#anyways yeah I was working on this one for a while

[piastriprincess]

sometimes all i think about is you  ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  roommate!au  ,  friends  to  lovers  ,  smut  ,  use  of  fahrenheit  (im  american  sorry deal  w  it) , unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it bbys !) word  count 4.2k author’s  note 18+  MDNI  !!!  once  again  (and  probably  every  time  i  write  smut)  i  will  say  i  have  no  excuse  for  this  one  .  if  oscar  piastri  doesn’t  want  me  to  write  smut  about  him  then  maybe  he  should  stop  posting  slutty  little  photos  where  he’s  all  tan  and  sweaty  !!  like  really  …  what  was  i  meant  to  do  with  that  .  anyway  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  i  hope  you  all  enjoy  <3  title  is  from  heat  waves  by  glass  animals  !

You’re halfway through your research when you notice the silence. 

It’s not the comfortable, productive kind of quiet that tends to fall over the apartment while you work. This feels different. Ominous, even. Like there’s something you’ve gotten used to that’s suddenly gone missing. 

You sit up straighter in your chair, frowning down at your laptop as you blink sweat out of your eyes. The cursor blinks back at you like it knows something you don’t. The air feels off — heavier, a little more stagnant, pressing down on your skin. Something about it makes your stomach twist nervously.

You push back from your desk and open your bedroom door. Your roommate is exactly where you expected him to be: sprawled on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs as he types relentlessly away at the coding project he’s been “almost done with” for the past two weeks. 

“Hey, Osc?”

He pulls out one AirPod, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he turns to look at you. You can hear his music even from your doorway, the house beats bumping through the tiny speaker. “What’s up?”

“Do you…” you pause, stepping fully into the living room. “Does it feel kinda hot in here to you?”

He presses up on his elbows, tilting his head slightly like he’s registering the temperature for the first time. “Yeah, actually. Weird.” He tosses his laptop on the coffee table, exchanges it for the air conditioner remote. When he points it at the unit and presses a button, nothing happens. 

Your eyes flick to the AC unit. There’s no air moving above it. No breeze blowing through the leaves of the plants you’ve stacked across the windowsill.  

Oscar tries again, pressing the buttons more frantically as you’ve ever seen him (which is to say, slightly harder than he did before). “It’s not working.”

“Shit,” you say, dread rising in your stomach. “You’re kidding.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, deadpan. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He doesn’t. He looks mildly concerned at best, cheeks flushed and sweat starting to dampen the hair at his temples, brow furrowing in that calm, clinical way of his. You can tell he’s already cycling through possible fixes in his mind; to him, this situation is just another puzzle to be solved, an amusing diversion to take up his afternoon.

You, on the other hand, are spiraling. 

“Oscar,” you say, words dripping off your tongue, “it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. There’s been an extreme heat warning this entire week. I saw someone on TikTok this morning fry an egg on the sidewalk. And you’re telling me our AC is out?”

He points the clicker at the unit one more time for good measure. Nothing. Your chest tightens, as you glance down at your phone. 98º, the weather preview reads, next to a bright little sunshine icon. 98 degrees, and it’s barely 9 AM. 

“Oh god,” you whine, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. It comes away damp. “Oh god, we’re gonna get heatstroke and die in this tiny shitty apartment.”

“Whoa. Okay. Don’t panic,” Oscar says softly, eyes wide, like he’s not quite sure what to do with the freaked-out version of you. He walks past you into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and handing it to you. “Drink this. I’m gonna check the breakers, yeah?”

He disappears down the hall to the fuse box, and you collapse onto the couch where he’d been laying. It’s still warm from his body heat, which somehow makes everything worse. You can already feel your hair sticking sweatily to the back of your neck. The water is lukewarm, but it helps a little.

Oscar’s back a few minutes later. “Did it work?” you ask hopefully, but he’s already shaking his head, holding his phone out to you. You can read the giant, size 128 font your super always uses in his emails from across the room: Building-wide HVAC outage. No ETA for repair. 

“Okay,” you say slowly as you sit up, trying to channel some of his calmness. “Okay, we can figure this out. Ice packs. Cold showers. We can handle this. It’s gonna be fine.”

He nods uncertainly. There’s sweat starting to bead at his hairline. “I think there’s a fan in the closet that the people who lived here before us left. I’ll grab it.”

When he returns, he’s carrying the fan under one arm, biceps flexed around the frame. It’s an old thing — white plastic going yellow at the edges, wide square cage locked around three dusty blades, power cable frayed from use.

“That thing looks like it’s going to electrocute you,” you say, eyebrows raised. 

He grins, plugging the cord into the wall. “C’mon, it adds character. Ready for sweet, sweet circulation?”

You scramble to the floor, sitting cross-legged directly in front of the fan. “Hit me, Piastri,” you say decidedly, and he flips the switch. 

The fan wheezes to life, sort of. The blades creak into motion like they’ve woken up from a decade-long nap, and it only takes a moment before the first gust of air hits your waiting face. 

Hot air.

“No,” you moan, and Oscar crouches next to you, hand in the corner of the frame like he’s trying to run his fingers through the breeze. “I thought this was gonna help. It feels like sitting in front of a fucking hair dryer.”

“Maybe it just needs a second to warm up?” he tries, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“It is warm. That’s the problem.”

He sighs and sits on the floor next to you, knee brushing against yours. The fan keeps pushing the stifling air at your faces, like it’s mocking you. “Verdict: the fan is shit.”

“The fan is worse than shit,” you groan, letting your head loll against his shoulder. You can feel his skin even through his shirt, warm beneath your cheek. “The fan is actively taunting us. The fan is betraying us.”

“Okay, drama queen,” he says fondly, pulling the cord out of the wall. The fan stutters to a stop and silence falls again, the air feeling even swampier than before. 

“We’ve got other ways to beat the heat,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself and you. “It’ll be fine.”

It’s absolutely, completely, one hundred percent not fine.

“This is hell,” you moan, fanning yourself with an old takeout menu. “Actual hell.”

Oscar swipes lazily at the menu, pulling it out of your hand. “Give me that.” He fans it at himself a few times, before letting it drop out of his hand with a groan. 

For a while, it had kind of felt like an adventure. The two of you had dragged your stuff into the living room, worked side by side with bags of frozen peas pressed to your heads, cold beers sweating on the coffee table. The day dragged on, temperature climbing higher, and you’d been forced to get creative. On one trip to the kitchen, you’d figured out it was the shadiest place in the entire apartment, and promptly moved to lay out on the floor, tiles cool beneath your skin. The two of you took turns sticking your head in the freezer, too hot to be self-conscious about how stupid you looked. At least you’d gotten an ancient, frostbitten box of Bomb Pops out of it, long forgotten behind your ice tray. You’d spotted it, pulled it out and split the entire box between the two of you, rationing them like wartime supplies. 

But now the popsicles are gone, the last of the beers going lukewarm, and you’re both pleasantly tipsy and running out of ways to keep yourself entertained. Judging from the way the sun is slanting golden through the window, you’re guessing it’s late afternoon, but you don’t dare get up and check your phone. That would mean expending energy and leaving the cold tiles behind, two things you are very much not prepared to do.

“This is such an undignified way to die,” you mumble instead, cheek flat against the cool floor. Your bottle is dripping with condensation, pressed into the skin of your neck. 

“We’re not going to die,” Oscar says automatically, sliding down the cabinets until he’s on his back next to you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. 

You roll your head to the side to look at him. “I’m pretty sure this is how we go out. I’m wilting. I can feel my brain literally melting. Dripping out my ears.” 

“Nah, I think that’s just sweat,” he grins, eyes sparkling. 

“Ew, Osc.” You wrinkle your nose. “Gross. And also not helping.”

He lets out a laugh, lazy and breathless, forearm thrown over his eyes. “At least we’re going out together.”

“Yeah, put that on the tombstone,” you snort. “‘Here lies two idiots who died because they were too cheap to rent in a building with a competent super.’”

“We’re not cheap,” he protests weakly. “We’re… financially responsible.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so financially responsible to just die of heatstroke.”

Oscar sighs, taking a long swig and then setting his beer down. The glass clinks against the tiles. “Okay. Well, we’re definitely not gonna survive if we keep wearing this much.”

You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What?”

But he’s already shimmying his shorts down his legs, kicking them across the floor to the corner of the kitchen. “It’s basic heat management. Less layers means our skin’ll cool off faster.” He pulls his shirt over his head next, one clean, graceful movement. 

And — okay. Okay. You weren’t prepared for Oscar to be shirtless. 

You’ve lived together for almost two years. You’ve seen him before, on laundry day in a ratty muscle tank, on the way into the gym, even one particularly embarrassing moment when you walked into the bathroom before he’d gotten dressed, towel slung dangerously low on his hips. But you’d filed the moments away in your head as normal roommate occurrences, nothing to think twice about. 

Clearly, you hadn’t been paying enough attention. Because now you don’t know what to do when he’s sitting on the kitchen floor in a pair of grey Calvins, skin flushed golden and peppered with moles, covered in a sheen of sweat. There’s a drop trailing down his chest, catching in the grooves of what look like very defined abs. 

You know you’re staring. It’s shameless. You feel a little bit insane, actually. Oscar is… hot?

“You okay?” your roommate says, a little too casually. 

“I —” you stammer, forcing your eyes up to his face. “What the hell, Osc. You have muscles.”

“Humans tend to have those,” he replies dryly. 

“No, but like, I thought you had programmer muscles. Slouch over a computer all day and code muscles,” you try to explain. “But you look like you could be in like, a sexy sunscreen ad or something. When did you get so jacked?”

He laughs, a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears look a little pinker than they were before. You’re not sure if it’s the heat or something else entirely. “I’ve always been like this. You just never noticed.”

You shake your head. “No way. I would have noticed that.”

“Apparently not,” he says, voice a little rough in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

He gestures at your sweat-soaked tank top. “Heat management, remember?”

“Right, yeah. Makes sense. Equal opportunity stripping,” you breathe, trying very hard to sound casual even though your pulse is racing under your skin. You take a breath, averting your eyes to the floor, and tug your tank top over your head. 

The air hits your skin first, surprisingly cool. And then, unmistakably, Oscar’s eyes next, trailing down your body, heavy and lingering. 

“You’re staring,” you note, and his gaze snaps back to your face. 

He swallows hard, rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry, I —” His eyes flick back to your chest, like he can’t help himself, then quickly back up to your face. “Jesus.”

You raise an eyebrow, tiny smile on your face. “Humans tend to have those,” you echo him, gesturing vaguely at your bralette, and Oscar makes a strangled noise like he’s choked on his own tongue. 

He rolls toward you on the floor slightly, one arm falling lazily over his waist as he looks up at you with those big brown eyes. “You can’t just do that.”

“Hey. You were the one who told me to take my shirt off,” you say, suddenly defensive.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well, I didn’t think you’d do it and look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Hot,” he says lowly, and now it’s your turn to sputter around your own breath.

“I mean — it is the middle of a heatwave,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes find yours. Hold them with an intensity that makes you shiver even in the heat. “You know that’s not the type of hot I meant.”

The air doesn’t feel stagnant anymore. It feels alive between you, some kind of simmering tension that’s using the heat as an excuse to finally, finally boil over. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, voice pitching high and unsteady. 

His brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me or something,” you say, breathless. 

A beat. Oscar’s lip catches in between his teeth as he looks at you, and you can feel your traitorous eyes drop to his mouth. His grin spreads slowly across his face, like he’s won something he didn’t know was up for grabs. 

“I do want to kiss you,” he says. And then he leans in, slow, like he’s giving you the chance to stop all of it in its tracks, until there’s no space left between you. 

When his mouth finally finds yours, it’s careful. He tastes like cherry popsicle, lips sticky with the leftover sugar and a salty twinge of sweat. One hand cups your cheek, the other resting tentatively on your waist, thumb skimming at the hem of your bralette like he’s still trying to figure out how far he’s allowed to go. 

You don’t want him to be careful anymore. 

You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him, knees knocking against the tile. His breath hitches as you settle against him, muscles tense beneath you. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” you murmur against his mouth. 

He pulls back, chest rising and falling unevenly as he looks up at you. “Just — trying to be respectful,” he says roughly, fingers digging into the skin at your waist. 

You smirk, rolling your hips against the obvious bulge in his briefs, hard and thick and throbbing. The groan he lets out is nothing short of filthy. “Osc, I’m literally half-naked on top of you. I think we’re way past the point of respectful.”

It’s like the permission flips a switch inside him. His mouth attaches to your neck, sucking little bruises into the soft skin, and suddenly, his hands are all over you. One sliding down your back, splaying over your hip and rocking you against him, cock rutting against your wet heat through your shorts. The other palming at your chest through your bra, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples pearl under his touch. 

“So fucking hot,” he breathes into your skin, pausing between words to suck another mark at the swell of your breast. “Driving me insane, you know that? All fucking day with those shorts and that little tank top.”

You don’t respond. Just reach behind you, fingers nimbly unhooking your bralette, clasp damp against your back. The fabric falls away easily, straps slipping down your arms until you’re bare on top of him.

For a second, you think Oscar might have stopped breathing, hands frozen on your hips, eyes fixed on your tits.

“Oscar?” you say, breathless, rutting your hips against his in a shameless attempt to bring him back down from whatever planet he’s on. He blinks hard, shakes his head slightly like his brain is an Etch-a-Sketch he’s trying to reset. His pupils are blown, eyes wide as he stares up at you.

“Sorry, yeah, I —” he mumbles, and then his head is ducking down, mouth closing around your nipple, warm and wet. His tongue flicks sharp over the nub of it, his other hand coming up to palm at your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

It feels like he’s everywhere, all hands and lips and tongue, and you gasp, arch your back like you’re trying to get more of your tits into his mouth. He groans around you, teeth grazing against the sensitive area gently. The vibrations go straight to your core. “Osc — fuck — ”

“Good?” he mutters against you, and you nod frantically. His free hand wraps under you, fingers splaying against the curve of your ass, and he picks you up and presses you into the kitchen tile without taking his mouth off you. The move is so absurdly, unfairly hot that the only thought in your mind is why you didn’t let him do it sooner.

He pulls back, and you’re about to whine at the loss of contact until you feel his mouth against you again, pressing messy open-mouthed kisses in a trail down your stomach, tongue dragging against your skin like he needs to taste you. Your fingers weave easily into his hair, tugging loosely at the roots, and he whines.

“Can I —” he breathes when he gets to the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you through his lashes, and you’re lifting your hips in reply before he can even really get the question out of his mouth.

“Please,” you gasp, like he needs any extra confirmation. Like he’s not already hooking his fingers into the elastic and tugging your shorts and panties down your legs. 

“Fuck,” he rasps once you’re laid bare in front of him, hand sliding slick up your thigh to your center. “You’re unreal.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh gently, then again. Higher and higher he goes, mouth dragging just shy of where you need him most. “Taste so fucking good already f’me,” he mumbles to himself, almost reverent. “Can’t believe I get to do this.” 

Your hips kick involuntarily at the vibration from his words, his breath teasing at your cunt. “Then do it, Osc,” you whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please.”

Apparently your begging does the trick. He plants one hand on your thigh, uses it to pull you towards him, spreading your thighs wide enough to keep them apart with his shoulders, and then presses the flat of his tongue to you, licking a long, hot stripe up your center. 

He eats you out like he’s been dying to do it, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you tick, what will make you fall apart the fastest under him. It’s a little sloppy, hot and wet and reckless, but it works — tongue circling around your clit in a way that makes you moan high and breathless. The sound only seems to spur him on, fingers slipping into you a second after that. 

Your back arches off the tile at the feeling of his fingers, fucking you open slowly. Not that it’s doing a thing to cool you down anymore. With his mouth and his hands on you, you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, crooking his fingers inside you, the sensation is nearly too much to bear. “Osc, don’t stop — I’m gonna —” you pant brokenly, hips rocking against his face, his hand.

“Let go. Come on, baby, let me taste it,” he murmurs directly into your core, and your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking around Oscar’s shoulders. He works you through it, tongue lapping at you like he wants to devour you as you writhe beneath him. 

When you finally come back down to earth, you tug him back up your body until you’re face to face. “You good?” he asks breathlessly, looking down at you. He’s so pretty like this — wild-eyed, flushed and panting, hair mussed, mouth shining. 

“Yeah. Yes,” you nod, dazed. “So fucking good.” He grins down at you, obviously pleased, if the way his hips twitch into yours is anything to go by. 

You reach up for him instinctively, suddenly desperate to taste yourself on his tongue. The resulting kiss is hot and sticky and perfect, even better when you let your hand slip between the two of you to palm at his cock through his briefs. He hisses, jerks his hips forward as you work your fingers beneath the waistband, pulling them down just enough for his length to spring free, hard against his stomach. 

He breaks the kiss just enough to shove the briefs down, past his ankles, kicking them to the rapidly growing pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen. When your hand wraps around him, thumbing across the tip and spreading the wetness gathering there down his length with one experimental pump, he gasps, hips canting against your hand. 

“Fuck, you can’t — I’m not gonna last if you do that,” he admits, eyes closed and breathing uneven. 

Maybe it’s the heat that makes you bold, or maybe it’s his honesty, saying straight out how badly you affect him. But something makes you grin up at him and say it: “Maybe you should hurry up and get inside me, then.”

His eyes snap open, and he makes a wrecked little noise at that, something between a whimper and a growl. “Fuck. Okay. Condom. In my room, I think —”

You laugh, breathless, hooking one leg around his waist and pulling him down to press his forehead against yours. “I’m on the pill. And I trust you, Osc.”

His eyes flutter shut like that might legitimately be his undoing, cockhead pushing at your slick folds, barely holding himself back. “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay.”

He lines himself up, sinks into you so slowly that it’s torture. The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat of it. He’s thick, perfect, pressed so deep into you when he finally bottoms out that it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. 

“Shit,” Oscar chokes out, helpless. “You feel — fuck, you feel insane.”

You dig your heels into his back, nails dragging over his shoulders. “Probably feel better if you move,” you breathe, and his eyes go dark, pulling out just to slam back into you with a long moan.

He finds a rhythm fast. Messy, desperate thrusts that echo filthily against the tile every time his hips snap into yours, skin sliding against skin. He’s bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping under your thigh to keep you spread open, flushed and panting beneath him.

“You’re so —” he starts, voice breaking into a moan as you rock your hips to meet him with each thrust, your cunt gripping him warm and tight and ready. “Fuck. Wanted this so bad.”

“You thought about this?” you manage between gasps, and he nods. 

“All the fucking time. Jesus, you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough and hot against your ear. “So fucking tight, baby — m’not gonna last.”

You’re a mess beneath him already, gasping and clawing at his back as he fucks into you. “Don’t have to,” you whine as he hikes your leg up his waist, opening you up even more for him. The angle has your vision blurring, seeing stars every time his length scrapes that one spot inside you. “Want you to come, Osc, please, need to feel you.” You clench around him on instinct, and he shudders, hips stuttering.

“Fuckfuckfuck, don’t do that, I’m so close,” he grits out, hand sliding between your bodies to your clit, rubbing tight little circles against you. “Need to make you come first.”

You let out a moan, almost incoherent. You can already feel it building, coiling low and tight in your stomach, sparked by the heat and his voice and the frantic way he’s moving inside you. “Osc, I’m gonna —”

“Yeah?” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as you pulse around him, so close to falling over the edge. “Do it then. Want to feel it on my cock.”

You come with a yelp, back arching and cunt fluttering around him. A moment later, Oscar’s rhythm falters inside you, and then he’s gasping your name, spilling into you with a groan that vibrates against your skin.

He stays like that for a moment, shivering in the aftermath, pressed fully against you, skin slick and sticky, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“...So,” he breathes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That definitely didn’t help us cool down.” 

You laugh, breathless. Fucked out. “Not even a little bit.”

“Cold shower together next?” he grins, dazed, cheeks flushed as he waggles an eyebrow at you. You smack him on the arm lazily in response, no real heat behind it. 

But you don’t say no. And when he scoops you up off the floor into his arms and carries you to the bathroom, you get a distinct, giddy sort of feeling that no matter how long the heat wave lasts, whatever is happening between the two of you isn’t cooling off anytime soon.

[7-deadly-cats]

the bastard & the clown

★ P A I R I N G ★ boxer!rafe cameron x witty!barkeeper!reader + some platonic barry x reader

★ S U M M A R Y ★ you’re working a regular shift at the bar you run when rafe and barry drop by for a chill night out. but when a pair of men at the counter start running their mouths, rafe puts one specific bastard politely in his place.

★ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ★ rafe's pov, cursing / strong language, mild suggestive language and themes, (verbal) themes of toxic masculinity/sexism/misogyny/domestic violence/tradwife, semi jealous!rafe, also flustered!rafe hihihi, physical violence (a punch) & mentions of blood

★ W O R D C O U N T ★ 6.4k+ (it was supposed to be 3k help)

★ A / N ★ been wanting to introduce this duo in a while now and thought they could fit @zyafics campaign. also, thought it'd be ironic if rafe got to put some asshole in his place who basically represents some of these twisted versions of him. a lot longer than intended but i got a little carried away. also only proofread twice so pls don't mind any context mistakes. anyway, hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think <3

ps: idk if it gets clear throughout the fic (or the title hahahah) but each man at the counter is assigned a term. so don't get confused, 'clown' always refers to one guy and 'bastard' to the other.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them.

The two of them just came back from a boxing session, freshly showered, and now in need of some time out.

Rafe followed that idiot's gaze, a scowl already forming on his face.

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

Some of those girls had even turned their heads when the two of them walked in, flashing Rafe pretty smiles and giggles in their cute little summer dresses (god, how he loved this season for exactly that). They were probably hoping he’d come over and talk to one of them.

But he didn't give a shit about them.

Why should he? Because at the far end of the room, the bar awaited—a silver-lit, crescent-shaped counter with high stools offering seats with the view on the best part of this entire place.

You.

The hot bartender with the cheeky laugh and teasing smiles, the one who could outdrink any bastard who dared challenge you.

Or better: the girl Rafe had come here for tonight.

That scowl threatening to creep onto his face quickly disappeared, replaced by a faint smile and softened gaze.

"Come on, loverboy," Barry chuckled, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and nudging him forward. "Don’t wanna keep your lady waiting. Might be some other slick bastard trying his luck.”

And the scowl was right back.

Rafe turned around with a tilt of his head, eyes squinted, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he tapped Barry’s chest. “You fucker behave tonight, alright?”

“Me?” Barry raised his brows in mock innocence, shaking his head with an amused snort. “Dunno what you’re trynna tell me here, big boy, but I’m just here to drink and enjoy your delightful company. I ain’t ever—“

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

Shit, Rafe had been so close to getting your number—hell, you’d already pulled out your cute little notepad and pen, that teasing glint in your eyes, the first two digits already written down—and then swamp rat Barry ruined this one-in-a-million chance by almost throwing up on the counter.

Idiot hadn't just embarrassed himself, trying to drink a dockworker the size of a bear under the table, but Rafe as well. And right in front of you on top of that.

Barry was lucky Rafe had even let him tag along tonight. He would’ve preferred bringing Kelce this time—that idiot at least knew how to be a decent wingman—but he was on some kind of detox bullshit and wouldn’t go near fast food or booze right now.

Barry let out a lazy chuckle. “Not my fault for—“

“I don’t give a shit”, Rafe cut him off, passive-aggressively fixing the crease he’d caused on Barry's tank top with a one-sided smile. “Don’t act like a clown, and I won’t treat you like one. Can’t be that hard, right?”

For a moment Barry just eyed him, mouth tugged into a downward smile, then he raised his hands in surrender. “A’right, a’right, Country Club. Relax your balls.” He nodded toward the bar. “Now get ya fancy ass movin', ya girl's been eyeing the wrong guy the past five minutes.”

Shit, what.

Rafe’s head snapped around.

Aw, hell no, fuck that.

There you were, a few meters down, chatting with some greasy fucker in his late forties, dressed in a cheap-ass Suitsupply suit (yeah, Rafe could smell that offense from across the room). And it wasn’t just one bastard you were serving with that practiced little smile—knowing full well they were disgusting pricks but also well aware you could squeeze some good profit out of them—but another one of this breed sat right beside him.

Rafe only saw the backs of their heads in those terrible excuses for suits, but he could still make out the balding patches from over here (not to mention the probably receding hairlines). He didn’t need to see their faces to know exactly how they were looking at you—lecherous grins and eyes creeping over places they had no business looking.

He knew their type. He'd seen men like these at business events of his dad.

Middle-class managers leading some irrelevant departments at some irrelevant company selling irrelevant shit. And when they weren’t sitting in their sad little three-square-meter offices, drinking bad coffee and pretending their phone calls were presidential briefings, they hit up country clubs and bars, puffing cigars and sipping whiskey, trying to make up for their miserable little lives by gathering in their self-proclaimed alpha circles.

And the worst part? They probably had a sweet wife and kids waiting at home, but instead chose to sit at a bar ogling the boobs and butt of a bartender in her twenties.

Pathetic losers.

Rafe's fingers were already twitching as he followed after Barry. And of course, as lucky as he was, only three stools left at the bar. Right next to those wannabe CEOs.

Fucking great.

Barry plopped down next to some sweet girl while Rafe had no choice but to sit down beside one of the pricks—at least one stool of space between them.

He would’ve loved nothing more than to just chase them off, but he didn’t wanna cause a scene in front of you. And, judging by the stack of glasses in front of them, you were at least making decent money off these pricks.

Besides, he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to. No reason to question that.

“Be right with you, boys,” you said with a cheeky grin, not even looking up as you mixed one of the losers a Jack & Coke (a pathetic drink for a pathetic clown).

God, but the way you worked the bottles so smoothly, not spilling a single drop. Rafe could watch you behind the bar for hours, soaking up your energy and that laugh.

“No worries, Boss,” Barry called back, matching your grin and already reaching for a peanut bowl next to him. “Got allll the time in the world.”

That stupid-ass nickname of his even made you laugh, making a soft smile creep onto Rafe’s face too.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the clown next to Rafe slurred, voice already half gone, as you slid the glass toward him (Rafe could feel his blood pressure spike the second that fucker tried sneaking a look down your top).

You let out a light breath, pulling the drink back with a raised brow. “Aww, didn’t you see? ‘Sweetheart’ isn’t on the menu. Unless you’re cool with paying ten bucks for it every time.”

The clown had the audacity to gasp. “What? No way. Not happening.”

“Shame,” you said, pretending to pout. “You looked like a guy who could afford it.” You shrugged and started pulling the drink back again. “But I guess I was wrong—”

“I am!” the guy cut in, nodding like a maniac. “CEO of Bulk & Bloom. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Rafe almost burst out laughing. That fuckass health/gym/whatever store Kelce swore by? That's what he was CEO of? Most embarrassing shit Rafe had heard all month.

You tilted your head with a pondering expression, face all scrunched up like you were desperately trying to remember the sad little company he worked at (god, the way you played that clown, milking him for cash—shit was so fucking hot).

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," you finally said, fluttering your lashes at the stupid fucker (Rafe knew it was all an act, but that little gesture still stirred something vile in him). "Then I’m all the more confident that a man in such an important position won't mind coughing up a few extra bucks, right?" Without waiting for that pathetic clown's response, you slid the drink across the counter toward him, your voice slipping back into your true tone. "Just leave it on the bill later, sweetheart."

As soon as you turned to face Rafe and Barry, Rafe straightened up, unable to hide a smile as your pretty eyes landed on him for a second—

—before your gaze fell on swamp rat Barry.

“B!” A wide grin spread across your face as you leaned against the lower bar with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Good to see you. You recovered from last time? Looked pretty rough.”

Acting as if Rafe wasn't here. Ha. Funny. Fucking hilarious.

Barry nodded, swallowing a handful of peanuts. “Sure as hell did, Boss. Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks so heavy.”

You chuckled, a sweet sound Rafe wished had been directed at him. "Nah, you shouldn't have participated in a drinking game with Big Ol' Hank."

“Could’ve warned me about the guy’s skills. Man’s a bear,” Barry said, shaking his head with a lopsided smile.

You turned and pointed toward a portrait on the wall behind you—a big, grumpy-looking dude. Below him, a golden plaque read: Keeper of the Lighter since 1977. His fire never died, and neither did his thirst.

“I’m pretty sure that should've been warning enough,” you replied, amused, as you turned back to them, nodding toward Rafe. “Lucky your boyfriend walked you home that night. Would’ve been a real shame to find you washed up dead on the shore the next morning.”

"Fucker's not my boyfriend", Rafe said.

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

Fuck that.

Rafe had the buzzcut first and a week later fucking Barry decided to chop off his hair too, for whatever fucking reason.

The worst part? You might actually believe Rafe was taken now.

“Boy’s lips probably taste like shit from kissing his daddy’s ass,” Barry said before Rafe could reply, and the fucker was lucky Rafe didn’t deck him right then and there. "Ain't wanna get involved with that mess."

Not a wingman. A fucking clipman, cutting off any chance Rafe might’ve had with you.

“I’m not—” Rafe started with a deep frown, but shut his mouth when some girl at the far end of the bar called your name.

“Coming!” you called back, then turned to Rafe with a teasing little smile in your eyes. “Sorry, Ralph, no time for—”

"Rafe."

“Right. Anyway,” you said, grabbing your notepad and pen from your waist. “The usual, I assume? Two Modelos?”

Barry nodded and motioned to the empty peanut bowl. “And refill this, would you?”

“For you, always,” you said grinning, scribbling something down, then looked up at Rafe with an expectant expression. “And you, handsome?”

Rafe blinked.

Wait, what.

Shit, why the fuck did he feel his cheeks heat up and why the fuck did you eye him like that? Like you were staring straight into his damn soul.

Rafe let out a baffled chuckle, scratching his jaw with furrowed brows. "Uh, PBR this time."

“Oh, feeling adventurous today, I see,” you teased with a grin, jotting it down. You quickly refilled Barry’s snack bowl and left with a “Be right back.”

Rafe’s eyes trailed after you, drinking up the way your hips swayed as you walked—sweet yet confident. That whole attitude of yours… shit was driving him absolutely crazy.

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

And Rafe still hadn't bagged you. Shit was starting to get embarrassing.

"Boy's in love."

Rafe’s gaze snapped to Barry, who was watching him with a way too shit-eating grin for someone who’d just narrowly avoided a punch to the face.

“You know if you’re trying to get your ass beat tonight, you’re on the right track,” Rafe said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Barry just chuckled and reached for another peanut, but Rafe grabbed the shitty-ass bowl and moved it out of reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” he said, gesturing to his chest with both hands. “Told you not to clown around tonight, and you go spouting bullshit like I’m not right here.”

Like, what the fuck was that ass-kissing comment about? Seriously.

“What?” Barry raised a brow, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t tell me Country Club’s scared I’ll shoo away his girl.”

More like cockblocking Rafe but yeah, same fucking thing.

“All I’m fucking saying is—” Rafe started, but Barry waved him off before he could finish.

"You’ve already almost won the race, bro, a’right," he said with that fuckass smile, jerking his thumb back toward where you were chatting with some other chick. "You think Little Miss Bar Queen would bother exchanging more than just your order with you if she didn’t already consider you rocking her world, at least a little?"

For a second, Rafe just stared at the idiot.

Could that be true? Were you actually interested in Rafe? Sure, you’d been cool enough to (almost) give him your number last time, but not even remembering his fucking name now… that shit felt like a punch straight to the gut.

Okay, shit, yeah, of course, you served all kinds of people every day, some shittier than others, and of course, there were guys in the mix who liked you just as much as Rafe did. A blind man could see how fucking gorgeous you were.

And of fucking course you'd flirt back. That’s just how you were. And as much as it gnawed at Rafe’s chest, as much as it stirred something deep and ugly in his gut, it wasn’t all that unlikely that you gave your number out to other guys too.

But swamp rat Barry claiming Rafe actually had a shot with you? That shit lit something in him. A wave of energy crashing through him, almost feeling as good as snorting a line (yeah yeah, Rafe was clean now, but the comparison still fit).

Shit, okay, so maybe he needed a new approach. Maybe he just had to—

"--beat up my wife if she'd dared talk to me like that", the bastard beside the clown said loud enough for Rafe to hear.

Shit, what the fuck?

"I'm serious," the bastard continued his bullshit, talking to the clown. "You let every woman talk to you like that, and pretty soon they start thinking they own you. When in reality, it's the other way around, ain't it?"

The clown nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right, Tommy, I just—“

“What’s with the scowl, bro?” Barry said, ripping Rafe out of the retarded convo next to him. “Tried cheering your sulky ass up and here you are—“

Rafe shushed him with a wave, brows deeply furrowed. “Shut the fuck up for one second.”

"Man, am I glad I'm not your boyfriend," Barry muttered, reaching over to pull his snack bowl back and skimming the menu.

Fuckass.

“—that’s why it’s important to put them in their place, alright?”, the bastard continued preaching. “Women want someone they can follow. It’s natural they seek a man who protects them and cares for them.” He tapped the counter aggressively. “Wonder why there are no female presidents yet? Exactly! We are born leaders.”

Oh, Rafe was this close to getting up and smashing that fucker in the face, knocking a few teeth out, and giving him a pretty little black eye to match. His knuckles were still warm from earlier, would be a shame not to put that last burst of energy to use.

But nah.

He held himself back. Now he was curious. Let that asshole keep talking. Maybe he was witnessing the dumbest fucker in world history present himself right here, and Rafe wasn’t about to miss that celebration.

"Guess that makes sense," the clown slurred, swirling his half-empty Jack & Coke. "Harris is always bitching about me getting home late and not helping with the chores. I think I just gotta remind her of her role in this family, right?"

The bastard knocked on the wooden counter, a filthy chuckle escaping his lips. "You get it, man! She's working remote, right? So what's she complaining about? Got all the time in the world to prep the house for when you get home."

Rafe's blood boiled just beneath the surface. He hadn't heard this level of fucked-up nonsense in a LONG time. Last time, some cocky little shit at the boxing club thought he had a chance against Rafe. Like, was there something in the air lately making people extra fucking stupid?

The clown sighed, staring into his drink. "I just don't know how to—"

"Okay, beautifuls, sorry it took so long." The sweet sound of your voice yanked Rafe out of this retard bubble. "Former high school friend decided to say hi."

With a soft thud, you placed two bottles of beer in front of the guys. The Modelo you slid over to Barry. "Here you go, B." And the PBR to Rafe, a bolt of lightning surging through him as you winked at him. "And this one for his cute boyfriend." You leaned back, drying your hands on the rag at your hip. "Anything else?"

Rafe blinked.

Cute!

Shit, why did that make the funniest feeling arise in his chest? He felt like some schoolgirl going insane over her crush.

Get a fucking grip, dude. Jesus.

"Get his fancy ass some ice," Barry mumbled, mouth full of peanuts, thumbing toward Rafe. "Boy decided to go gloveless at training today. Now he's hurting but too proud to admit it."

Rafe was gonna kill Barry the moment they stepped outside. Sure, his knuckles were still throbbing, but he wasn't hurt. What the fuck was that swamp rat even on?

Your soft chuckle melted Rafe's scowl, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? Wanna let me take a closer look when I'm done here? I'm sure you could use someone to tape that up after such a session."

Oh?

A breathy laugh escaped Rafe as he raised a brow, nerves buzzing under his skin. "What, you some kind of part-time sports therapist or some shit?"

"No, but my aunt is," you said with a grin, tilting your head. "Picked up a few things from her. And I'm guessing it's real tough to reach your back on your own."

Fuck yeah. Now Rafe had officially been allowed in the ring.

"Alright," he said, smiling crookedly, fingers picking at the beer label. "When's your shift over?"

"As soon as the place closes down," you replied, grinning. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a few more hours."

Oh, you could bet your sweet little ass he would.

Rafe shrugged, corners of his mouth tugging down as he shook his head lightly. "I'm free." Then mirrored your grin. "Seats here are kinda shit, but I guess the view makes up for it."

And the genuine laugh that escaped your usually bold mouth felt like snorting three lines in a row (nah, fr, Rafe was clean, alright).

"Okay, then," you said, nodding at the beers. "If you need anything else, just holler. Got other customers to tend to."

With that, you spun your cheeky ass around and walked down to the other side of the bar where some old ladies were sitting.

"Shiiit, dude," Barry said with the biggest grin ever, gulping down a sip of his shitty-ass Modelo. "I think I just third-wheeled some telepathic sex right here. Might as well thank me for giving ya the nudge."

Rafe scoffed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his PBR and immediately regretting his choice of beer. "You can thank me for not beating the shit out of you later."

A giggle left Barry's lips and whatever smart-ass reply he threw back, Rafe didn't register, because right next to him, three seats down, he caught the bastard tossing another comment to his clown friend.

"See, Frank, and that girl right there?" Oh, that fucker meant you, huh. "Pitiful. Probably no man at home to teach her not to swing her ass around other men in public. Sad what girls are turning into."

"Say that again." Rafe had now fully turned toward the two sorry-ass losers, head leaning forward, eyes locked on the bastard behind the clown.

Both looked up. The clown blinked, confused. The bastard raised a brow like he couldn’t believe someone had just interrupted their little alpha circle jerk.

"Sorry?" the bastard said, eyeing Rafe up and down like he was sizing up if the boy in a polo and shorts deserved to be taken seriously.

Rafe nodded, letting out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry if you open that fucking mouth of yours one more time."

The bastard's face scrunched up and in that moment he seemed to decide Rafe was beneath him. "Boy, best not get involved in things that don't concern you."

That’s when Rafe knew for sure: this asshole was getting punched tonight. Just a matter of when.

"Bullshit’s spilling out of you like this place is a fucking stable," Rafe replied with a crooked smile. "So yeah, it does concern me when your shit's reeking all the way to my seat."

The clown was already sinking into his stool, but the bastard apparently thought Rafe was the joke here. He let out a disbelieving breath, not even looking at Rafe anymore as he turned to the clown, gesturing in Rafe’s direction. “See that, Frank? That’s what happens when a father doesn’t raise his son right. His mother was probably—”

“Finish that sentence, and your loser friend can go ahead and reserve you a hospital bed.” Rafe’s voice had dropped to a low edge, his expression far too calm for how close he was to dragging that fucker’s face across the counter.

The fucking audacity—not just dragging you and his dad through the mud, but now even throwing Rafe’s dead mother in too?

“Rafe, bro, come on,” Barry said from behind. “Idiots like him ain’t worth it.”

But Rafe spared him no mind, gaze fixed on the bastard three seats down.

The clown of the duo just looked between them, then down at his sad little Jack & Coke like he hadn’t just sat in the middle of all this shit, like he hadn’t co-signed every word his bastard friend had said. (Don’t worry—Rafe would deal with his sorry ass later.)

“I know your type, boy,” the bastard went on, eyeing Rafe’s clothes again (if only he knew Rafe owned socks that cost more than his entire outfit). “Dropped out of school, probably had some rebellious phase, and of course no real man around to beat you into shape. What a shame. Society’s raised nothing but soft little men these days.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brows raised in mock confusion. “Funny hearing that from a pathetic loser like you. Talking about ‘real men’ like you even qualify.”

As soon as the bastard started laughing, Rafe was on his feet, brushing off Barry's hand as he stepped around the clown. He let out an amused breath and rubbed his jaw with a shake of his head as he came to a stop in front of the bastard. "Not sure what's so funny about that."

The drunk clown nearly tripped over himself pushing himself off the stool, mumbling something about needing to piss as he staggered away. The bastard only furrowed his brow, watching his loser friend stumble off.

“What do you know about being a man?” he spat, turning back to Rafe, the wrinkles in his face bunching up like worn-out leather. He nodded toward Barry. “Your friend’s a pogue by the looks of it, and you...” His eyes dropped to Rafe’s sneakers. “Either the same breed or some kook who lost his crown.”

What the actual fuck was even going on in this fucker's brain? Fucking apes had more relevant shit to say than him.

"Yeah, talking reaal big for a guy with a knockoff Armani suit two sizes too big for a small fucker like you," Rafe snorted, eyeing the bastard down for a second. "Suit's fake, Rolex fake, shoes look like you got 'em from TKMinimum, and what's that?"

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

Sure, Rafe could've given him some preaching about how to treat women and how fucking stupid his fuckass worldview was but that idiot was too far gone already and the only way to put him in his place was to question his entire appearance.

That's what guys like him actually cared about. Not morals, not decency, just how they appeared in public and whether everyone saw just how glorious and wealthy they were.

And the way that pathetic loser looked at Rafe now? Worth more than all the silver, gold, or diamonds in the entire damn world.

And then the cherry on top: your chuckle from behind the bastard—light and effortless, like the ring of a bell announcing Rafe's victory after a boxing match.

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

And then, that bastard made the biggest fucking mistake of his entire pitiful life.

He turned his head back, eyes daring to look you over as he let out a disdainful scoff. When he made a hushing motion with his hand, he said "Do me a favor, woman, and--"

Rafe’s fist collided with the asshole’s face, a sickening crack echoing through the air—nearly as satisfying as your chuckle just right now.

The guy let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled back from his stool, hands flying up to his broken nose just in time to catch the blood now spilling over his fingers and lips. He crashed chest-first onto the seat next to him, bleeding all over the supposedly precious leather cushion.

The area around the bar went dead silent, except for a group of girls giggling about something in the back and fucking Nickelback playing on the speakers.

Rafe quietly met your gaze as he rubbed at his throbbing knuckles, while the bastard on the floor dramatically moaned like he’d been shot instead of just having his nose broken.

And you cheeky little thing only raised your eyebrows at Rafe, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “I’m pretty sure the house rules say no fights.”

Oh, how much Rafe loved that glimmer in your eyes.

"And I'm pretty sure it needs two for a fight", Rafe replied with a scoff and gestured to the sorry-ass loser clutching onto the stool. "Bastard's nowhere near to even be considered a walking vendor for a match, let alone a contestant."

“Shit, Country Club, this ain’t no damn boxing ring,” Barry chimed in with a chuckle, tossing the bleeding bastard a wad of tissues onto the stool beside him. “Bro, you’re staining the seats.”

The groaning bastard finally pushed himself up and knocked the tissues off the stool, one hand clutched to his nose, blood running through his fingers and dripping onto his knockoff suit and cheap-ass shoes.

Aww, and even a bloodshot eye—how unfortunate.

Now that was a picture worthy of being framed behind the bar. Gold plaque underneath: Biggest Retard in the Universe (since birth probably).

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, you little shit,” the bastard groaned, eyes watery from the punch, glaring at Rafe with a face so twisted, he looked like he was mid-way through busting the world’s saddest nut.

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

The bastard’s jaw clenched, and he let out another theatrical groan. “And that would be?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

Boom.

That was when it finally clicked in that baboon brain of his. Face pale, eyes wide as he realized just how far beneath Rafe he actually was in this little imaginary hierarchy of his. Fucker looked close to either pissing himself or throwing up just thinking about how expensive his own lawyer would be if he actually pulled through with his complaint.

A crooked smile played on Rafe’s lips as he raised his brows. “Need me to write it down for you?”

The bastard just stared blankly at him, and shit, even had the nerve to look over Rafe’s clothes again, like he couldn’t believe some dude in a basic polo and shorts was the CEO of Cameron Estates and Ward Cameron’s son.

“A'right, my guy,” Barry said, pushing off from his stool and grabbing the bastard’s shoulder. “Guess that was ya cue to leave. Pretty sure ya got plenty of paperwork waiting back at home now.”

“Get your filthy hands off me,” the bastard spat, shoving Barry’s hand away—and that alone nearly made Rafe punch him again, give him a matching bruise on the other side. “Fucking pogue. Thinks he has any say around here.”

“No, but I do.” Your voice rang out from behind the bar, hands braced on the lower ledge, an amused smile on your face. “Looks like you should call it a night, mister.” Grin deepening. “Not before you pay, though. For you and your sweetheart of a husband, of course.”

Barry said something like “I’ll get him, Boss,” and strolled off toward the restrooms.

The bastard’s chest rose and fell, face as red as the blood on it. “Back in my day, a bitch like you—”

“Shiiit, man,” Rafe chuckled low, grabbing the fucker by the shoulder and patting his chest. “You’re really asking for it right now, huh?”

Oh, and Rafe drank in that anger and fear in the guy’s eyes up like liquid coke, too scared to shove Rafe off.

Rafe nodded toward you with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna apologize to the nice lady now, pay for the drinks you and your loser buddy have downed, and then get your pathetic asses outta here.” He raised his brows with a smile. “Sound good?”

Bastard already opened his mouth but Rafe shook his head, tapping his chest with a finger, grip on his shoulder getting just a little firmer. “You’re lucky if all that bullshit earlier was just talk. Otherwise, I’m sure the cops would love a chat with that wife you bragged about beating.”

That silenced that fucker very quickly.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I mean, unless you need a second reminder—”

“I-I’m sorry”, the bastard blurted out.

“Nah,” Rafe said with a shake of his head, gesturing from himself to you. “Don’t tell me that shit. Apologize to her.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as the bastard finally met your gaze, brows scrunched into a pained grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe let out an amused breath, clapping the bastard’s chest. “Shit, see? Easy. Now you do the same shit at home and question your morals and maybe hell’s promoting your room just a level.”

And the fact that that was apparently the scariest idea to this asshole? Not surprising. Guys like him always preached about God and then used it as an excuse for all the shit they did.

“There ya go,” Barry said as he came back in, dragging the drunk clown from earlier along. By the looks and stench of him, he’d just thrown up. “Now go over there and give the lady a generous tip, a’right?”

He did. Both of these fuckers, as a matter of fact.

Rafe and Barry both watched over their shoulders as each of the two reluctantly pulled out a $200 bill (surprised they even had those—then again, probably received them at some sad little business anniversary).

You flashed a big smile as you accepted that 60% tip. “Thanks, dearies. Hope you had a fun night.”

Rafe didn’t even let them respond, just politely kicked the bastard toward the door while Barry dragged the clown along after him.

Outside, the same clown stumbled forward and hit the pavement, landing on hands and knees in a puddle after Barry gave him a friendly shove. “Shit, bro, nobody told you the South Side ain’t no place for suits?”

“Don't think those cheap-ass knockoffs even deserve that term,” Rafe scoffed, then nodded at Barry to head back in. He didn’t want to spend another second around these losers.

Shit felt like a stain on Rafe’s evening.

Back at the bar, they were greeted by a bucket of soapy water, a pair of old gloves, and a sponge. The vibe in the place? Completely back to normal.

“You made the mess, you clean it,” you said firmly with your arms crossed—very clearly talking to Rafe only. Then, with that familiar amusement back in your voice, you added, “Want me to grab you an apron too?”

Rafe chuckled, mouth twitching into a downward grin. “You’d love that, huh?”

Oh, and that cheeky little laugh you let out? Priceless.

You tossed the rag in your hand over your shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing hotter than watching a man do chores.”

Honestly? For you, he’d probably even get on his knees and scrub the floor in an apron if you asked for it.

Fucking shit. What.

Alright, Barry had definitely hit Rafe too hard in today’s training. Now it was catching up to him, frying his brain into thinking shit like that.

“Yeah, nah,” Rafe said with a strained chuckle, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “I got this.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, nodding. “Alright. You two enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got guests to take care of.”

“Wait!” Rafe called after you just as you were turning to leave. “Your offer—it still stands, right?”

Geez, what the fuck was up with his voice? Suddenly almost desperate. Even fucking Barry chuckled beside him.

And you? You just shot Rafe that signature teasing smile of yours, flashing your white teeth as a chuckle escaped you that made Rafe’s stomach tingle in all the right ways.

“The stool won’t clean itself, boxer boy,” you said, then turned that sweet ass of yours around and walked over to some new guests at a table in the back.

Was that a yes?

Shit, that had to be a yes. Otherwise, you’d have said No, right? Right???

"A'right bro, you have fun cleaning that shit up", Barry said as he patted Rafe's shoulder. "I'll go have a chit chat with the lady that's been eyeing me the whole night."

Rafe grimaced. "That just some bullshit excuse to dip?"

As much as Barry pissed him off, he did fuck with his ass. And now he wanted to bail after Rafe had allowed him to come along? The fuck was that.

Barry chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ far, Country Club. See,” he pointed toward a smiley redhead near the entrance—one of the girls who had turned around earlier. “I’ll be just around the corner. No need to panic about being orphaned." He smiled lazily. "Besides, I’ve had enough of third-wheeling ya and Little Miss Bar Queen eye-fucking each other.”

Fuckass.

Fine. Let him dip.

Rafe furrowed his brows and waved Barry off with a flick of his hand. “Aight. Go do your thing, then.”

After the swamp rat called Barry had strutted off, Rafe eyed the cleaning supplies on the bar with a deep frown. Never in his life had he cleaned up after anyone, let alone himself. Probably would’ve been easier to just buy a brand new damn barstool and maybe some new floor panels than to stand here looking like a damn idiot.

He could already picture the headlines if anyone actually cared enough to report it:

Rafe Cameron, CEO of Cameron Estates and local boxing champ, ready to start a new career path as cleaning lady? Inquiries welcome.

Yeah, whatever.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And right now? That meant cleaning up the mess he’d made in your bar.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he walked up to the counter, stepping around the small crusted pool of blood on the floor (the bastard had bled like a goddamn pig for someone with just a broken nose).

And when Rafe stretched his fingers out to pull the gloves on, his heart skipped a beat as he spotted a little note. Torn straight from your notepad, by the looks of it.

He expected to find some numbers written on them but this was even better.

Rafe stared at the note for a solid minute, eyes locked on your pretty handwriting, lingering on the way you’d written his name.

Then, carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

And just like that, the biggest motherfucking grin spread across his lips, feeling like he’d won the second round tonight.

If he played the cards right, the third was just right around the corner—set on a private stage reserved for just the two of you.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 ᨐฅ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

if your name is listed here, it's because you chose this genre on my taglist form. if you want to be removed, just fill out the form again.

@my-name-is-baby @c1gsafterwhat @lunaleah @skinthatgodmade @akobx @drewstarkeyswife-7 @miaaaoa @kathryn-maraudersversion @setmefreemyg @oreocheescake-12 @brycesfav @emmiesummers @sfotiegiuls @jjasmiineee @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @drewstarkeysrealwife @kravitzwhore @bluebells6 @4stro-phila @cokewithcameron @sammyrenae68 @booklover2503 @wuluhwuhmaster @emeloyy @k4yr14 @et3rn4ls0nsh1n3 @watashiwastarr @persiar9 @volkovaana @turtleegirl @izzy4everr @serendippindots @sc05 @rae455 @silkylove

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Can I get like a familial or platonic headcanon with Dorian? Like yeah he’s fine but he’s also like my dad fr fr trust

you are so real for that anon congrats on such an amazing dad

i'll do both cuz its dorian and all love/like him

like always, these are my headcanons and personal thoughts! if you don't like them make your own! :D tumblr could always use more lol

Platonic Dorian/Reader Headcanons

familial at 'read more'! also more door puns sorry not sorry

= Becoming friends with Dorian was surprisingly easy, given his closed-off personality and behavior. He's a little open, making basic conversations and such, but you're the one who has to put in a little more work during the start of the friendship.

= It starts off with *very* simple hellos and hi's ending at one-word answers and responses, on his end anyway. Asking how his day was results in, again, one-word answers. But, in time, he slowly gives more information.

= Dorian is quick to realize you really do want to be friends with him and taking time out of your day, and a slot out of The Datviators proves to him that your feelings are genuine. He talks a little more when you greet him and eventually starts asking about your day or what you plan to do, depending on when you speak to him.

= After a few days, he asks you if you genuinely want to be friends with him and want to know about him. He smiles happily when you say yes and apologizes for being so closed off. Dorian admits that his past interactions with friends and lovers weren't the best, leaving him closed off and almost scared to talk about his real feelings, but you've proven to him that you can be trusted.

= You both talk about anything and everything when you can. He'll listen to your current hyperfixations or interests, asking questions about them or nodding along and listening. Dorian might not understand much if it's about an anime, TV show, movie, or something else in the latest times, but he'll try his best.

= Dorian is very smart and knows nine languages aside from English (according to his description on his page), so if you need help with history or a language class, he'll do his best. He won't give you the answers but gently lead you to them. Very patient and understanding if you get stressed or frustrated.

= He'll comfort you if he sees you feeling down, ask what's happened, and if he can help. He hates seeing his friends uncomfortable and sad. Dorian understands if you don't want to talk about it and just need someone to stay with to take your mind off things. If one of the objects in the house made you upset, he'll speak with them himself to try and work out what happened and get them to apologize for mentally hurting you. Physically is another story. If another human upset you, he may or may not let himself hit them on the way out if they ever come to visit.

= Overall, a great friend to have! Will comfort you in the worst times and celebrate with you in the best. Even when he's Realized, Dorian will try to take time to visit you now and then to make sure you're doing alright.

Familial Dorian Headcanons (Dad ver)

so i'm kinda making two here where you're an actual door like dorian and another where dorian is realized and has a kid with someone (me/j)

Door version!

= You are Dorian's only child, cut from the same piece of wood, leaving him a little (lot) protective. You are also a door, taking place in the kitchen, where a tiny Dorian should be, but he trusted you enough to get your own spot in the house after a while of preparing.

= Dorian is very hesitant once the human comes around, trying to romance everything, telling them to stay clear of you until he's figured out if the human is safe to trust or not. He tells you to stay silent and locked up, but it's your choice at the end of the day to talk with the new human.

= If you do talk with the new human, Dorian will be... disappointed but also a little proud for showing confidence and telling them they couldn't open you just yet. If you're nice, Dorian tells you to be safe and to not tell them too much about yourself.

= If you don't talk with the human, he's proud and tells you that you did a good job.

= Dorian doesn't want to smother you, but doesn't want you to make harmful mistakes like he did when he was younger. Yes, you can make mistakes, but ones that harm you would be too much for him to bear. He'd never forgive himself if you got hurt.

yea that kinda sucked sorry anyways onto the better stuff wahoo

Human version!

= Dorian never thought the day would come that he would have a child of his own, finding himself to tears as he holds you for the first time, promising himself to be the best dad and protector anyone could ask for.

= Once again, protective. Always checking in on you mentally and physically. Someone's bullying you at school? A stern talk to the parents and the principal is in order.

= He teaches you how to defend yourself both with words and fists. Dorian constantly tells you to try and use your words first and fists for last if things get ugly. If you use this to bully others or for evil, instantly grounded and disappointed; he taught you better than that.

= Onto a lighter note, he gives the best dad hugs. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other placed on the back of your head, holding you close to comfort if you're having a bad day.

= If you are upset, Dorian sits down with you, offering his shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk. He'll listen and try to help you through your problems, offering solutions and answers. He will stay silent and listen if that's all you need, though. Will take you out for ice cream or sit down and watch Tv/a movie/anime/whatever with you to help cheer you up.

= Dorian goes into full protective dad mode when you talk about a crush or date, asking for their phone number, address, what they look like, SSN, etc. They will have to meet him first before anything official happens. He trusts you to an extent and only wants the best for you. He immediately tells you no if it's one of the objects from the player's house.

= If you get upset over this, and if you're old enough, Dorian tells you his own experiences with love, telling you about Keith and Reggie and what they did. He tells you that he just wants you to be safe and not have your heart broken like he had at one point. It's up to you if you want to understand him or not.

= Dorian couldn't care less about the gender of your partner. He does give you *the talk* when you're old enough and explains to you the birds and the bees... and the bees and bees. And birds and birds.

= On that note, if you tell him you want to transition and go by a different name, he'll support you 100%. It might take him a minute for pronouns and the name change, but know he's trying.

= At the end of the day, he's a father who loves you very much and is happy to have you in his life.

---

i was gonna put here that i was writing this at a reasonable time but i looked down and saw it was 2am lol

hope this was alright, not very good at familial/platonic so I'm sorry if i fucked it up

thank you for reading! mwah!

[yakaiatori]

the phone tradition lee sangheyok.

pairing; highschool!riwoo x fem!reader wc; 514

synopsis you’re just quietly trying to survive with a book in your lap during p.e. then sanghyeok shows up—out of breath, smiling—and hands you his phone. that damn phone tradition.

a/n the clip..... explains everything here. anyways hello, this is my first work! hope u enjoy

you don’t even like p.e., neither sport.

you’re just sitting near the edge of the gym with your book, pretending to read while your classmates start stretching and chatting in their sports uniforms.

“he’s cute,” your friend mumbles, watching a group of boys walk past.

“wait—isn’t that sanghyeok?”

you glance up vaguely.

then freeze.

yes. that’s lee sanghyeok.

he’s in your grade. he dances at school festivals. once gave up the last strawberry milk at the canteen with a shy smile like it was nothing. always says “thank you” to the librarian. his voice is soft. his laugh is louder.

you’ve never talked. but you know.

suddenly, a few boys are pulling out their phones—handing them to girls nearby. some with confidence, some too awkward to meet anyone’s eyes.

your friend nudges you.

“that tradition thing again,” she grins.

“they say if a guy likes someone, he gives them his phone to hold before p.e.”

you scoff quietly. “sounds like a pretext for losing your screen protector.”

but then—

a shadow falls over your book.

you look up.

lee sanghyeok.

a little out of breath. smiling nervously. phone in hand.

“hey,” he says, breathless but cheerful. “could you—uh—hold this for me?”

you blink, unsure. “me?”

he rubs the back of his neck, looking everywhere but directly at you.

“i didn’t know who else to ask… or maybe i did. just—uh—yeah, never mind..”

you don’t even answer before he gently sets the phone on your lap and jogs off to join warm-ups.

you stare at it.

it’s warm.

the lock screen is a photo of a dog in a donut costume. you’re 97% sure he took it himself.

you sit very still. hands on your knees. like you’re guarding treasure. you pretend to read again. you don’t turn the page once.

after p.e., the boys are sweaty, laughing, dramatic like they’re in some teen drama.

he comes back. that soft, bashful grin again.

“thanks for guarding it,” he says, walking up to you, casual but a little shy.

“it didn’t explode, so… guess you’re trustworthy.”

you raise an eyebrow. “this is a trust test?”

he chuckles. shrugs. “sort of.”

“did i pass?”

he tilts his head. this time his smile is smaller, softer. “yeah. you passed.”

and that’s it.

or… it should be.

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

except... that night?

you get a friend request from him.

then a message:

[lee sanghyeok]

thanks again for today :)

also…

do you like donuts?

your chest does something dumb and fluttery.

you reply:

[you]

depends why you’re asking

[lee sanghyeok]

…just thinking about what to bring to the library tomorrow

y’know, as a thank you

and maybe to… sit near you?

your fingers hover.

you smirk.

[you]

chocolate glazed. no sprinkles.

[lee sanghyeok]

got it. see you tomorrow :)

you close your messages.

and glance at the little donut keychain on your pencil case—the one you bought on a whim months ago.

coincidence? maybe.

but tomorrow, someone’s bringing you the real thing.

and weirdly enough, it doesn’t feel like a disaster waiting to happen.

☆ yakaiatori's

[camficdiner]

Hi 😊 I love your work!

1.2 2.6 3.1 4.3 please?

☕ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 038

🍒 thank you!

To the sweetheart who ordered this: soft boys with busted lips and even softer crushes? You’re speaking my language. Hope this stitched-up story gives you all the butterflies 💉💗

💬 “Split Open, Wide Open”

✨ description & prompts

character: Quinn Hughes

prompt: You’re Brock Boeser’s sister, a nurse on night shift. After Quinn splits his lip during a game, Brock begs you to stitch him up. He shows up bruised and beautiful… and maybe that’s the night everything changes.

word count: ~1.9k

type: fluff, slow burn, soft invitation, quiet pining, late night tenderness

⸻

You were on hour ten of your twelve-hour night shift when your phone buzzed. Again. You ignored it — until you saw the name.

Brock.

You slipped into the empty hallway outside triage and answered, voice taut.

“Brock, it’s three in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look—don’t kill me, okay? It’s for Quinn.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“What happened?”

“He took a puck to the face. His lip’s split bad. It’s… it’s bleeding a lot. Team doc’s out, and he doesn’t want stitches from a stranger. He’s on his way to your hospital.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“You’re the only one he trusts,” Brock said quietly. “Please?”

Ten minutes later, Quinn Hughes walked into your ER with a towel pressed to his mouth, eyes glassy, jaw tight. And he was still stupidly handsome.

He was quiet as you led him to an empty exam room, his steps careful, the blood blooming through the towel in slow, sticky streaks. The second the door shut behind you, you couldn’t help it.

“I told you to wear a cage.”

“I’m not even your patient yet,” he mumbled through the towel.

“You’re about to be.” You tugged on gloves. “Sit down and shut up.”

He smiled — or tried to. It just made him wince.

You examined the cut. The skin was torn straight through, lower lip swollen, bruising starting to crawl down toward his chin.

“You need stitches.”

“I figured.” He looked at you — really looked at you — and then whispered, “You’re still wearing the same necklace.”

You froze.

He meant the gold one, the tiny ‘B’ charm your dad gave you and Brock before he passed. You wore it every shift. You didn’t think Quinn would notice.

But of course he did.

You cleared your throat and started prepping the suture kit. “It’s going to hurt.”

He tilted his head. “You mean emotionally or physically?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t be cute.”

“You always say that, and yet here I am.”

You bit back a smile and numbed him up, cleaned the cut, and stitched him slowly — careful, steady, even though your heart was thudding the entire time. His eyes never left yours.

When you finished, he touched your wrist gently.

“Thanks for fixing me up.”

You stepped back, tearing off your gloves. “All in a night’s work.”

But then he said it.

“Come over.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Just for a while. You’re off soon, right?” His voice was soft. “I won’t sleep anyway. I… I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

You looked at him — swollen lip, messed-up curls, exhausted eyes.

“I’m Brock’s sister,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know. But you’re also you. And I’ve been trying not to ask you that for months.”

Your breath caught. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “Had to try.”

You turned away quickly, gathering supplies, tossing gloves, wiping down the tray.

You were halfway to the door when he said, quieter:

“…But if you change your mind, you know where I live.”

⸻

You sat in your car for ten minutes after your shift ended, hands on the wheel.

You didn’t know what made you turn the engine back on and head toward his apartment. You just… did.

⸻

He opened the door in sweats and a hoodie, ice pack in one hand.

“Didn’t expect you.”

“You asked.”

He stepped aside. You walked in.

Silence. Then:

“I’m not trying to make it weird,” he said. “I just… I miss you.”

You turned to him. “We’ve never even dated.”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah, but I think about it all the time. What if we had?”

You swallowed.

“I don’t want Brock to hate me.”

“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t look for you at every game,” he said. “And I don’t think Brock would be surprised.”

You looked at him for a long moment — then gently reached up, touched the bandage on his lip.

“You always get hurt when I’m on shift.”

“Maybe I do it on purpose.”

You laughed — softly, nervously — and he smiled.

That was all it took.

You kissed him.

Gently, carefully, hands in his hoodie, the heat of his skin beneath your palms. His lips were warm, wounded but willing. He groaned quietly into your mouth, pressing you back into the wall like he’d been waiting all season for this.

“I thought you said no,” he murmured against your cheek.

“I changed my mind.”

“Good.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, mouth parted, hands curled in your hair. He tasted like clean laundry and cherry chapstick, and when you slipped your arms around his waist, he whispered, “Stay. Please.”

And this time, you said yes.

⸻

Fast-forward — next morning

You woke up wrapped in his arms, cheek pressed to his chest. His lip was still puffy, but the smile on it was real.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice raw.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’d really like to see where this goes.”

You smiled.

“I think you already know.”

[blasphemyandbackshots]

Kirishima Eijirou as your clingiest boyfriend who constantly asks where are you going whenever you pull away from your cuddle session. Eventhough he's busy with his phone to whatever hero work he is doing. As soon as you pull away from him he'd be like “Where are you going?” with the obvious pout on his lips.

She hadn’t even gotten both legs off the couch yet.

“Where are you going?” Kirishima mumbled, his voice all soft and pouty, chin barely lifting off her shoulder where it had been resting for the last hour. His phone was still in one hand, thumb frozen mid-scroll, eyes flicking to her like a lost puppy.

She laughed under her breath. “I’m just going to make some tea, babe.”

“But we were cuddling,” he said immediately, like this was a crime against the sanctity of boyfriends everywhere. “You were warm.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Noooo,” he whined, dramatic and immediate as he rolled after her, practically sliding off the couch like a big muscled blanket. “I miss you already—wait, let me come with you.”

“You’re literally still holding your phone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grinned as he followed her into the kitchen anyway, wrapping his arms around her from behind the second she opened the cabinet. “My hands are free for you.”

“Eiji,” she said through a laugh, trying to reach the mugs while he rested his chin on her shoulder, swaying them side to side like they were slow dancing in the middle of the kitchen. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he grinned against her neck.

She smiled, heart all mushy. “Yeah. I really do.”

It started with Tik Tok. Couple Tik Tok to be specific.

Kirishima had been scrolling on his phone (half ignoring hero updates, half thinking about you as usual) when he saw a dumb video of a couple sharing a giant hoodie. His eyes lit up like he’d just discovered a new quirk. Need it. Immediately.

Two days later, he came home with a massive bundle in his arms and the most chaotic grin on his face.

“Baaaabe,” he called, already kicking his shoes off. “Come here, I got us something.”

You appeared in the hallway with a raised eyebrow, looking at the ridiculous red blob in his hands. “What is that?”

“Our new hoodie,” he declared proudly, unfurling it like a flag. It was fire-engine red, clearly not made by any reputable brand, and could probably double as a camping tent.

“…Our?”

“Yup,” he said, tugging it over his head, then opening one side like a flap. “Get in. C’mere. Right now.”

You were already giggling as you crawled in with him, arms tangling, knees bumping, your face squished into his chest.

“See?” he said, muffled in the cocoon of soft fabric. “Now I never have to let go. Ever. Hoodie jail.”

You snorted. “You’re literally insane.”

“But you’re warm. And I love you. And this is perfect.”

And even though it was way too hot, and your leg was falling asleep, and he kept laughing every time your nose bumped his, it was kind of perfect.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Not a problem at all

Bob reynolds x fem!reader

A/N: I may or may not have started crying during a true crime documentary last night so I wrote this afterwards. Am I on my period....not yet. Anywho please PLEASE comment what pet names you think Bob would use for his girlfriend/partner I've been stumped and just used a bunch of different ones in this. Also I wrote this on my phone so it may not be the best work I've published but I hope you enjoy it anyways :)

Warnings: none? There is very vague talk of true crime documentary but no detail at all and just used as plot and it does talk about reader being on their period but again nothing graphic

Bob was concerned.

However, he believed any boyfriend would be concerned about coming home to find their girlfriend wrapped in several blankets, clenching a stuffed animal, and crying uncontrollable sobs in bed while watching some true crime documentary.

"Um--sweets?" He asked meekly as he walked over to you. "I'M FINE!" You tried to convince him through sniffles and choked sobs you started to fight back. You rubbed your nose and looked up like that would magically stop the tears from falling.

"I swear I'm okay Bobby don't look at me like that." You didn't have to look at him to know he was looking at you very concerned. "Look at you like what I-I mean I'm not even looking at you!" His eyes just scanned the room quickly but fell back to you just as fast. You paused the documentary as he finally looked around to take in the surroundings and everything started piecing together in his head.

His bag of hot Cheetos...empty wrapper of your favorite chocolate...that big bag of Sour Patch Kids he got you... your water bottle is half full...cup of tea that had gone cold.

He did a full scan of you and his suspensions got confirmed seeing you fully. You had not only his oldest, oversized t-shirt on, but you also had a heating pad on high and were holding that stuffed dinosaur he got you like it was your lifeline.

"Oh my darling" he crossed the small space between you and kissed the crown of your head softly. "How are we feeling?" You groaned and pulled him closer to the bed but he stopped himself from falling into the tangled blankets with you. "Hold on sweetheart let me get things ready for you yeah?"

Before he got a response he pulled away even if the whine that left you ripped at his heart. He got undressed and changed into sweats, blushing as you cheered seeing him strip quickly. "Damn Reynolds look at that butt!". He muttered "Can't believe my girl is such a damn heathen" before he cleaned the bed off of the snacks you had gathered throughout the day and collected the cups as well.

"I'm proud you drank water today pretty but I am gonna go get you some more. Gotta keep you hydrated. Did you have a real meal?" He beamed when you nodded but quickly deflated when you mentioned that it was for lunch. "...it's 7:30... at night" he gestures to the window, "the moon is nearly out now." Before you could argue he was already out of the room, he knew you wouldn't argue back if you were comfortable in bed and thankfully you were.

He made the quickest pot of spaghetti he's ever made in his life and refilled your water. He gathered the food and made sure to bring medicine and one of your hydration stick packet things that you've been making him use lately and he headed back to the bedroom...only to find an empty bed. "What the...where'd you go?"

You come very slowly wandering from the bathroom with a pout, "If you've ever loved me before...rip my uterus out." He himself whines like he's in pain, "Come get comfy baby I made spaghetti...and um--I got the pain medicine you said helps the best and one of those drink packs you've been buying." When you complain saying those hydration packs are supposed to be for him he just nods along "Yeah yeah I know and I have one a day like you instructed me to but you need it so no arguing this time missy."

He cringed hearing himself say 'Missy' "Fuck sorry" he didn't even have to look at you to know he was receiving a glare.

You climb back into bed and Bob, this time, follows your movement and gets into bed with you too. Once you've eaten most of the bowl and drank some water he pulled you into him and held you close to his chest. "Wanna tell me about the case you were watching about when I got home?" He held the remote and fidgeted with the buttons as you rambled about the crazy murder case.

You let out a huff "I-I think that's about it. I don't know I started crying about the victims having to go through all that but I can't stop watching it now! I have to know how he got caught." Bob leaned down and kissed your head once more, "Well now you can find out with me, I'll wipe the tears away no problem." You giggled as you laid your head on his chest, thinking he was just being dramatic.

He leaned back and pressed play, warmth filled his chest as you curled into his side. He mumbled to himself, "It's no problem at all"

__-__-__-__-__

Tagging:

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Also! I have alot of period comfort in the works for both Bucky and Bob so if you'd like to be tagged in those specifically lmk and if you'd like me to write some for Frank or Logan lmk!

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@jesterghuleh

@zzz000eee

@ginarely-blog

@nubecita040

@murnsondock

@sxbrinajade

@articel1967

@krystalyn7171

@awesompawsum

[fairestwriting]

Jamil Viper and Floyd Leech with a AuDHD!reader that's always wearing headphones in public areas (even if they're off) because the noise of multiple people talking distracts and bothers them and they think it's annoying/stressful? Bonus if they still take off their headphones when he talks to show they're actively listening to him.

i hope this is okay!! you didn't specify on whether you wanted platonic or romantic so i made it ambiguous :]

𐙚 Floyd Leech

It might be one of the first things you two talk about. Someone wearing headphones isn’t anything crazy, sure, but it’s still unusual, so it catches his eye. You’re always wearing them when he catches sight of you in the hallways. He assumes they’re just regular headphones, and you’re just listening to music… And as time passes, he starts getting more and more curious about what music that might be.

One day, whether you’re complete strangers or friendly acquaintances, Floyd just walks up to you and asks, ”Shrimpy, what’re you listening to?” while looking at you with those big curious eyes. He’s wondered about it a decent amount already, probably placed bets on a wide variety of musical genres — Now he just needs to know if any of them were right.

When you take them off, letting the headphones rest on your neck as you tell him that actually, you’re not listening to anything, it seems like his eyes get even bigger. It’s just noise canceling, because the hallways get really loud, you explain. Floyd hums, tilting his head a little. It’s not what he was expecting at all, but he finds it completely reasonable. Yeah, the hallways do get really loud. He didn’t realize it was possible to, in a way, opt out of it like that. Most of his previous ideas just involved an exhausting amount of magic.

Floyd is a little bummed you’re not listening to any music though. The bets he was coming up with were getting pretty fun, so he’ll still demand you tell him about what you listen to. Then after that’s out of the way, he just doesn’t mind the presence of the headphones at all. Whether you have them on or not, he’ll still bug you if he feels like it, them being there never registered as you ignoring him anyway.

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Jamil kind of side eyes it at first, not because it’s his personal opinion on it or anything, but just because of the impression it gives off. Most people would find it kind of rude, wouldn’t they? It might seem like you’re not paying attention to them while they talk.

When you two actually talk to each other, though, he never runs into that problem, so it becomes a non-issue. You can hear and reply to him just fine, it turns out, and you’re always polite too, that’s more than good enough for Jamil. Sometimes you even take off the headphones, though he doesn’t mind it if you’re “listening to music” while you two talk, since it clearly doesn’t stop you from paying attention.

He does remain aware of how others might perceive it, though. Mostly because as you get closer, he doesn’t want people to misunderstand you— He never points it out because he doesn’t want to be rude. Until a certain day where you have to deliver something to a teacher comes, and your headphones are on, so he says ”It might be a good idea to take them off before you go. You know how the professors are.” You smile and tell him not to worry, you just wear them when it’s too crowded and loud around you, and that’s when he realizes what they actually are.

At that point, Jamil's already gotten used to seeing you with the headphones. He never thought you might have a specific reason for why you wear them so often, and knowing it now doesn't really change much of anything. Maybe he'll indulge his curiosity about it if he feels you two are close enough, but it'll really just be about curiosity. He may not fully understand why you find the noise so overwhelming, but it's not like that's going to make him think of you as a totally different person.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[emyluwinter]

@kandlewick - the author is au. I hope I can tag you in the post?

The queries are too short for me. ahahaha

I really love your Janitor AY!

Can I throw some ideas on this bonfire? ahaha.

Malleus sometimes brings and leaves some tea for the Janitor. Not accepting any refusals or refunds. Sometimes it's a cookie or any treat that can be stored for a long time. Sometimes dried fruits. "I want to have our conversations over a nice cup of tea, which I really want to treat you to. Consider it my gratitude for your hospitality."

When Kalim started taking Master Chef courses, he often took leftovers back to the dorm.

“yeah. I know that you don't accept the excessive luxuries that my family has. But look! There's a good piece of meat here and it's burnt!"

The janitor doesn't mind this time. The food will go bad soon anyway, and the students here are too spoiled and arrogant. And they accept Kalim's efforts, seeing that he tries not to "go beyond an adequate budget". Sometimes they share food with Ruggie in exchange for coupons to the store or any cleaning products for the building.

You can argue with me, but Kalim's magic would be VERY useful.

-So…Can you make clean, drinkable water in unlimited quantities?

-yes. It's completely useless, I know… Kalim knows that his magic is just child's play compared to the other students. He was already used to another burden in his soul and here. His train of thought is interrupted like a train. -Don't talk nonsense. Water for drinking, for bathing, for washing dishes, for cleaning surfaces. Hmm…If we get an old pump, can we make a steam cleaner? Listen, you're going to be indispensable here. Can you imagine what a hassle it was to drown snow and ice in winter when the water in the pipes froze?

-I had to filter it through charcoal from the fireplace.. I still remember how she smelled like smoke. -Grimm complained.

-Filter… water… with coal?- Kalim asked in confusion. There were many new lessons waiting for him.

Can a Janitor be a good storyteller?

Ace and Kalim are still technically, studying. And the Janitor, by virtue of his abilities, reads a lot of books, encyclopedias, old documents that can be found in the library. If Are they not busy working or improving their standard of living, getting food or money or other responsibilities? They're reading. A lot. Before going to bed. After dinner, when there is free time.

The Janitor can't explain everything about magic. But, oh, the seven. Ace was ready to sit out the whole day if they explained to him the whole story of how a Janitor does it.

During the removal of clothes from the dryer after a lot of washing.

-That's it…means…

-The king was greedy to such an extent that his people couldn't stand it and staged a riot. The documents stated that they had used his own weapon against him. His castle became for him both a shield and an iron maiden with nails inside.

-How can they sabotage an entire castle?-

-The servants, Kalim. Those whose families are not noble and see the full horror of the king's rule in their house. Their decision to rebel remains positive without hesitation. If their family can't afford a crust of damn mouldy bread. While the king signs a new decree on taxes. They're coming up with a plan. Take out all the supplies that they themselves have been replenishing all this time. To talk to the knights, those who have a head on their shoulders with the thoughts that the king will take them to the coffin faster than to the paradise of abundance. Locked in the castle alone with his entourage.

-And the king remains without protection and without food!

-And then they lock him up like an animal in a cage! It's creepy. It turns out that they left him no choice but to agree to their terms?

-History knows other cases. Both the smarter ones and the stupid ones, as well as the senselessly bloody ones.

-Aah! Please wait! I'm out of ink in my pen, I won't have time to write it down.

Ace and Kalim proudly showed the Janitor their improved grades in the subjects they explained to them. They have a separate cork board that stands on the floor, fastened somehow with nails. but he holds all the successes of the two dorm students as world medals.

I think Epel will turn to the Janitor at some point because they have an entire building that can be used as a warehouse for the surplus from his village. How did the student know?

Rook, of course. This guy brings various books, mostly poetry, poetry and fiction. Sometimes it's useful to take your mind off heavy books and do something light and simple so that your brain doesn't boil over with information.

Of course, the Janitor gets a couple of boxes for free as payment for renting a couple of unused rooms.

[beetle-ze-bub]

I have this Au idea based on The Deal by Mitski cause for whatever that feels like a Stan Pines song and I can't fully explain why.

Anyways, basically, during Stan's drifter days he stays in some pretty unusual places with more than a few weird characters. So, at some point or another, he somehow hears about this deal you can make with the Night itself. Midnight, walk alone, etc, etc. Just like the song.

Stan has never been one to believe, or even just be interested in spirituality or magic or whatever; that was his brother. But he decides to keep the story in his back pocket, if for no other reason than to have an interesting story to tell people.

But maybe at some point when he's feeling like he's at rock bottom, after something especially bad happened (idk the Tijuana incident or the trunk, or losing his kidney, something like that) – and/or while drunk – he decides, 'Fuck it, I got nothing else to lose', and decides to try the deal just for the sake of it. The worst that could happen is nothing, right?

Like in the song, he tries to give away his soul, because he really is pretty sick of all the hurting and the pain and shit. Also reasoning that, since nothing will likely happen, he might as well go big.

This is where it diverges from the song somewhat. Because for what he'd take I think it'd depend.

If he was drunk and/or in an especially bad spot, I wouldn't be surprised if he said, like the song did, he would only take the consequences. But, at the same time, I think he knows enough about bad deals to realize that if – on the very off chance this is real – he's giving his soul away, it should at least be for something good. Maybe he'd ask to get Rico off his back, or for that million dollars, or make it so he never broke Ford’s project (though I feel like this isn't likely as even in its divine grace, the Night can not change the past. Maybe Stan would even get a feeling somehow, as though the Night tells him this.), or even just to keep Ford safe and/or happy. Idk rn, but yeah.

After the deal is struck, Stan feels lighter somehow. Like something is missing. It's not bad that it's gone. It's not good either. It's just missing.

He'd probably still have the same talk with the bird, but after that I feel like he'd keep drifting across the country. Not out of a need to escape, or hit his big break, but just instinct. Habit.

He'd probably still call his mom, but it's almost professional in how he talks to her, clinical. There's no attachment there, really. He loves her, or at least likes her, to some degree. But it's muffled and smothered, and so, so quiet that he can't make out the sound of it anymore. Like a soft tap at the back of his brain, so light he can hardly recognize it happened. He can't say for sure whether he'd feel much if something happened to her.

Maybe Ford, depending on what Stan wished for, suddenly finds the night welcoming. Something caring and kind and protective of him in a way he can't really explain. Obviously it can't be, it's the night; just a time of day. It's not doing anything. But he still can't help but feel that way.

Or maybe even his life has suddenly gotten so much better. He's suddenly been offered a bunch of grants, people are vying for his research or his reviews of their work. He's being offered hundreds of prestigious positions and people are dying to have him give interviews or lectures. And while Ford is obviously ecstatic, and riding the high of all this praise and his accomplishments being recognized and getting everything he's ever wanted (what about his brother?), he can't exactly… remember, what he accomplished or published that got him all this attention.

But that doesn't matter! He's sure it'll come to him! He's just too focused on his now busy schedule, that's why he forgot. After that he has to get back to his current anomaly research too. But he's sure it'll come to him in time.

Again, depending on what Stan wished for exactly, and even what time he made the wish, maybe Ford sends the postcard to Stan again; whether it's about Bill or something else, idk. But when Stan comes something's wrong. It looks like Stan, talks relatively like Stan.

But he's empty. As though he's been drained of everything Ford remembers made Stan Stan. He was ready for a hot-headed, angry brother. Not this… shell.

If Ford still opened the door with his crossbow, he would be visibly surprised, sure. His eyes widened, his mouth opened in shock, he even took a step or 2 back. But there was no scream. There was no snarky comment or angry blow up at his behavior. If Ford still shone a light in his eyes Stan still pushed him off him and frowned, but he only said “Stop that.” in a mildly upset voice. When Ford apologized Stan said “It's fine”.

…And that was it. No biting remarks or angry glares. Just an awkward silence as Ford stared at this facsimile of his brother.

When he tells Stan he has to show him something he wouldn't believe, he only asks “What is it?” Even when staring the portal down, while, again, he is shocked. It's only in the generic way you'd see in something like a stock photo, or some guide book on emotions. Only in the basest, least-effort way you could get someone to understand you were displaying shock.

Because that's what it felt like, Ford realizes. A display. Like the emotions weren't real. Or if they were, they were so shallow that might as well be. The display wouldn't even last long. The briefest of flashes before fizzling out unceremoniously and disappearing completely.

Idk maybe something something, Ford finds out what happened somehow, goes bird hunting in some fairytale, fae esque trial of character way or something. My main idea was the Stan making the deal and the empty birdcage Stan that comes as a result.

[bentosnackbox]

“Girl, just let me know / We can take it slow.”

lyrics: “Break from Toronto” *(2013 – PARTYNEXTDOOR

part one

MENTIONS : situationship, mentions of sex, gojo, suguru and shoko r also in the same age range, unprotected sex, pussydrunk!megumi, backshots, ghosting, alcohol, blunts, partying, college AU, fratboy megumi kinda..?, sexting, cursing, athlete megumi, pro basketball player megumi.

ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+ IN THIS AU !!

DISCLAIMER : MDNI ( i’m not responsible of what you see on the internet, but still cmon guys let’s not lmao)

guys this is my first time writing a fic… like ever!! so don’t expect it to be good i’m still working on it lol.

also if u see me make a grammar mistake it’s cuz english isn’t my first language, so there will be some mistakes sadly 🫩

i plan on writing more fics if this blows up or i get comments n likes asking for more… anyways !!

there will be more parts cuz i’m too lazy too put everything in one part lmao sorry

master list: part one, part two, part thee

12 PM CAMPUS NEWYEARS PARTY | January 1st 2025

“you like that? you like when i hit it like that? yeah i know you love this dick baby girl.”

i let out a moan as he hits that sweet g spot religiously over and over again knowing how much i love it.

“who got the best dick girl? c’mon talk to me baby.”

“you do gumi!!” i scream out moaning while he gives me the best backshots ever.

“good girl” he groans as he comes inside earning a moan from me.

just as i’m about to come on his dick i hear a knock on the bathroom door with satorus voice coming through

“what y’all doing in there? c’mon out”

i look at megumi with wide eyes and put my panties back up with my mini skirt, not even bothering to clean up.

he pulls his boxers and purple jeans back up.

i turn to megumi “what the fuck do we do now?”

“relax baby girl s’ not like we’re in a relationship anyway, we’re just friends making each other feel good.”

just friends.

just friends.

just friends?

oh so this meant nothing to him? i was just one of his side bitches?

i get it we’re best friends since 6th grade and have been inseparable ever since

fucking each other wasn’t anything new

but the first time we actually did it was in the first year of college at his house

his girlfriend of a month cheated on him and he found out over a leak of her fucking his best friend yuji got sent around

i came over to help him get over her and watch a movie

little did i know i would get my pussy eaten

also i knew megumi was gorgeous and a player but damn this shit actually felt real for once

atleast for me.

“yeah right, um just friends” i say snapping back into reality as i notice i zoned out

he gives me a smirk and kiss on the cheek before finally opening the door

satoru is standing infront of the door, drink in hand waiting for us to open up

“the fuck were yall doing?”

“none of ur business” megumi says smirking and rolling his eyes shoving him out the way while dragging me behind him

we walk over to the drink bar and sit down on the stools

“watcha wanna drink baby?”

baby? after he said we’re just friends? and he says it like it means something

am i going fucking crazy????

“a piña colada please” i give him a fake smile, not like he can tell a difference from what’s fake and real

he’s rubbing my thigh up and down as we wait for the drinks

“gumi?”

“yeah baby?”

“i gotta use the toilet real quick”

“aight baby don’t take too long tho”

i never came back tho.

i ran back to my dorm in 6 inch heels tripping on the way there crying all the way there

mascara smudged, lashes falling off, wig a little lopsided

what the actual fuck ?? like cut the cameras bitch

who does this nigga think he is?

i block his number on messages, block his ig and twitter

best thing to do right now is focus on myself and keep my life clean

after all it was a new year’s resolution of mine.

______

06:00 PM talking with my roommate about the situation to recover | January 19th 2025

“omg he’s such a bastard”

i nod sobbing as i eat my ben and jerry’s ice cream while gossiping with my bestie a.k.a shoko!

we’re having our monthly gossip rant session in our matching bonnets, doing face masks while eating ice cream

i haven’t heard from him since the night it happend prob cuz i blocked him lol

and maybe that’s for the better.

for both of us

he isn’t around campus much ever since he got a deal to get signed to the memphis grizzlies in summer of last year

the only times he’s around is when there’s party’s or a holiday coming up.

“and he proceeded to say ‘we’re just friends’ baby you deserve someone better. need me to beat his ass?” shoko said ready to throw hands

i giggle “girl no it’s okay really-”

i get interrupted by a text message notification

unknown number

| can we talk now?

| are you done being mean?

no. fucking. way.

i stare at my phone with wide eyes not even listening to shoko rant about how annoying her classmates are and she notices

“everything okay y/n?”

i show her the message

“it’s megumi. i recognize his texts from a mile away”

but

how tf did he get my number.

shoko sees my anxiety kicking in again by the way i’m biting my nails right now

“calm down y/n, just ghost him it’ll work out trust me”

i nod ignoring his text messages

i ignored him.

oh i tried ignoring him.

but turns out he’s down bad

like the yearning type.. yup

______

10:18 AM on the following Monday | January 22nd 2025

i’ve been getting non stop no caller id calls

like non. fucking. stop

it’s crazy

new messages came through

unknown number

| stop fucking ignoring me deadass

| that’s fucking annoying.

fuck.

i’m in the middle of a lecture and he’s texting me?

shit i gotta think quick

“calm down y/n, just ghost him it’ll work out trust me”

and so i ghost him for the next 2 days until…

______

06:26 PM Wednesday in my dorm | January 24th 2025

shoko is out on a work dinner

and i’m bed rotting in my bonnet watching love island on my macbook

“they did my girl huda so fucking dirty!!”

i say as i’m eating my ben and jerry’s cookie dough ice cream again

*i get another message*

unknown number

| you haven't been texting me or calling me at all

| what the hell's your problem?

shit

wait can he see that i read his messages?

since shoko isn’t here to stop me i decide to text back

| i need some space

| from everyone, it's not just you

read 06.38 pm

he texts back almost in the blink of an eye

| SPACE????

| bitch if u wanted space you should've been an astronaut

| answer the goddamn Phone when i call you.

shit he’s mad.

NOTE : guys comment if y/n should pick up or ghost lmao

i enjoyed making this kinda fun tbh

again first time making a fan fic so don’t judge ok..

[cupcakequeen-2005]

IF I WAS THE MAN CHAPTER SIX: Beer and Bitches

Masterlist

WARNING: swearing, mild sexual talk, uses of alcohol, gross frat boy behaviour

“You boys fuckin’ ready?”

Toji’s voice bounced off the frat house walls as he leaned against the doorframe, hands thrown up like this was some sacred ritual, shirt nowhere to be seen.

“Hell yeah,” Gojo whooped back lazily from the couch, crushing an energy drink one-handed.

It was barely 8 a.m. — morning after finals — and they were already wired, buzzing on caffeine and the promise of going hard. Everywhere you looked, someone was shirtless or halfway there. Beer cans were already cracking open, bass thudding through the floor like a heartbeat. This wasn’t just any party. It was the party of the semester. Exams were over, stress was dead, and nothing mattered except beer, bitches, and celebrating their freedom. The true frat alpha way.

“Shut up,” Sukuna groaned from a chair next to Gojo, rubbing his eyes like a dad surrounded by hyperactive kids as he smacked a water bottle at Toji’s legs. “It’s too fuckin’ early for this shit.”

“Someone’s cranky,” Toji drawled, pushing off the doorframe to grab a Bud Light from the fridge, already packed to the brim with alcohol.

“Can’t a guy be excited for beer and bitches?” Gojo shot back with a grin, kicking his feet up on the table like he owned the place.

Sukuna scowled deeper. “You mean cheap beer and girls you’ll barely remember,” he muttered, only for Gojo to lean into the jab.

“I second that,” Geto added lazily, hands laced behind his head, lips twitching like this was all too entertaining.

“Boo,” Gojo answered, sticking his tongue out at them.

As Choso padded past in nothing but a towel, dragging a razor carefully across his jawline, hair still damp from the shower, Sukuna paused, then whistled.

“It’s eight in the morning, dude. Shouldn’t you wait till Y/N actually arrives before you go all Mr. Smooth?”

Choso froze mid-stroke, face going red faster than anyone thought was humanly possible.

“W-what? That’s not why I’m getting ready this early,” he muttered, hands less steady as he kept his gaze down, ears tinged pink.

Gojo paused halfway to his mouth with his drink.

Y/N.

The girl who’d brushed past him one morning like he was invisible. Chin up, eyes sharp, never sparing him a second glance. Ever since that fleeting moment, her name had threaded its way into every conversation like some unspoken secret no one wanted to say aloud.

Geto kicked his feet up. “What’s so special about her, anyway?” he drawled. “She’s kinda weird. Why are you and Sukuna even friends with her?”

Choso froze in the doorway, razor hovering mid-air like he was deciding whether to fight back or just disappear.

Sukuna answered for him with a shrug and a smirk. “We’ve known her forever. Plus, Choso works with her.” His mouth twitched as he added, “She can be kind of a bitch sometimes. But she’s basically part of the family at this point.”

Choso’s ears turned pink.

“And she’s pretty hot too, huh, Choso?” Sukuna teased, leaning back like he’d hit a nerve.

“Fuck you guys,” Choso muttered, face burning as he stomped off toward his room, one hand tugging at the edge of his towel while a few low laughs followed him.

By mid-afternoon, the house was humming with energy. Speakers blasted bass that made the windows vibrate, crates of beer and bottles of liquor stacked up like trophies. People began showing up early. Couples tangled together on the porch, familiar faces calling out as they pushed through the door, and within an hour, the whole place was alive. Music thumped from every room, drinks disappeared like water, and someone was making out or puking in nearly every corner.

Gojo was sprawled on a couch, arms draped casually over two girls leaning into him, one whispering something in his ear, the other laughing as she ran a finger along his wrist. Geto sat close by, a drink in one hand and a girl perched comfortably on the arm of the couch, her hands tangled in his dark hair as they talked.

Choso sat nearby too, one knee bouncing anxiously, eyes sweeping the crowd like he was waiting for something-or someone.

“Man,” Geto drawled, leaning back into the cushions as the girl on his arm shifted closer. “You look like you’re on edge.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for someone,” Gojo teased, lips quirking as one of the girls at his side toyed with a lock of his hair.

“Pff,” Choso muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears went pink.

And then, as someone new caught Geto’s eye across the crowd, Gojo’s gaze flicked toward the door too, subtle enough that most would never catch it.

Geto did.

And sure enough, Y/N was there.

Weaving through the crowd with her friends, one tugging her toward the kitchen as they laughed over the bass. Her hair was curled perfectly, her outfit catching the light like it was meant to draw attention.

Geto noticed the way Gojo went just a bit too still. Even with girls leaning into him on both sides, hands resting idly as his gaze followed her.

“Looks like someone finally showed up,” Geto drawled, gaze sliding to Gojo with an amused glint.

Gojo’s mouth twitched into a faint, unreadable smile, one so subtle most would miss it.

“Mm,” was all he said, eyes lingering on her a moment longer before leaning back into his drink like nothing had changed.

Choso was already on his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets, weaving his way through the crowd toward her like it was the most important thing in the world.

Geto watched him go, then glanced back at Gojo as one of the girls on Gojo’s arm pouted and tugged at his sleeve, clearly looking for his attention.

And across the room, Choso finally caught up to Y/N.

He tapped her on the shoulder and leaned in close, voice warm and a little shy as he greeted her.

“Hey,” Choso said, lips tugged into a small, hopeful smile. “You made it.”

notes and extras :3

What a coincidence it is that they keep talking about y/n

THE WAY I JUST KNOW CHOSO YERNS FOR Y/N UGHHHH

geto definitely is gonna tease gojo about how he reacted

Are we liking the Satoru POV

a/n: EARLY CHAPTER!!! I've been grinding to get these chapters done, and I'm so excited to show them to you. I'm going to best next Thursday, hopefully, or maybe sooner, who knows. ANYWAYS ENJOY :3 <3

TAGS: @kuniz-darlingg@n1vi@pluhhbabyy@s777athv@naviaberries @sp1tw1tch. @s4ikooo1 @ctmaw @burnishingbagels @lovely-maryj @linny-bloggs @nina-from-317

[the-pallid-king]

He arches a brow, amused, and smirks across at Ichigo. "The first thing, huh? What was that again?" Obsession. He knows it's supposedly not healthy, but he fucking loves it anyway. He loves that Ichigo's obsessed with him, that he holds Ichigo's attention that well. That even after all this time of pretending to hate him, convinced Shiro is the soul reason his old man is behind bars, Ichigo gravitates towards him. Obsessed, addicted, infected. And Shiro can't get enough of it. He scoffs, but, "I mean, yeah, a little bit."

Ichigo's getting kind of worked up about this. He shrugs. "You're allowed to have as many as you want." He rolls his eyes. "Easy for you to say. How'd you feel about a threesome with one of your sisters?"

He catches that look, but isn't sure what Ichigo was expecting. "You hope my guy blows himself up? That's pretty fucked. He's doing you a favor and he's not gonna be nearly as recognizable as you or me. You're naive if you think the people you tried to kill aren't keeping an eye on your place."

It doesn't surprise him to hear the confidence Ichigo says that with. And he has no doubt it's well earned too. "I'm sure they are. If I was looking to expand my business ventures, I'd jump on that." He says it kind of pointedly, because while he's not interested in getting into trafficking, he's sure someone else will step into the decimated role.

That huff doesn't surprise him either. It sounds equal parts skepticism and annoyance to him and he's sure Ichigo would go after that guy if he could make it down to the ground floor on his own. He gives it four days max before Ichigo tries, if he doesn't go through with the assassin plan. He nods and slides his phone in Ichigo's direction again, though he's not sure an assassin would answer an unknown number. Or maybe that's all they answer... hm. He smirks and snorts a small laugh. "Pretty cool you know an assassin by name."

Ok he kind of walked right into that. Maybe he's starting to feel his alcohol. He shoots Ichigo a withering look. "Business if you're not careful." As if he could threaten Ichigo and actually mean it. What a joke.

Yes he does know how Ichigo uses it. That's exactly what he's thinking about right now, but he keeps stuffing the thought back down. Ichigo would keel over if they tried to bang right now. "Thorough." He snorts, swirling the ice in his glass slowly. "You coulda just picked up the phone if you wanted to know I was still breathing. Hell. If I had died, it'd probably be all over the news." It's a poor excuse as far as he's concerned, so either it's true or it's just true enough to make him think it could be true so Ichigo can hide the real reason. That sounds like a conspiracy theory. Never mind. It's probably true. "Doesn't make it less weird. You're lucky I like you." He's kidding but also not.

He smirks into his glass when Ichigo agrees so readily, then snorts a laugh. "What's the point then? You know I can't keep my hands to myself. If we're having a threesome, I'm gonna be touching." Even if it was hypothetically his brother.

He nods, then reaches over to take his phone back. There's very few names or phone numbers saved into his phone, mostly he has his contacts memorized. He dials a number and the other end is picked up on the second ring. "My guest needs an overnight bag, run to his place and grab his things." He pauses, listening briefly. "Yeah, just the important things for now. And be discrete." Then he hangs up and puts his phone back on the table.

After Ichigo sets down his glass, Shiro knows that look well. He glances toward the bottle, but then rethinks refilling Ichigo's glass for him. He's had too little food and water, too much of god knows what pumped into his system to keep him down. He can make some educated guesses, but Ichigo's one of the very few people who's health he'd prefer not to gamble with.

The slight slur is amusing, kind of endearing even, but the words themselves sound too grave for the smirk to make it to his lips. He ignores the glass being pushed toward him and instead nudges Ichigo's place of leftovers closer to him. Briefly, recognition and an unhappy expression flinches through his expression when Ichigo name drops. The trouble he got himself into is starting to make more sense. He drops his elbow onto the table and leans his chin in his palm. "That specific group is a nasty bunch." There are few large scale, shady organizations that he doesn't know of, at least by word on the street.

He exhales a slow breath. "What a fuckin' mess." So much for suggesting that Ichigo lays low and waits for his shit storm to blow over. He doesn't have time for that with the threat to his old man. "You're in no shape to be goin' after anyone. Who would you be makin' a call to?"

[11queensupreme11]

3rd part! 👹

When I was sketching this part initially , I realized that I had to decide if i should keep the face claims’ clothes or just replace them cuz some of them just look out of place??? We just have percy with mf aiden from rekkyou sensen 😭 and axiandros’s faceclaim is pretty but i wanted him to be more similar to his daddy imo, like following in his footsteps kinda way. (i didnt want to hunt down more clothes in pinterest so i kept dory’s lol).

Also while i was checking luisne’s fc i was so shocked she looks so gentle 😭 now i gotta draw her sassy af 😭

yeah luisne's fc looks so gentle and sweet.... and then i decided to make luisne herself a fucking hellspawn 😭😭😭😭

BUT ANYWAY I LOVE THIS THANK YOU AGAIN, SPICYTUNAYUMMM YOU'VE LIT UP MY DAY (technically night rn) WITH YOUR WORKS 💖💖💖💖💖

cearbhall making himself useful for once and being a stepping stool for his little sister 🥺💖💖💖💖 we love a good big brother 🥺

and also luisne's very understandable and very relatable fear of beelzebub and poseidon 💀 pretty much the only beings in the entire multiverse that could put fear in this girl

luke being so tender and sweet with his mother 🥺 which is ironically, the EXACT opposite of his namesake who tried to kill her several times since she was twelve 😭

WAIT LMAO I LITERALLY JUST POSTED IRIYA'S PROFILE THING, AND YET THIS MATCHES SO WELL REGARDLESS 😂😂😂😂😂😂 poor iriya being undergoing another one of her dad's annoying ass schemes, someone save that girl 😭

AND IT'S GROVERRRRRR (the pjo one, i mean, sorry poki baby) 😭😭😭😭😭 i love your grover so much, what a sweet baby eating his lil tn cans 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 percy's so right, grover is true perfection (again, no offense to poki!grover, but full offense to loki lmao)

omg i love how you gave axiandros the titty window, he's dressed like a slut just like his daddy 😍😍😍😍 and i love how you made a meme about his not-so-lowkey mommy issues asjhfafhgvjebf

sweet lil clíona would absolute use the term 'dilf' without realizing what it actually means, she's been sheltered THAT much 💀

[warrioreowynofrohan]

There have been some really good conversations between Brandon Sanderson and fans on Reddit about Wind and Truth, amd I haven’t seen much duscussion of them here so I though I’d post sone of the bits I found most interesting. One of the things I like best about Brandon is that he tends to engage thoughtfully with criticism (in contrast with his Reddit fans, who can be dismissive of it).

This part is about some of the complaints from fans about WAT feeling too “real-world” and not fantasy-like enough in its language (introduction of real-world swear worlds, the “therapist” joke, amd some of the other jokes).

One Reddit commentor writes:

Brandon has been having quips since the beginning of his time as an author though. I feel like people that compare everything to the MCU are the actual brain poisoned people, not the various authors that now get this insane critique lobbed at them (because it's not just Brandon dealing with it).

Brandon responds:

I wouldn't call people brain poisoned for this.

Warning: long dissection next.

I'd say that this type of humor (which is very much a Gen X style) was overplayed by the people in charge of Star Wars and the MCU, using the humor in bad ways, which has made the entire humor style feel less sincere than it once did.

When it worked, the goal was to humanize characters and make the world seem more real, more "every day life." That was the goal of, for example, Buffy itself--to take fantastic, out-of-this world situations reserved for action stars, and put normal people in those situations. The quips, then, didn't break the fourth wall, but helped make people seem real.

"Puny God" is a good example. It undercuts not the audience, but the arrogance of Loki, while also earning a laugh because we think, "Yeah, that's what would actually happen." It gives a pressure valve and makes things feel real.

But when Poe makes a your mom joke at the start of a Star Wars film, it does the opposite. We don't need the tension relief, and it doesn't feel like a character acting real--it feels like "insert undercut the moment joke A here." See the entire film Love and Thunder.

I think what's happening here, personally, is that readers want sincerity from their stories--there's this growing sense in cinema that we can't take anything seriously, because otherwise we'll be nerds, and only NERDS would like this unironically. So everything has to be ironic and making fun of itself. They long for, say, the sincerity of the LOTR films. (Which still had these moments, usually with Gimli and Legolas, but underplayed them.) Stories that say, "We're not ashamed of the drama, power, and beauty of a fantasy/sf story that takes itself seriously.” Andor and Dune are beloved for these very reasons. EDIT: I also should mention that Deadpool, somehow, manages to be both at once. You have the undercut moments, like when Deadpool trips and falls at the end of the extended fight against all the other deadpools. Yet it doesn't shy away from being sincere at the climax--shockingly sincere. So it kind of uses this humor in reverse; instead of the occasional jolt of humor, it uses a ton of humor, so it can have the occasional jolt of sincerity. Really an interesting storytelling style that absolutely should not work, and wouldn't, without the exact right people in charge. Again, Love and Thunder tried this, and I think largely failed.)

Anyway, I feel that audiences are associating this humor with insincerity more and more, so they're rightly sensitive to them.

(Note to u/kuroinferuno: they did complain about Therapist. I kept it, because at the end of the day, I get to keep a joke now and then that makes me smile, even if I know some won't laugh. Remember, in my books, I try to have a variety of different kinds of humor, because what some people cringe at, others laugh at--and vice versa. I loved that Kaladin, here at this moment of climax, was still baffled by Hoid. And, as I said, this is a genre of humor from my youth that is still powerful for me. From "Boring conversation anyway" to "He's adopted," lines like this really work for me if not overused. But I can see that the current environment of storytelling has made them stand out more, and feel more "hand of the author" than they once were, which in turn kicks people out. Which is something you really want to avoid as an author. At the end of the day, I'd have kept that one, but I'd probably have been a little more careful about other modern language uses so that I could keep the ones I really love, without kicking people out so often.)

I think it’s a solid analysis of when and where quippiness does and doesn’t work, and the problems with how it’s been used as a default for too long and as a substitute for sincerity.

Brandon’s post prior to this one was also very interesting to me, because it got into some of the things that I noticed in Wind and Truth – specifically, how the jumps between character POVs were much more frequent (very few chapters were sole-POV, in contrast to previous books) and seemingly unnecessary (we’d have, say, an Adolin-Kaladin chapter and the a Kaladin-Adolin one, both cutting to a different POV in the middle of what was going on, instead of one Adolin chapter followed by one Kaladin chapter.

Brandon comments on the reason for this:

The goal here was to give a sense of disquietude to WaT by breaking the formula in uncomfortable ways--leading to a sense of uncertainty while reading the book, a sense that something was off, that the average reader (which may not include the people of this subreddit) wouldn't pick up on directly except for a sense of something being "out of tune" as they read.

…The pacing is strange by intention. Instead of an opening action sequence as is common in Stormlight books, there's this disquieting sense of things breaking apart--Kaladin saying goodbye, Shallan and Adolin splitting, Dalinar and Navani being torn away from their kingdom. Instead of fast, slow, fast (as is the general pacing of a stormlight book) it is slow for a distressing amount of time, then jerky--jumping between viewpoints faster than Stormlight books generally do, with far more leaning on a variety of viewpoint characters than previous books have had.

As it goes, there's the uncomfortable sense that none of this is going to get fixed. That it's going to stay this way, despite this being a climactic book. The sense of stress to the book shouldn't simply be "Kaladin is away" it should be all of these things, together, leading to the uncomfortable conclusion that you're not seeing a series wrap up...but a series unravel.

Now, I don't say this to detract from anyone's criticisms of the book--just as explanation for what I was doing. The goal is a symphony going further and further out of tune until you realize, "Wait. This isn't going to correct. It's going to stay that way."

It’s really good to know that Sanderson was doing this intentionally, that the book was supposed to feel jerky. A deliberate stylistic decision (whether or not I enjoy it) is a very different thing from a writing problem the author is unaware of.

Sanderson also talks about the balance in writing for an online fandom who will predict polot developments way ahead of time, while also writing for readers for readers that aren’t part of those lore-amd-plot-analysis-heavy forums. And in retrospect it feels like Sanderson was trying really hard to not blindside the not-online people with the ending – the disquieting pacing and the crumbling chapter-heading art both serving to signal that this isn’t going to be a happy ending. Given that Sanderson’s books, including all 4 previous installments in the Stormlight Archive, tend to lead ypu to the edge of disaster before averting it, I get why he wanted to somewhat telegraph that that wasn’t happening this time around.

But honestly, the most surprising thing to me in the comment was that Sanderson has watched (and liked!) Deadpool and Wolverine. 🤣

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 4

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 2.0k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

summary: tension tension and moreee tension

————————————————————————————

saturday morning came with too much sun and not enough sleep.

liora blinked at the ceiling for a while, arms folded over her chest like she could hold herself together physically. her roommate had gone home for the weekend — something about a cousin's birthday, or maybe a dentist appointment. she didn't remember. didn't ask.

the room was quiet. too quiet.

she made tea she didn't drink. scrolled through messages she didn't answer. opened a book she didn't read.

by noon, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her notebook open in front of her, pen in hand. the page was already half-filled — not with anything polished, just fragments. phrases. half-rhymes.

the ink bled slightly from how hard she pressed:

i want to ask if you meant it.

but i don't want to hear no.

i want to walk into silence

and come out with a song.

she stared at it.

then flipped the page and wrote more:

your voice stayed with me

like light under my skin.

like thunder

waiting for somewhere to land.

she stopped.

closed the notebook.

opened it again.

flipped back.

by evening, the pages were full of the same person in different disguises.

sunday, she went for a walk.

campus was mostly empty — a soft kind of quiet, like everyone else had left the volume down. she wandered the edge of the quad, passed the student center, the old library, the admin building.

and then — like a chord struck out of nowhere — she saw her.

billie.

across the green.

walking slowly, head down, earbuds in. her bag slung over one shoulder, sweater loose at the sleeves. the same boots. the same expression — unreadable.

liora stopped moving.

billie looked up.

their eyes met.

only for a second.

but it held longer than it should've.

liora didn't wave. didn't smile.

neither did billie.

just a look.

just that.

then billie looked away. kept walking.

liora stood there until her fingers went cold.

she didn't write that night.

she just lay on her bed in the dark, one arm folded under her head, notebook still open beside her like it might finish the page for her.

but it didn't.

only the quiet answered.

and it didn't say enough.

monday came without warning.

the morning moved like fog again — soft, pale, slow. liora didn't feel ready, but she went anyway. her bag was heavier than usual, not because of the books. because of everything else.

music room four was already lit when she arrived.

billie sat at the piano this time. not playing. just sitting there, spine straight, fingers laced loosely in her lap. she didn't look up until liora stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind her.

"hey," billie said. neutral. like static.

"hi," liora answered.

she crossed the room, sat in her usual spot on the floor, unzipped her bag and pulled out her notebook. the silence wasn't cruel. but it was tight. stretched thin between them like a rope no one wanted to pull.

"i thought we could try structuring it out today," billie said, opening her own notebook. "just something basic — verse, chorus, refrain. nothing complicated."

liora nodded. "okay."

they worked like that for a while — trading ideas, writing lines, adjusting phrasing. billie kept it focused. all her notes were about the work. all her glances were quick. professional. guarded.

liora played along.

but under the surface, the air felt different.

like someone had left a door open and wasn't saying anything about it.

after half an hour, billie sat back from the piano and said, "do you want to try singing it?"

liora froze slightly. "out loud?"

"yeah."

liora hesitated. she'd sung before, sure — in the dorm, in the shower, once during a high school open mic where her hands had shaken so badly she couldn't unplug the mic cable afterward. but not like this. not here.

still — billie waited.

so she nodded. cleared her throat. found the melody again in her head. closed her eyes.

and started.

her voice was soft. unsure at first. a little breathy on the edges.

but then it steadied.

not strong. not perfect.

but raw.

i'm not the center of anything,

but i reflect like i am.

you look and i shimmer —

not because i'm full.

because i'm empty

and still standing.

her voice cracked slightly on standing.

but she finished.

silence followed.

when she opened her eyes, billie wasn't looking at her.

she was looking through her.

like something in her had shifted and didn't know how to shift back.

liora's voice felt caught in her throat. she swallowed.

"too much?" she asked, quiet.

billie shook her head. didn't speak.

then finally: "no. not enough people write like that."

liora's heart skipped once. "like what?"

billie blinked slowly. "like it hurts."

the silence between them thickened.

liora looked down. "i think i'm just tired of hiding in metaphor."

"good," billie said. voice softer now. "leave it behind."

she stood up then. stretched her back. walked toward her coffee, took a long sip. turned back.

and her eyes held something new.

not warmth. not yet.

but recognition.

and maybe, just maybe — forgiveness.

"same time wednesday?" she asked.

liora nodded. "yeah."

billie gave a small nod back. not quite a smile.

but close.

and when liora left the room, she felt it again —

that ache behind her ribs.

the one that sounded too much like a song.

wednesday came with gray skies and cold air, the kind that slipped under sleeves and collarbones. liora pulled her hoodie tighter as she crossed campus. every step felt louder than it should've. every thought heavier.

music room four smelled the same — old carpet and pencil shavings and something faintly like bergamot, maybe from billie's tea.

billie was already there, barefoot on the rug, her boots in the corner, one socked foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor. she looked up when liora entered.

this time — she smiled.

not big. not wide.

but soft.

real.

"hey."

"hey," liora said back, trying not to sound like her ribs had just collapsed inward.

they didn't start right away.

billie sat back down at the piano. liora dropped onto the rug across from her, pulling out her notes, flipping pages she already knew by heart.

"you've been writing more," billie said, watching her hands.

"yeah," liora said. "can't stop."

billie nodded like she understood something deeper than that. like she didn't need the rest of the sentence.

they worked.

the new verse was better — stronger, clearer. liora's voice didn't shake this time when she sang it. the harmony they shaped together was delicate but full — a kind of ache that lingered even after the sound had faded.

they didn't say much while working.

but the silence didn't feel like it had before.

this time, it buzzed.

like static. like tension. like electricity that hadn't found a surface to spark against.

after an hour, liora leaned back on her hands and said, without planning to:

"why do you always pull away right when things get close?"

billie stilled.

the question hung in the air like smoke from a candle just blown out — soft, warm, slightly bitter.

"i don't know what you mean," billie said carefully.

"you do."

billie looked at her. not defensive. not angry.

just... tired.

"because it's not supposed to happen," she said. voice low. steady. "because you're a student. and i'm not."

liora's breath hitched. "that's not all of it."

billie didn't answer.

"you're scared," liora said.

"so are you."

they stared at each other for a beat too long.

something pulled at the edges of the moment — something thin and sharp, a thread drawn tight between two bodies that didn't know which way to bend.

billie stood slowly. crossed the space between them without speaking.

she knelt down.

close.

closer.

liora's breath caught.

billie lifted a hand — slowly — and tucked a loose strand of hair behind liora's ear.

her fingers lingered. just barely.

liora didn't move.

their faces were inches apart.

everything else fell away — the piano, the notes, the rain against the window.

just that space.

just her.

and then —

billie pulled back.

stood.

"i can't," she said. softly. firmly. like it hurt.

liora's throat tightened. "okay."

billie didn't look at her.

"you should go."

the words weren't cruel.

but they cut anyway.

liora stood. gathered her things with shaking hands. nodded once. walked out.

the door clicked shut behind her.

and the silence that followed rang louder than any chord.

liora didn't remember the walk back to her dorm.

the air outside was cold, but she didn't feel it. her hands were too warm, her chest too tight. her pulse pounded in her ears, each step echoing like a skipped beat.

her fingers still felt the ghost of billie's touch. not her lips — not quite. just the space where her lips could've been.

and the way she'd said i can't like it wasn't a refusal.

like it was a wound.

back in her room, she dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed without turning on the light. her roommate wouldn't be back until morning. the silence felt heavier now — like it was pressing against her ribs, asking to be broken.

she didn't cry.

not really.

but her eyes burned.

and she was shaking.

not from sadness.

from too much feeling.

she sat up around midnight. turned on the lamp. pulled her notebook close.

and wrote.

not carefully. not poetically.

just raw.

you look at me like a mirror

but won't let me see you.

you touched my face like a maybe

and said it like a goodbye.

you say "not supposed to" like it's a door,

but you're the one holding the key.

her handwriting slanted. some of the ink smudged.

she kept going.

even when her hand cramped.

even when the page started to ripple from where her wrist had sweated through it.

she didn't stop until the sun started bleeding into the sky outside.

the next day was a blur — lectures, emails, too much noise and not enough breath. she floated through it.

until lunch.

when she stopped by the english department to check the workshop board — and found something waiting.

an envelope.

tucked into her cubby. unmarked. no name. no seal. just cream paper, folded once.

she looked around. the hallway was empty.

her heart stumbled once.

she opened it.

one sheet of lined paper. handwritten. ink slightly faded like it had been written with a pen that was about to die.

no greeting.

just this:

you weren't wrong.

i do pull away.

not because i don't feel it.

because i do.

and i don't trust myself

to want the right things

in the right way

at the right time.

but you make the quiet louder.

and that scares the hell out of me.

she read it once.

then again.

then a third time.

her hands were trembling.

no signature.

no instructions.

just that.

but it was enough to unravel something she thought she'd already tucked away.

and for the first time in two days —

she exhaled.

liora sat on a bench behind the humanities building, the envelope still clutched in her hand like it might disappear if she let go.

wind tugged at the corners of the note where it rested in her lap. sunlight filtered through the trees in faint, flickering patterns. the campus buzzed faintly in the background — footsteps, laughter, someone on a skateboard, the rustle of paper in someone's bag — but it all felt far away.

she read the note again.

but you make the quiet louder.

and that scares the hell out of me.

it was unmistakably billie's voice. not just in handwriting, or phrasing. in the rhythm of it. the restraint. the emotional math of someone trying not to say something — and saying it anyway.

liora traced the edge of the paper with her thumb.

there was no request. no ask. no "let's talk" or "meet me" or even her name. just a confession folded into careful lines.

and it did something to her.

not relief. not closure.

just... movement.

like the stillness inside her had cracked. like her heart, which had been holding its breath for two days, had finally exhaled just a little.

she folded the note. slid it into her notebook between two pages she hadn't shown anyone yet. pages she might never show.

but now—

maybe.

maybe she would.

later that night, she lay on her bed with the lights off, headphones in. no lyrics. just sound. ambient, soft, all low tones and long spaces.

and she didn't try to write.

she didn't have to.

because she knew this wasn't over.

whatever this was.

it had a heartbeat now.

and it was still finding its rhythm.

————————————————————————————

tags; @bxlIxebxtch @stOnerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki @billiescation