the way before sending an ache into your shoulder. The light flashes bright then goes out and… that’s it?

The outlet feels hot, the tips of your fingers feel burnt, and there’s an odd twinge in your chest muscles. Quickly, you shove the light back in to assess the situation but nothing happens.

Great, you’re still here and now you’re in the dark.

Even in your delirium, you can’t believe you actually thought that would work.

Fumbling for your water, you repeat the number of times you’ve closed your eyes to rest. Committing it to memory, rather than the wall now.

You lay down, trying to get some rest that doesn’t come.

Little do you know, you won’t have to wait through another sleep.

A loud crash jolts you back to reality. For a moment, you think the sound is in your head but the floor quakes beneath you. You know you should be panicking but the feeling never comes.

With another crash, half the ceiling crumbles to your side. The wreckage surrounds you. A cloud of thick air stings your eyes and makes it hard to breathe.

Through the dust, light cracks between chunks of concrete, further burning your eyes. It takes every bit of strength in you to crawl your way out.

Then you see him: a hero.

Maybe it’s because he saved you. Or because he’s the first person you’ve laid eyes on in a long time. Regardless, you decide quickly: he’s the most beautiful human you’ve ever seen. His perfectly sculpted face, white hair glowing in the light.

While it’s been a long time since you’ve used your voice, you translate the words in your head and manage to croak out, “thank you, hero.”

“I’m not-” he looks down at you, bright red eyes softening a bit at the sight. In a gravelly voice, he grumbles, “just get behind me, okay?”

You do as you’re told. Resigned to spending the next few minutes watching him being pummeled by a villain at least three times his size. Normally, you would have done something but at this point, you can barely stand upright and your quirk is reduced to a flicker. The fight ends, leaving him bloodied but victorious.

More heroes arrive, coming to his aid. They gesture at you while they talk.

Listening in on them, you can make out bits of their conversation. You catch “next steps” and a “need to hurry/leave soon”. Some mentions of you. Something about a place that can sap the power from quirks, then they consider how strong your quirk must be if you landed yourself in there. The past few months suddenly make a bit more sense.

“Can you speak Japanese?” one of them asks as the group approaches.

It’s been months since you’ve spoken any language, let alone the one you learned in your spare time before traveling. Being able to understand and actually forming a response are proving to be quite different. You try anyways, replying in the broken bits of words you can manage, which seem to be enough.

They ask your name, about your quirk. How you got here, where you’re from. You can answer most of those questions.

They decide to take you back to their headquarters, you’re assuming for some official reason or another. You’re glad for it, you don’t have anywhere else to go and you’re now stranded in a country whose language you only barely speak. Since you can barely walk on your own, it’s decided one of the heroes will help you. A tall man in a mask approaches and in a flash of light, the world shrinks around you. Keeping you tight in its circular confines. It’s nothing you aren’t used to by now, at least there aren’t wet concrete walls.

The sway of travel lulls you to sleep, for the first time in a long time, peacefully.

When you wake-up, you’re in a makeshift bed. You close your eyes longer to take in the comfort: a thin mat under your back, pillow, and thick blanket. A glass of water was left for you on the floor nearby. You marvel at how clear it is. Drinking it in a rush, you press up to go find more.

You stand up too quickly and everything goes black then takes a moment to come back. Even out of your previous confines, you still feel weak. Your body is malnourished and you’re sick. It’ll take more than one night to recover. Hunching slightly, you manage to make your way out of the room, down the hallway, and to some form of common space where everyone is sitting. It’s the furthest you’ve walked in months.

They offer you warm soup and you accept it gladly. Anything but rice. It tastes amazing. You missed this. Food. People. Walking.

This must be an underground hero agency, you decide. It’s dirty and there are holes in the couch. The lack of staff and amenities make for a very casual environment, more home-like than anything. Still, you’re grateful to be here. Surprisingly, they don’t question you further, seeming to have the information they needed from you already.

A blonde girl, who you’re pretty sure has to be a high schooler interning, hands you a stack of clothes and a towel to take a shower. On top are some extra toiletries, she says something about a compression person stealing them which you're not sure if you translated correctly. You thank her, then follow the direction she pointed you to the bathroom.

Taking off your tattered clothes, you barely recognize them from the day you were taken. Carefully, you step into the shower. As soon as the warm water hits your body, everything hits at once. It all happened and it was real. Now, you’re here. You feel it all. How amazing and terrible the world can be at the same time. In overwhelm, you drop to the floor sobbing. The dingy water pouring over you eventually turns clear. You use the girl's pink shampoo to wash off; it leaves you smelling like strawberries.

When you reemerge, everyone seems to be heading to bed. After months without sunlight, you’re not surprised that your circadian rhythm is completely fucked. One person stays up though, the hero who initially saved you.

“I never got your name,” you ask, surely mispronouncing some of the words.

“Shigaraki,” he says, “Tomura Shigaraki.”

You repeat it. He nods.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. You were right earlier, he really is beautiful.

“Want to go outside?” he asks, along with some words you don’t quite understand. “Yes,” you answer, hoping you didn’t agree to too much.

He stands, carefully helping you off the couch. As soon as you walk out the door, the brisk evening air hits your face. You notice an involuntary twinge of fear at facing the world again, but with him it will be okay.

“Come on,” he gestures, slowing his pace for you to keep up. You follow him around the building and up a few flights of stairs. You’re out of breath and it takes you forever but eventually, you meet him on the top landing.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I forgot you haven’t done anything like that for a while.”

“It’s okay, the view is worth it,” you say, having never meant it more in your life. The dark night sky is littered with bright stars. A few clouds hover in the distance reflecting the city light. You both sit, legs hanging over the edge between the metal railing. His shoulder brushes against yours as you move closer and you take in the warmth of another human, a feeling you’d long forgotten.

Craving more closeness, you let your head rest on his shoulder. In response, he nuzzles in, cheek pressing into the top of your head.

It’s comfortable.

After a while, you tip your head up to look at his face.

“Thank you, again.”

“No need,” he says, moving a strand of hair out of your face.

“I hope there’s some way I can repay you,” you stumble through the words but know you got them right.

“You don’t have to,” he asserts.

There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you move in, connecting your lips with the soft skin of his cheek. He sighs heavily, leaning into your touch. His eyes close and you get the feeling he might miss human contact as much as you have.

“Just stick around for a while,” he whispers.

Months ago, you were making jokes about visiting Japan and deciding to move here. Maybe there was something to that, now you have a reason to stay.

masterlist

taglist: @shigarakislaughter

#my hero academia x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura fluff #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki x gn reader #tomura shigaraki #mha tomura #tomura x reader #bnha tomura #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #sfw

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flowercrowngods · 1 year ago

Text

based on an idea i had about steve getting a bad migraine from the sudden bloodloss after kas feeds from him

post-canon, steddie don't like each other, hermit kas, depressed brain injury steve, kinda gloomy, anxiety & compulsions

Steve cuts the engine with a sigh, feeling heavy and alien, like a lone survivor in a ghost town. He’s not a lone survivor, and Hawkins isn’t technically a ghost town because there’s still enough of them here to build it back up or to watch it crumble and cave in on itself, front row seats to the fourth wave of destruction.

Maybe the real ghost is Steve, actually, floating through his days just waiting for his brain to decide it’s had enough. Just waiting for the perpetual ringing in his ears to rise in pitch and frequency and for his skull to fucking crack open from the never ending waves of the never ending buzz.

Robin asks him about it a lot, notices how he will stop and listen to his body on every inhale that feels slightly wrong, or every movement that’s just a little too fast or just a little too sudden, the blood rushing into his head or out of it, the doctor’s words ringing in tune with the tinnitus: You watch that head of yours, young man, and do not hesitate to call emergency services when the headache won’t stop after a few hours, or when anything feels off, you hear me?

The truth is, he barely heard him then. Blood was roaring in his ears, the tinnitus still quiet, but his hearing still dull from impact and screams and shock wave after shock wave of the world sewing itself back together.

He sighs again, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel and trying to catch his breath. Taking stock of his head, the heartbeat he can only feel in his hands right now and nowhere near his temples, and the quiet little tap tap tap of his finger nails hitting the leather, wanting to make sure he can hear it. Wanting to make sure he doesn’t imagine the sound.

Always fucking needing to make sure.

Soon, he breathes a little steadier, convincing himself that getting out of the car won’t be the last thing he’ll ever do. It’s so stupid, too, that fear, all that anxiety living inside him just waiting to boil and spill over until he does something stupid just to spite it.

The cool breeze hits his face, working in tandem with his calming breaths to alleviate his obsessive thought spirals, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he does nothing but breathe for a minute there.

He’s up. He’s standing. He can walk through the forest to the vamp’s hiding place, it’s fine. It’s fine. Although standing so suddenly makes him aware that he hasn’t eaten much today, too busy hating everything about this town and helping to rebuild it anyway.

Forgetting to eat and drink is another thing that’s new to him. There’s quite a few things he forgets a lot, but those are the worst. Robin is always on his ass about that, but at some point he stopped telling her. It feels like he’s stopped telling her a lot of things. Maybe that’s something else that comes with severe brain injury, young man.

He feels plenty guilty about it at least — but not enough to tell her about all the horrible things that are happening to him, or the horrible things he thinks are happening to him. The Upside Down is gone, Vecna is dead. These bad thoughts, they’re all him. But knowing that doesn’t fucking help.

Pushing away from the car and turning around to lock it, Steve decides to wallow in self pity no longer and to just get on with it. As much as he hates it. As much as part of him wants to just go home and claim that he forgot about that, too.

It’s no secret that Steve never liked Eddie. The boy’s a hypocrite, he’s loud, he’s annoying, and he just likes to shame people as publicly as possible, spitting proclamations of conformity and sticking it to the Man while at the same time turning anarchy into despotism under the guise of rebellion — and he’s the dictator.

Or, he was. And Steve never cared about him or his larger than life attitude that was worse than any of the smiles Steve ever wore to fit in in high school. Steve mostly ever just wanted Munson to shut up and eat his lunch, stop pretending he’s better than any of them just because he liked different things.

Although it wasn’t even about liking other things, it was only ever about disliking. And shaming and denouncing. Steve always wondered what kind of a miserable life that dude must have lived, shaping himself not from what he liked but from what he hated. Creating an identity that left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth because it was so fragile and contradictory and, frankly, so fucking annoying.

Still, he’d never wished for Munson to get involved in all of this. He’d never wished for the man to die. And then to come back only to be turned into some kind of vampire, doomed to live an even worse existence than he did as a human, hidden away in some shabby cabin.

Steve feels a little bad for him now. For Eddie. Or Kas, as the kids like to call him because he never reacts to his name anymore, more monster than human these days, although Dustin is sure they can domesticate him into becoming his old self again.

“Like Dart, remember?”

“Dude, don’t compare our friend to your sick little creature.” That was Lucas, affronted and annoyed. Steve could relate, although…

“You gotta admit, he’s kind of a sick little creature himself now.”

“Steve!” they’d both yelled, and Steve just playfully shoved their heads back before going to grab a coke from the fridge.

And Kas, because vampires are apparently a thing even after the end of the world, needs blood to survive. The forests are void of animals most of the time, like nature has decided to give Hawkins an ultimatum before returning and the day hasn’t come yet. Maybe it’s something to do with electromagnetic fields, or maybe it was something else entirely leading them all to safety while Hawkins was turned into a war zone. Either way, there is nothing for him to feed here.

Kas can’t just stalk around the woods at night and drink up a deer or two. Nor can he go rob the blood bank at the hospital, they’re running low as it is anyway. That left them all with only one option that Mike so disgustedly pointed out back then: Kas needs their blood. And Steve feels just bad enough for him to play along.

So now he is out here playing blood bank for the monstrous version of a guy he never even liked, and his hometown is in shambles, and his head might actually sign the fuck off at any moment now, apparently.

Things are going great.

Saving the world is just… really fucking isolating.

Still he has no choice but to announce his presence with a firm knock on the door, the pattern easy but memorable.

“This is Steve,” he adds as his hand falls to his side, waiting.

Kas always takes a while to come out and open the door, hiding away from any noise like a feral cat. Steve can kind of relate — he and Kas don’t have the best relationship either. He has no idea how sudden vampirism works, but just like feral cats will be able to tell when someone wants to hurt them and when instincts should be kicking in, Kas seems to realise how little Steve wants to be here and help him. How little he wants to have his blood sucked out of his body leaving his limbs to feel numb and uncomfortably tingly.

Eventually, though, the door opens with a creek, just enough for a pair of eyes — too large, too wide, too wild — blink back at him. Steve just lifts his eyebrows, really kind of not in the mood to deal with this barely human vampire and his absolute lack of learning curve about this situation.

When he’s sure Kas has blinked at him for long enough now, he pushes open the door and shoves inside rather roughly, immediately feeling bad when he hears the slight whimper.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets again and trying not to grimace at the stale, disgusting air in the cabin. “Jeez, you really gotta open a window every once in a while. Thought vamps were supposed to have heightened senses or some shit.”

Kas growls at him, mirroring Steve’s move and shoving past him this time, his shoulder slamming into Steve’s with painful strength. Glowering at the stupid vampire, he rubs at his shoulder before crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Listen, buddy, I can just leave and have you deal with your hunger, okay? No big deal for me, I even get to keep my blood.”

Kas snaps at him, showing his fangs and crossing his arms, too; a laughable copy of Steve’s own stance.

“Or you could just cut the crap and get on with it so I actually can leave again without taking shit from the peanut gallery. Your choice.”

The huff that follows is so indignant, Steve wonders if that could be what gets Kas out of Munson’s body and let the human win over the monster. Maybe indignation and annoyance is what will break the spell eventually, lift the curse just enough for Munson to get back into his old habit of monologising and spouting nonsense out of that big mouth of his.

Steve is half tempted to try, but he really does want to just go home and lie on his large couch with no sensory input whatsoever, tuning out the world and his anxieties that might be about to turn into compulsions just for him to gain a little control over everything again. So he squares his shoulders and takes off his jacket before tilting his head to the side, allowing Kas full access to his neck.

It’s always a little scary but still oddly fascinating, filling him with that same rush that came with witnessing all the supernatural shit over the past few years. Kas is the last remnant of all that, and somehow, buried beneath piles of rubble and trauma and the teenager he had to give up on being, Steve feels weirdly protective of that.

Not of Eddie. Of Kas. Of the monster that lies dormant. Of the last bit of danger in his life, because he doesn’t know how to live without it anymore — so much so that he has to make it up.

Maybe it’s a symptom of his self destructive tendencies, as Robin would call it. But Steve might be as fascinated with the vampire as Robin is with fire; so she doesn’t get to have a say in this.

There is always a strange intimacy in the way Kas approaches him. Slowly, carefully. Like a hunter his prey. Steve doesn’t feel like prey, not really, but a part of him wants to. A part of him needs to be prey again, if only for those instincts that manifest with a perpetual tremor and a restless feeling in his chest to be of use again. If only so he can have a point again. Something to fight that’s outside oh his own head.

Now, his point is standing still entirely and feeling those chapped but warm lips trail up and down his throat a little before Kas finds the right spot that won’t really hurt Steve, the right spot that will make it all go by quickly and without any hiccups.

Still he shivers, like always, and Kas holds him close when he finally bites down. Like always.

He stands motionless as he feels his blood flow alternating, rushing in his ears and his head, his heart thump-thump-thumping, putting up a fight against the strange intrusion. He hardly even breathes at all, focusing instead on his body and burying his finger nails in his palm for five seconds before releasing his hands and repeating the process three times before he gets it right.

But then his head is pulsing, his heartbeat slowing down as his vision briefly blacks out in the same way it does when he gets up too quickly, and his heart falls. It’s too much. Too sudden.

“Kas,” he says, but the vampire doesn’t hear him, drinking more and more of the blood that must be so thick with how little he’s had to drink today — something he only just remembered. “Kas,” he says again, more urgently this time; but still the vampire drinks.

And where before Steve had a clear vision of the door in the dark room — the light of day streaming in through the cracks and framing it almost mystically —, it’s spotty now. Just slightly off. Like something is missing but his brain is working overtime to complete the picture anyway, reducing the blind spot to merely an illusion. But Steve knows what’s happening. He knows what the sudden pulsating of his head means, especially when it’s followed by his vision just going AWOL on him.

No, he thinks as the situation really settles in, and he begins to push Kas away. Not like it matters anyway now; the damage is done. No, no, no, no, fuck!

He frantically shoves at the vampire now, blinking against the blind spot even though he’s painfully aware it won’t help. Kas breaks away from him, wiping his mouth and smearing his face and the back of his hand with Steve’s blood. If he looks just right, he can’t even fucking see it.

Heart falling further, Steve buries his hands in his hair and pulls, hoping that by some kind of miracle he can just pull the migraine out of his head before it can really settle. It’s his only chance. He can’t drive like this, he shouldn’t walk like this, and soon he won’t be able to do anything at all.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” be hisses, hearing the edge of desperation in his own voice and caring very little about that right now.

Kas is on him again in a second, and Steve waves him off, tries to shove him away but the vampire is stronger and persistent.

A high keening sound builds in Kas’s chest, and Steve knows he doesn’t really speak, doesn’t really use his words, ever — maybe he doesn’t know how. But the keening sounds more like a whine, and the way he pulls at Steve to look at him is as much an indicator of worry as he’s going to get.

But Steve doesn’t want Kas’s hands on him, wants to just get out and away before the pain comes. So he takes another step back and holds up his hands, hoping that the vampire will just fucking take a hint.

A little too quickly and a little too frantic, Steve shakes his head, his eyes flitting about the room to see if there’s still pieces of it missing or if phase two is about to start. He has about twenty minutes left before his body will be composed of nothing but skull-splitting pain that is only equal to someone ramming actual nails into his head — and even that would be preferable right noe, because at least that pain he wouldn’t need to explain. Or justify.

Another keening sound interrupts Steve's burgeoning spiral, and his eyes land on Kas, who really looks like a kicked puppy right now.

"I gotta go," he says, voice a little unsteady with apprehension and panic, but just as he's about to rush out of the cabin, Kas crosses his path and won't let him move.

A strong hand lands on his chest, and Steve really, really doesn't want to deal with that right now. He tries again, tries with more force to sidestep and push past him, but Kas won't let him budge.

"Let me go." But Kas doesn't let up. "Kas. Please. You gotta let me go, I gotta get home, I—“

The first flash of white in his peripheral vision catches him off guard, moving his focus away from the clawed hand on his chest and toward the flickering line that cuts through the left side of his vision right now.

Curious or worried or maybe just really fucking stupefied at having Steve act so weirdly, Kas inclines his head and ducks to catch Steve's eyes.

"Move," Steve says again, as assertive as he can manage with his brain and body scattered between following the flickering lights that are invisible to everyone else and the pain that is about to consume him, leaving him incapacitated for several hours at least.

Instead of moving out of Steve's space and allowing him to leave, Kas shoves him backwards with that superhuman strength he has now, forcing Steve to stumble back helplessly. Fear rises in him again, and it's a different flavour this time that mixes horribly well with the anxiety and apprehension and all the waves and waves of blinding panic he feels out of nowhere almost all the time now.

His knees buckle when they hit something rather violently, and then he's falling, landing on the worn couch with a breathless gasp, his instincts running wild. He needs to fight, he needs to run, he needs to get home and be safe and get the fuck away from this monster who won't let him go now. Steve doesn't know Kas as someone who will just take what he wants, but, well, he is Munson, in a way. So that tracks.

But instead of attacking him, instead of going for his neck again and sucking the rest of his blood, instead of beating Steve to a pulp to keep him pliant and unmoving and turn him into some sort of personal livestock, Kas just... sits down next to him. Hands in his lap. Worried look trained on Steve, who needs to catch his breath and calm down.

"Hurt."

It startles Steve. Kas has never spoken to him. But what’s more, Steve shouldn't be that obvious. He doesn't want to be that obvious, especially about hurting and being hurt.

So he shakes his head, his hands coming up to press into his eyes, hoping to get rid of the flickering lights even though he knows that once they stop, the pain will come; and it will come badly.

"'M not hurt," he says, lying through his teeth and the heel of his hand. "I just gotta go home."

"Hurt," Kas says again, and it's more assertive this time, less of a question. Like he's telling Steve rather than asking. Like he's making him understand.

He reminds Steve a little of Robin in that regard, and he almost has to smile. He would, too, if he wasn't so aware that it would become a horrible grimace, wavering and pale even by vampire hermit standards.

So he sighs instead, letting his hands fall into his lap and wringing his fingers. There are about ten, maybe fifteen minutes left. Not enough to get anywhere safe on foot, and he sure as hell ain't driving when his vision is halfway through its rendition of a TV without signal, zig-zagging in white and red and green, flickering and flaring and leaving him a little disoriented even when all he's doing is sitting on that dusty old couch.

"Hurt," Kas repeats for the third time, and Steve tenses, ready to snap at him to shut up, that he's not hurt yet but will be any minute now and that Kas should really just shut the fuck up and leave himself if he won't let Steve go anywhere.

But looking at those wide eyes, he doesn't snap. He deflates. His shoulders fall and his eyes close, which only makes the flickers worse, he feels.

“I’m… I’m gonna have a migraine," he sighs, letting that hang in the air between them, letting the words take up the whole room and suffocate him while he knows that they won't touch Kas. That he won't understand. Nobody does.

It's just a headache, Steve, get over it.

They leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and he's just waiting for the huff to come.

But it doesn't come. Instead, Kas just keeps looking at him; same worried expression, same unobtrusive posture, same everything. Right. He probably doesn't know jackshit about what that's supposed to mean.

So Steve explains. “I, well. I kinda can't really see right now, but that'll pass. That's when the pain comes. I won't want to move. No light. No noise. No nothing. And all I can do about it is wait it out, which is why I need you to let me leave..."

It's one of those moments where he hates that he's the only one of their group with a license; that he can't just radio with a code red and have someone come get him no questions asked.

"I just wanna go home, man," he sighs, hating his voice for the weak whine around the edges.

A beat passes between them, and Steve pretends like he's not counting the seconds. Like he doesn't notice that the flickering zigzag line is getting smaller and dimmer, and that agony is imminent.

"Here," Kas says then, and somehow it's both an offer and a command. "You. Here."

Steve blinks, the words not really translating through the tired fog of his brain.

"Huh? Sorry, uh, what?"

"You," Kas says, shuffling closer to him, like that sort of helps him translate what it is he wants to say.

"Me."

Kas nods, then motions around the room and pats the couch cushion, releasing a cloud of dust from it. "Here."

“You—“ Steve frowns. "You want me to stay here?"

The nod is decisive and in another world Steve would have called it eager, with the way Kas is shuffling on the spot.

"Kas," Steve sighs, rubbing his face, not quite sure how to make the vampire explain that it's gonna be bad. Really, really bad. The flickering shimmer is already waning, and phantom pains are already setting in, settling along his skull like little pinpricks of warning.

A clawed hand reaches for his wrist, making Steve flinch away, but Kas doesn't hurt him. He pulls Steve’s hand away from his face almost gently, slowly, and makes sure Steve looks at him.

"Safe." And he looks so genuine about it. He looks like he knows what that word means. "Safe."

With a sigh, Steve accepts his fate. Kas isn't gonna let him go anytime soon, and at this point Steve really doesn't want to face the gloomy weather outside, stuck as it is somewhere between drizzle and downpour and so endlessly grey for days.

Still he feels pathetic about it. Vulnerable. Exposed. Like a last bastion falling, the castle walls crumbling, the fragile house of cards finally falling, because suddenly this agony isn't something he keeps only to himself.

Even if it's only Kas who witnesses it. Kas, who’s endured worse than that, Steve knows. Brainwashing, manipulation, the agony of shaping human into vampire so excruciating his mind has gone into hiding still.

"Okay," Steve breathes at last, pretending that his voice didn't break on that single word. "Okay."

Kas hums, the sound resembling more a gurgle than anything else, and before Steve knows what's happening, cold hands are pulling him up and off the couch.

"Jesus," he mumbles, barely catching his footing and pulling away from Kas's grasp, but following nonetheless, not even thinking about fleeing now. "I'm coming, I'm coming, man, don't touch me."

Miraculously, Kas does stay away, walking just one step ahead of Steve, turning towards him every two steps to make sure he's still following. It reminds Steve of a mama duck herding her ducklings across the street and making sure they're all still there. It's weirdly endearing.

"Why do you even care?"

He doesn't get an answer, but that's no surprise, and he doesn't really mind either. It was more about wondering, about putting that question out there and letting it take up space for future contemplation.

Kas leads him to an adjoining room, the north-facing windows all barred shut, ripped and moth-eaten curtains drawn to block out the last of the light. Right. Fitting, for a vampire's lair.

The bed in the middle of the far wall is surprisingly large, though, and looks surprisingly soft. It's unmade, but that's just as well. There are no belongings in the room otherwis that Steve can make out, the framed pictures on the wall look as dusty as the rest of the cabin, so they can't belong to Kas. Or maybe he likes them enough to keep them, to claim them as his own now.

It’s a heartbreaking thought.

Stupidly and out of nowhere, Steve wonders if he could take care of this cabin. Dust it and clean it and only fill it with things Kas likes. Maybe things Munson used to like — surely the kids would know how to go about that. Or Wayne.

He's about to ask; about the pictures, about the stuff, about Wayne — if he's been around lately, if he's still telling stories to bring back the dormant Eddie parts of his modified and manipulated mind.

But just as he's about to turn to the vampire and ask, the blinding flickers disappear from his field of vision in the dark room, and within seconds something inside his skull bursts, leaving his body awash with pain that nearly has his knees buckling. A whimper escapes him that he tries to steer into a groan, but then his hands are flying to his head and he stops caring about how he expresses this immediate agony to the world.

Kas is on him again with a whimper, suddenly just as fucking tactile as his once-human form.

“Don’t touch me,” Steve rasps, wrenching himself free from the gasp once more. He really wishes Kas would stop touching him. "You want me to lie down here, yeah? Take your bed?"

Kas nods again, looking at Steve with those wide eyes that seem to glow in the dark — or maybe that's his migraine-addled mind seeing things where they aren't, making up for the blind spot and the flickering.

Steve looks away, the motion hurting his entire face, and he closes his eyes as pins and needles are moving along the inside of his face, pricking up against the skin but never breaking through.

"Right then," he whispers, his voice barely audible and still too loud, making his ears click and pressure collect around them, making him wonder if they're going to burst. "'M gonna lie down."

Struggling with the heavy blanket, Steve is close to giving up and just lying on top of it, but Kas is quick to help him once he realises that Steve needs it. He pulls back the blanket, still looking so damn stricken about everything, like he's genuinely worried about Steve. It doesn't make sense.

He doesn't have the strength for a Thanks or even a smile, but he nods just once, just barely, before sluggishly falling onto the bed and fumbling with the blanket once more. Every movement hurts. Every twitch of a muscle is too much, and just moving his pinkie is enough to douse his body in never-ending pain that travels from his skull all the way down.

Something Steve has always wondered is why migraines make his body shut down like that, leaving him in a state where all he can do is lie down and fall into a near-catatonic limbo until the pain has lifted enough to face the rest of the world again. Fighting inter-dimensional monsters and posing as a feast to demonic, modified monster bats was also agony. It also made him lose his footing and almost pass out from blood loss and pain, his back scratched open completely where the bats dragged him across rough stone.

Migraine pains don't really compare to those, though, and it scares him. Because he knows that's all up in his brain. His fucked up, mangled, thrice-concussed fucking brain he never got cared for because the government goons never took them seriously. Never took him seriously.

And now here he is, lying in a stranger's bed in a pitch-black room that's still somehow too bright, unmoving, too weak to even pull up the blanket, and hoping to pass out from it all. Hoping he won't hallucinate again this time. Hoping that he won't throw up this time, his body convulsing because it knows it shouldn't be feeling like this.

Throwing up from pain. There's really nothing more fucked up than that. Or, there is. Throwing up from pain and begging an invisible man to make it stop, only to realise hours later that the most painful migraines can also make you hallucinate.

He doesn't want that. He doesn't want any of that ever again, and certainly not in a strange, dark cabin with a vampire forged from a human he never even liked.

Tears spring to his eyes, but they're not the kind that'll fall and bring relief. They just stay in the corners of his eyes, his only way to express the waves and flares of pain washing over him, wishing he could just pass out now.

Kas tucks him in. Steve didn’t know he could do that. It strikes him as extremely non-vampiric even in this state he’s in. Steve doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as blink his eyes open as the pain travels up to his hairline and settles there, flaring over his forehead to his eyes and down to his cheekbones and then up again, a never-ending motion that he never stands a chance to get used to.

“Safe,” Kas says again, and it zings through Steve’s body with violent force that doesn’t match at all with the gentle tone he’s using.

Scrunching his forehead to stave off more words, Steve hopes that Kas will take the hint and know to shut up.

But he has no such luck.

“Here.”

“Shhh.” He shakes his head minutely, shushing the vampire with a barely there noise, keeping the damage to a minimal amount. “You can go,” he slurs, trying not to speak at all. “Please.”

A beat of blessed, blissful silence, before there’s shuffling again. Kas does walk to the door, but then stops in the doorway. Steve doesn’t want to look.

“No.” Kas sounds surprised about it. Mystified. Like he wants to leave but can’t.

What?

“Stay. Here.”

Whatever you do, just please be quiet about it, Steve thinks desperately. Instead of saying any of that, he shushes him again, hoping that the thump he hears means that Kas is sitting on the floor now. Though he doesn’t understand why.

Why do you even care?

“Safe,” Kas says again, whispering the word into the room, and it doesn’t zing through Steve this time.

With Kas refusing to leave and his pathetic state of existence so blatantly on display, and with waves and waves as his nerves fire signals to his overworked and tired brain, more tears sprint to his eyes. And this time they fall. Silently, and without a sob, without even a sniffle of acknowledgment. But they fall.

And Steve just wants to go home.

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @hammity-hammer (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

part 2 here

#steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #kas eddie munson #dio words #kas takes care of steve fic #still not sure if this is tumblrable but it shall no longer stay between me and the discord thread girlies

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