#instead of slicing with a knife

[spushii]

cheese and nothing else sandwich..dry, too much bread, not enough flavor, no texture variation...even WITH butter (which at least makes it less dry ig) it sounds sad. genuinely why ever have a cheese-only sandwich when u can make it better by putting other stuff with it unless thats literally all you have

ive been thinking for several minutes for a way to respond to this ask without making it seem like Ableism Discourse but i cannot even count the number of times a cheese-and-nothing-else sandwich has enabled me to put food into my body when i would not have done that otherwise. but that also makes it sound like it's not just a nice thing to have when it absolutely is. Do you have these same kinds of criticisms about like, cheese and crackers?

[dirt-str1der]

Boys were invented for me to chase around the nightmare woods with a big knife and blunderbuss

[mechahero]

i have to turn him into a marketable fashion doll /j

[mille-marteaux]

ordered pizza from a small local place and they didnt actually cut it so i've chosen to revert to a wild animal and begin ripping it apart instead of just using a knife to portion slices

[coffeeblackandneat]

how the fuck do americans eat cheese on bread

[thesilverstreets]

what is it about eating entire chunks of marzipan that is so satisfying

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[buckyalpine]

Bucky can’t stand you

Smuttay Smuttay. Imagine Bucky finding you to be the most infuriating person he's ever met in his entire life. He used to strongly believe you should never hit a woman. Being a man from the 40's, he believed that with his entire heart and soul because he was one of the few who hated the way some women were treated by their husbands.

That was until he met you.

God, he was ready to beat your ass.

"Didn't you say you'd never hit a woman" Sam snorted while Bucky's jaw ticked, having complained about you for half an hour straight while you went off the plan completely, taking the mission into your own hands.

"That's not a woman, that's the devil spawn" Bucky said incredulously, watching you make your way to the target with a flirty smirk on your face "How and why is she like this"

"Shut up" you hissed through the coms, your hips swaying as you walked away. "

You pissed him off and you made his cock hard.

You ran your mouth to no end and you made him leak.

You had such an attitude and he'd masturbated d to you more times than he could count.

He hated you.

He hated you so much.

"You're gonna screw this mission up if you keep acting like a desperate whore" Bucky growled as you slinked onto the targets lap, effortlessly pocketing the pen drive from his blazer while skimming your hands all over him. The man was none the wiser, groping your ass, the action making Bucky's blood pressure boil.

You whispered something in his ear before hopping off, throwing a wink over your shoulder before disappearing through the exit of the bar and into the getaway car, signaling to Sam and Bucky that you were successful.

He doesn't breathe a word to you until you were all a the safehouse, glaring at you the entire time while pouring himself a drink.

"Try not to kill each other, I'm going to bed" Sam threw his hands up in defeat, seeing as the both of you would never reach a truce. You shrugged, rolling your eyes at the soldier, making your way to your room instead. Bucky down the dark liquid that burned his throat before following you, his brooding figure brushing your back as you entered your room.

"There a problem Barnes?" You sassed, gasping when he gripped your hair and yanked you back, shoving you against the wall. His metal arm wrapped around your throat, squeezing the sides just enough to make your breaths lighter, his pupils dilated to 100.

"You have a real problem, you know that?" He growled lowly making your stomach flip, your pulse racing a the scent of his cologne when he stood so close to you.

"Yeah? And whats that" your attitude faltered as he pressed his chest against yours, his warm breath fanning on your face.

"You. Never. Listen. It's infuriating. So tell me. What should I do" It took everything in him not to push you down onto your knees, forcing your into submission for once. "You're a brat" He hissed, eyes growing wide when he could smell your arousal which you tried to hide, your thighs squeezing together giving you away.

"Fuck this" Bucky tossed you onto the bed, pulling out the switch blade he had in his pocket. Your dress was sliced off before you could blink, your lingerie torn off next.

"Bucky, what-

Before you could say anything else, he gripped your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together, making you pout with a needy whimper. He gave you a satisfied smirk, running the handle of the knife through your folds, gathering your slick before licking it clean off with a groan.

"M'gonna fuck you and you're gonna take it, then you're gonna thank your Sargent for fucking the brat out of you, understand?"

You nodded, yelping when he smacked your cheek, shaking his head.

"Use your words, kitten"

"Yes, Sargent" You whispered, your heart hammering out of your chest as he started to undress himself, his belt buckle hitting the floor. A new wave of arousal pooled between your legs as he stood naked before you, his cock standing tall and proud. He cocked an eye brow at the way you stared at him, practically drooling as he pumped his length a few times.

He crawled onto the bed, shoving your legs apart, flicking his cock through your folds and slamming into you without warning, making you take all of him at once.

You cried out in pleasure, your arms and legs wrapping around him to ground yourself some how, your cunt fluttering and struggling to accommodate for his girth.

"Buck-Sargent-too-s'too thick" You moaned as he drew his hips back and started to pound into you, snarling with pleasure at the feelings of your nails raking down his back. "SARGENT PLEASE"

"Thats right, beg your Sargent to stop baby, cry when I ruin you with my fat cock" He sat back on his heels, throwing your legs over his shoulders to get even deeper angle, your eyes rolling back until they nearly crossed. "Lookit you going all dumb on my cock baby, such a needy little pussy"

You didn't get a chance to respond, squeaking when he manhandled you till your face was pushed against the mattress with your ass in the air. He spanked your ass raw, shoving his cock back in, setting in a brutal pace.

"Always acting so sassy, making my dick so hard with those stupid skimpy outfits of yours. You're a little slut but you're my slut, understand kitten?"

"Y-Yes-yes-yes-so-good don'on god don't stop" You slurred out, as he rammed into your pussy, the headboard denting the wall with each thrust, slamming your hips back against him.

"That's it. Fucking take it, Nast little slut, sitting in any mans lap, now look at you, huh. Look whose cock you're crying over lil mama, tell me whose cock your all soaked for"

"Yours sargent! all for-you" You panted while his sinful fingers moved to rub your clit, his pace growing sloppy, blinding pleasure starting to consume you both.

"OH FUCKKK I'm gonna cum!!" You cried out, wailing into the sheets, the vulgar sounds of skin on skin carrying through the room. Bucky moaned, fucking you harder, his head thrown back feeling your pussy suck him in deeper.

"Cum, cum on my dick, c'mon baby, give it to me, thats it lil mama, milk my cock-shit-i'm cumming!" Bucky let out a guttural moan feeling you squeeze and pulse around his cock, stilling his hips as he throbbed ropes of his spend into you. You both collapsed onto the bed, blindly reaching for each other with out saying another word, letting soft kisses and cuddles throughout the night do the rest of the talking.

-

"Morning Sam-

"You both owe me money for therapy"

"Sam-

"You shut up before I pawn a piece of that arm"

"Sam-

"You went at it like rabbits"

"Sam-

"I think the bed almost broke into my room"

"Sam-

"I'm never calling you Sargent again, you've tainted the word for me"

"Sam-

"My ears have never been so violated"

Bucky smirked, wrapping his arm around your waist, holding you together. You giggled while Sam gagged in the background again (he 100% approves of you two together but he'll never tell Bucky that).

"Nasty fucks"

[shotmrmiller]

Inspired by @rookiesbookies Capt. MacTavish & Soap fic

So, imagine going to sleep as 09 Ghost's widow only to wake up next to reboot Ghost.

It's agony. The face of your late husband stares at you with a murderous glint in his eye holding a sharp knife to your neck.

"Who the hell are you?"

He digs the knife into your skin when you tell him that you're his wife and try to prove it.

You say his full name. Birthday. What kind of tea he likes, and how he takes it. Favorite food. His shoe size. But he doesn't believe you.

Anyone can find out information like that.

So you tell him that his late older brother was named Tommy. His wife was named Beth. He almost slices your throat when you tell him of his capture and torture.

Simon's vicious, cruel. Literally drags you by your hair across the base, straight to Price's office. You've met him before too, but seeing what giving out too much information got you, you opt to stay quiet instead.

You only answer the questions he asks, never giving anything more.

No, you don't know why you're here.

No, you obviously mean no harm.

Yes, in your time, Simon Ghost is your husband. Was.

When Price asks what you mean by that, you tell him that he was killed in the line of duty, serving his country.

He solemnly gazes at you and gives you a small apology you don't respond to, then looks at Ghost, ordering him to keep you in his room.

You try to hide your quivering lip when Ghost sneers, "I don't want her anywhere near me." It's hard to remember that this isn't your late husband when it's his voice saying those harsh words.

And harsh he is. He forcefully takes you by the arm with a bruising grip, and throws you into his quarters- letting you fall onto the hard floor.

"Look at me," he firmly commands.

Trying to hold back your tears, you do as he says, and he scoffs at your somber countenance.

"You will remember tha' you don't know me." He approaches you and squats down to be at your eye level.

"I am not your husband," he gruffly says, "And I intend to keep it tha' way."

He leaves you on the ground in his cold room, and you finally shed the tears you've been holding back.

You desperately wish to wake up from this nightmare, because your dead Simon is a better alternative to this one.

part 2

[htchnr]

♰ dyin' for a taste ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

CW ➻ unprotected sex ⋆ rough sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ knife kink ⋆ cutting ⋆ blood kink ⋆ blood consumption ⋆ slight overstimulation ⋆ Cooper might wanna eat you whole ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

SUMMARY ➻ you two stay in a hotelroom to get some good shut eye, but instead you find yourselves finally working through the heavy tension the only way you know how to. WC ➻ 1K~.

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

"oh fuck-" you moaned, eyes rolling back as he plowed into you relentlessly. the cold metal of the sharp knife pressed to your throat and the cold counter you were seated on only adding to the pleasure somehow.

you tilted your head up a little, almost subconsciously trying to get away from the knife— despite knowing he wouldn't harm you with it. he wouldn't, would he?

the way his half lidded eyes are fixed on the knife against your throat, you weren't entirely sure. but the way his cock was slamming into you blurred any fear you had— you felt like you could die fine like this, with his cock bullying your insides, and a rough hand holding your waist bruisingly.

"come on darl'," he rasped against your ear. "bet your blood tastes as sweet as your lips." he grins sickly, his yellow teeth on full display.

his voice almost makes you want to give in— lean into the knife as he slits your throat, fucking you into hell as he laps at the fountain of blood— the way he's fucking you almost has you dreaming for it to happen.

your back arches as his aching head brushes against your cervix, throat pressing ever more into the knife. a whimper leaves your lips as you feel the knife ever so slightly slice your skin. blood almost immediately starts to slowly drip down, his eyes practically lighting up at the sight.

"would you look at that, want me to taste you that bad sweetheart?" he groans, his pace faltering slightly.

you whimpered, clenching around him erratically— you didn't want to be this turned on, but my god did you want to give him anything he'd ask for.

you nodded, the knife only digging into the small wound more, more blood dripping from it and dripping onto your breasts. he has never seen a more beautiful sight than that.

he groans, eyes still glued to the wound, reluctantly pulling the bloodied knife from your throat, dropping it beside you as his now free hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in closer by it. you let out a high pitched moan as his pace slows down and gets deeper.

you're almost embarrassed by the sound that escapes you when his radiation thinned lips attached to your chest, sucking up the the spilled blood. you're almost even more embarrassed of how much the moan he lets out turns you on— the sound so pleasured, as if he's just tasted the best thing in existence.

"if only you could taste yourself darl', sweet 'n rich. you might be my new favourite flavour." he moans against your chest, tongue lapping up the small stream of blood all the way up your throat until he reaches the source.

you didn't even see your climax coming until it hit you— the sensation of his cock rearranging your guts and his almost none existent lips painfully sucking on the wound like his life depends on it have you crashing over the edge so violently you almost see stars.

"that's it darlin', mm that's it." he coaxes in a groan, hips stuttering from the way you're pulsing around him.

he's not far behind— the way your walls are suffocating him and the way your blood drips down his throat has him fucking into you in a frenzied state. hip bones thudding into yours in a dull, almost pleasurable pain.

"i wish i could taste you all day, suffocate in your sickly sweet taste, drown in it." he rasped against your throat, his voice strained as he plows into you.

"please Cooper," you cry, thighs trembling and your head feeling light headed. "please please please," you didn't even know what you were pleading for at this point— your head swimming with pleasure and overstimulation as tears rolled down your cheeks and joined the blood on your chest.

"aw, look at my darlin' cryin' so sweetly for me," he groaned, thin bloody lips kissing the tears away— leaving bloody lip stains across your skin. if only you could see yourself like this— bloody lips all over your cheeks like a sick painting.

his hips stuttered and you knew he was close. your fingers digging into his scarred biceps as he his pace sped up, pathetic whimpers and cries leaving you as you shook against him— clinging on to him.

"gonna fill you up, fuck i might suck you dry while i'm at it my sweet sugar." he lapped at your throat, his hips stuttering before they come to a halt— slamming into you for the final time as he cums.

his thin lips wrapped around the wound as he paints your walls white with his cum, slowly fucking it into you as he laps up the blood around his lips as he savors it.

he pulls away from your throat and you fall over into his arms, head laying on his shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. he holds you against him, savouring the blood on his teeth as he breathes in and out deeply.

the hotelroom is almost entirely silent besides the sound of heavy breathing, you've collapsed almost entirely against him, panting and fighting the slight lightheaded feeling.

after some time he pulls you off him, holding your face. "darlin'?" he asks, angling your face to look at him. "we doin' okay?" you blinked slowly, sluggishly nodding. he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. you tiredly moan at the coppery taste invading your senses as his tongue swirls around yours.

he pulls away, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. "let's get cleaned up, yeah?" you nod, your head swimming as you're trying to focus on him.

he snakes an arm around your waist, the other resting under your ass when he picks you up— walking over to wnat looked like a bathroom with some rags for towels still hanging around, your blood smearing across his thickly scarred chest in a way he hopes to never forget.

TAGLIST : @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy @marina-and-the-memes @p4rsuade @anonymous-creep @likoplays

[citrusdarling7]

The Bloodline

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

description- as a highly trained sister of the Bene Gesserit, you were prepared to do your part in carrying on the selective genetic material of this generation. however, a change of plans are made, and you are told that you must secure the bloodline of the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the dangerous young heir to Geidi Prime

warnings- unprotected intercourse, p-in-v sex, fingering (f! receiving,) sort of knife-play, blood, violence via gladiator fighting (but not too descriptive,) BG propaganda, slightly inaccurate Dune technology, feyd-rautha has black cum (credit to @valeskafics for that one<3)

word count- 1,857

a/n- wow, it's been a while. haven't published anything on this site in like over a year I think, but I hope at least someone will enjoy this sick little piece I wrote instead of doing my homework :)

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It was never supposed to be him.

You were supposed to be paired with the heir of Caladan, Paul Atriedes, and you had been told this since your first day of training. Yet, the Atreides' had all been killed on Arrakis at the hands of the Harkonnens, and your Reverend Mother decided that the duty of continuing another selective bloodline would fall upon you. The na-Baron Feyd-Rautha may have been the result of 90 generations of predetermined genetic material, but that didn’t make him any less psychotic. Nor any less intriguing.

The bright sun of Geidi Prime was high today, and the air was sticky with humidity. Cheers erupted from the crowds as a young Harkonnen warrior gutted a slave in the pit below, and you found yourself growing bored of the spectacle. One of the ladies to your right let out a shriek at the gruesome scene, drawing your attention.

“How is one supposed to stomach this brutality for an entire day?” She exasperated. 

“It is tradition for the Harkonnens’, Lady Clarissa. They value strength, and what better way to prove it than in the gladiator pits?” Your Bene Gesserit training consisted of much time studying the histories, and you pride yourself on your knowledge of the cultures of all the Great Houses. Lady Clarissa grimaced before adjusting her hairpiece and fixing her mouth back to a pout.

“It is deplorable, but I suppose you would have no issue with that sort of thing,” she remarked. You paid her no attention; the Bene Gesserit were not well liked by many nobles, Lady Clarissa’s family included. Her discontent mattered little to you, although you felt yourself wishing you had at least one other Sister here with you. 

Unfortunately, your Reverend Mother had sent you on this mission hastily, claiming that the upcoming celebration of the na-Baron’s birthday would be the perfect time for you to carry out the task. Coming from a Great House yourself, it was not abnormal for you to attend such an event, but the marks of the Sisterhood followed you wherever you went. Although controlling your mind was usually an easy task, you found yourself slightly anxious after waiting hours to finally get a glimpse of your target.

It felt as if years had passed before the announcer finally declared that the young na-Baron would now display his bravo in a fight against three slaves, supposedly the last remaining members of the Atreides household. You perked up in your seat, pulling the binoculars close to your eyes as the crowd bellowed. 

Feyd-Rautha strided out to the center of the pit and bowed before the Baron, giving you a good look at the young heir. He was pale, so pale that the sun seemed to reflect off of his skin. The black fighting suit he wore drew your attention to his muscled torso, his sculpted abs peeking out from beneath the hem. His face was stern, although a smile stretched from his lips as one of the slaves began to stagger towards him. As you watched him slice open the other man’s throat, you found your heartbeat begin to race. You were intrigued. 

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The interior of the Harkonnen palace was grim, as you had expected it to be. You walked through the fortress slowly, counting your steps as a way to calm your breathing. After the spectacle in the gladiator pits, you were immeasurably more nervous than you had been when arriving on the planet. Feyd Rautha was brutal, vicious, and likely insane. Yet, you could not deny your attraction towards him. It was stupid, immature, and dangerous. You were a trained sister of the Bene Gesserit, and this was your duty. To conceive a child with the na-Baron, and ensure the bloodline is secure.

You were not supposed to be on this side of the palace, yet no one questioned as you walked by. Your gown swept across the floor as you moved and your hairpiece tickled your bare shoulders. The na-Baron’s chambers were ahead to your left, and you noted the absence of guards, as well as the faint sound of approaching footsteps. A rather ghastly portrait of a late Baroness served as an excuse for your attention, although you struggled to prevent your eyes from wandering to the dark form approaching. 

“Well, what do we have here? Are you lost, little pet?” His voice was deep and raspy, and you found your mind faltering once again. 

“ My Lord na-Baron.” You restrained from bowing your head as you turned from the painting, staring directly into the man’s eyes as you sweetened your gaze. “I believe I may have wandered too far from the guest’s hall. Mayhaps I have wandered into a trap?”

“You should not be here.” He stepped closer, and began to stride around you in a circular fashion, like that of a predator stalking its prey. He watches you with hunger in his eyes, imagining what pleasure it would bring him to tear the dress from your body and take you right against the wall.

The Reverend Mother had been right; sexually vulnerable.

“Perhaps, I am in exactly the right place. I wished to congratulate you on your triumphs in the fighting today, it was truly a spectacle to remember.” You approached him swiftly, and the smell of steel and musk filled your nose. “I have heard many tales of your strength and bravery, but none measure up to what I have witnessed today. You will be a fearsome Baron, just like your uncle.” At the mention of the Baron, Feyd’s eyes lit up and his hand snapped around your neck. 

“So you must be the gift my uncle has promised. He must have bought you Off-World, for I have never seen a Harkonnen slave as beautiful as you. I will enjoy ravishing you.” 

Your heart beat sky-rocketed as he tightened his grip on your throat, making you lose control.

“Release me,” you commanded with the Voice, out of instinct rather than fear. The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, and Feyd obeys. The grin on his face falters as you stumble backwards, realizing that you may have just destroyed generations of planning, with only two words. Thankfully, Feyd does not seem discouraged.

“Ah, not a gift then, but I will have fun with you all the same, witch.” With a sudden movement, he pushed you against the wall and captured your lips in a harsh kiss. Feyd’s hips pressed hard against yours as he claimed your mouth with his tongue. His scent was overpowering in a way that made your head spin and seemed to subdue your thoughts. Your thighs clenched in anticipation as the na-Baron grabbed at your neck once more.

“Tell me, witch, what do they say of me in your homeworld? Are all you little witches so eager to please?” Feyd’s threatening gaze made your knees falter as you looked up to him with a soft smile.

“Not all of us, my lord. But I must admit, I have found myself rather allured by the temptations of your beautiful planet.” His hand dropped from your throat, and vanished to his side before reappearing a split-second later, with a curved blade in his grip. The tip of the knife rested against your skin, the cold steel making you shiver. Feyd swiped his other palm across the wall, causing it to unlock in a strange clicking pattern. His eyes burning into yours, he led you backwards into what you presumed to be his bedquarters, the blade at your neck guiding you in the way he wanted. 

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you allowed yourself to be pressed onto it. His blade was thrown aside, allowing his hands to roughly tear at your gown, ripping the bodice straight in half. You let out a gasp as you felt cold fingers slip between your undergarments.

“What a brazen little slut you are, showing up outside my chambers so wet and wanting.” He thrust two digits inside of you, finally satiating the ache that had been present from the moment you laid eyes on him in the arena. He fucked you roughly with his fingers, setting an excruciating pace that had you whimpering and writhing against the bed in mere minutes. 

“Please, my lord. I want you inside of me,” you begged, reaching up to run your hand along his torso, stopping when you felt the bulge of his manhood straining against the confines of his pants. 

Feyd eagerly obliged, tugging off his pants and stroking his thick cock rapidly to prepare himself for you. He lined his tip up with your entrance and wasted no more time teasing you. The na-Baron thrusted into you, hard, making you clench at the bedsheets and thrash your head to the side in an attempt to stifle your moans.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight, little witch,” he grunted, grabbing at your wrists and pinning them above your head. His dark eyes burned into yours as you tried your very best to keep quiet, not wanting to alert any servant that might have been lurking outside. He met your lips with his once again, in a ravenous kiss that had your teeth clashing against his. Feyd bit down on your bottom lip, drawing blood that he hastily licked up before moving on to attack your neck. 

You were so full with his cock inside of you, and you had never been more aroused in your entire life. The metallic smell of blood seemed to radiate from the man, and his fingers left delicious bruises wherever they ventured. You felt your toes begin to curl and your stomach tighten; the agonizing pace at which he was fucking you had you close to the edge of bliss once again. He could feel you begin to clench around him, your walls gripping his cock like a vice.

“Is the little witch going to cum for me? Go ahead, you’re mine now,” He finally released your hands, and you immediately gripped at his muscled shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “My uncle may not have intended you for me, but fate has. No one else will ever have you.” You nodded desperately, not caring about the words coming from his mouth but rather the immense pleasure he was giving you. 

Finally, a wave of bliss overtook your body, making you shake and scream as Feyd continued to roughly fuck you. You lost control of your mind once again, seeing stars as you came.

Feyd was close behind you, and the aftershocks of your orgasm had him rutting his hips against yours, letting out a deep groan as he emptied his seed into you. 

It took you a few moments to regain your senses, to finally realize that you had successfully completed your mission. His black seed leaked out of you, a sickly sight that made your face flush. He had left his distinctive Harkonnen mark on you, and the bloodline was secure. It was never supposed to be him, but you were very pleased with the way things had worked out.

[meidiary]

( 📁 ) THINGS THEY DO WHEN THEY'RE CRUSHING ON YOU !

synopsis: the strawhats think they're so subtle with their 'nonchalant` acts of love towards you... 😒 they're not

character: sanji, zoro & luffy

warning: pure tooth rotting fluffy fluff & nicknames

mei's note: guess who's back from her hibernation 👋😔.. but on the bright side- l do have loads planned hihhih <3

SANJI thinks he's so very casual when displaying his crushing feelings. but in reality it is the complete opposite, considering:

♡ the stolen glances of you during meals with all the strawhats, where he doesn't even eat anything, instead being totally engrossed in your cute laughs derived from usopp's unfunny jokes. the way your fingers gently hold your fork always piques his interest. he studies your facial expressions when you taste the food he prepared for everyone, to figure out whether you enjoy it. if you did enjoy the meal, expect to see it thrice as much as usual..

♡ the lingering touches you receive from sanji anytime he has the chance, which, on a side note, never cease to make your cheeks burn;

he needs to get past you to grab some plates => his hands, almost instinctively, gently grab your waist before he lowers his head, asking you "if you don't mind, darling-". one of his hands remains on the sides of your waist even when you've moved aside to let him pass. "thank you," he whispers in your ear, making the hairs on your neck stand. you awkwardly giggle, not finding an appropriate answer.

luffy was letting his 6-year-old child mentality take over; jumping around on deck and bothering the other strawhats trying to get accustomed to the sun shining so early in the morning. he didn't see you walking out of your shared room with nami before accidentally bumping into you, causing you to trip => sanji is there before you could even process the situation. one of his arms tightly holding your legs. In contrast, his other arm was wrapped around your waist, pushing you onto him. "luffy, you little-!" sanji realizes he still has you in bridal style when he cuts himself off, "are you alright, sweetheart? you're not hurt, are you?" he could've sworn your soft smile melted his heart right then and there, even the other strawhats noticed how absolutely smitten this man is for you.

♡ the abundant patience sanji offers you is one of a kind. you won't find him smiling, oh so softly, at any strawhat's mistakes except yours. it's only you that he's so careful with, so gentle and soft-spoken. treating you as if you were a fragile vase, that one wrong move would break you.

"sweetheart- that's not how you cut a carrot," sanji chuckles, witnessing how you, somehow, accidentally mushed the carrot with the knife instead of cutting it. usopp lets out a cackle as he sees the mush which has derived from your cutting skills.

"only you could mess up cutting a carrot!" sanji glares at usopp, making him cover his mouth, trying to sniffle the laugh. he slowly walks out of the kitchen, slightly scared sanji might throw him overboard.

"let's try something else, yeah?" the blond-haired cook smiles at you.

he stands behind you, holding both your hands with his, before grabbing the knife with your right hand and holding a new carrot with your left one. like a puppet master, he controls the motions of your hands, and after a bit, you find the carrots all sliced up. "see? knew could do it," sanji caresses your hands with his.

"sanji..?" you mutter, leaning against his chest.

he looks down at you and hums, waiting for you to say whatever was on you mind. "can we eat now?"

you receive a chuckle from sanji as he nods. "of course darling, we can eat now. thanks a lot for helping me," he sends you a smile before grabbing the plates.

ZORO knows he's being way too obvious with you, but he frankly just doesn't care enough. everyone and their mother knows he has a crush on you tolerates you more than other people because of:

♡ how protective he is of you. this man won't let a fly harm you, let alone actual enemies during fights. he'd rather come back with some more scars than let them lay a finger on you. hence why you find yourself in the current situation.

zoro's sat down whilst hearing both you and nami lash out on him. a sigh leaves his mouth.

"why are you so stubborn?!" you cry out, eyes red and watery from the sheer fear of almost having lost him.

nami shakes her head, dumbfounded. "you could've fucking died, zoro. has that thought ever crossed your small fucking mind, huh?!"

"I was fine zoro.. I would've made it.. you- you didnt have to-" you utter before cutting yourself off, lip wobbling with tears-stained cheeks. "just.. don't ever do that again, 'kay?" you stand inbetween his widespread legs, your hands meet both sides of his face, pulling it to meet your eyes. "please.."

as if on que, his eyes soften and his furrowed eyebrows loosen immediately. he lets out yet another sigh, but this time, one of defeat. "alright." zoro's heart aches at the sight of those tears on your pretty face. it aches even more knowing he was the cause of them.

the strawhats are astonished, flabbergasted and, on top of that, even a bit annoyed at how easily zoro folded. at that very moment sanji, nami and usopp shared collective eyecontact, they knew how down bad he was. and now they have yet another thing to bully him about..

♡ his over-the-top jealousy has you and everyone within a 100m radius of you in a chokehold. no one dares to as much as look your way anymore. zoro made sure of that. if someone even breathes too hard near you, this man will be on his way to knock him out.

♡ the fact that he has his hands on you 24/7, always seems so obvious and nonchalant to him. he doesn't even think twice about it anymore. his arm around your shoulders, his hand spread on your back, him shamelessly holding your waist with one of his hands while the other is occupied holding some bags.

his arm is wrapped around your waist as you two stand in line. you had gotten the task to do the groceries with zoro, but once you say a smelled a sweet, floraly fragrance, both you and zoro knew this 'short' and 'easy' task would take much longer than planned.

"i'll be super quick, zoro, I promise!" you giggle as you look up at him reassuring. "mhm, ya said that last time, too, remember? ended up taking a whole day, and somehow I had to carry all those bags for ya," zoro raises his brows at you playfully, knowing very well he'd hold all the bags in the world for you if you'd want him to.

"yeah~ i know.. thank you," you smile at him, receiving an eye roll from him. "yeah, yeah, now hurry up and get movin'." you move along to catch up with the que, missing the way he smiles as you so absolutely adored.

LUFFY himself doesn't realize he treats you differently from the other strawhats. most of the things he does because of his little crush on you usually don't even register in him. but to the strawhats, it's so obvious he likes you due to:

♡ him attentively listening to you whenever you speak, never fails to shock the other strawhats. they could go hours on end, scolding luffy for whatever possible thing he had done, and there would be a good chance he wouldn't even bat an eye. but when you do it- that's when he gets serious.

"luffy! stop fucking around and get serious!" nami yells out, trying to get his attention. "LUFFY!"

luffy keeps peeling the banana in his hand, not paying all too much attention to what nami is on about. it's not that he doesn't care! it's just that this yelling gets repetitive, so he doesn't really pay attention to all the small quarrels every now and then. he's listening to what she's saying, he really is! he just doesn't want to enter the argument.

but then his eyes shoot up from his half-peeled banana. you were talking to him. " 'luf, what we're trying to get at is that you were acting very reckless, and you got us really worried about you, y'know.." you cross your arms over each other before making eye contact with the raven-haired captain.

"sorry," luffy mutters wholeheartedly, looking you in the eyes. his previous grin disappeared after he heard you speak to him. "i'll try not to anymore, 'kay?" he opens the banana completely and points it your way, wanting you to take a bite.

you smile and head over to the spot he's seated in and take a piece of the fruit before leaning against the back of the seat. "sorry I scared you, sunshine..." luffy mutters, soft enough for only you to hear. "really didn't mean to.."

you let out a small sigh of relief. " 'ts alright 'luf! just promise you'll be more careful from now on.. please," you lean against the side of his body as you rise your head, looking at the beautiful night view from the boat.

"i promise I'll try, sunshine, I really will." and with that, his usual toothy smile is back.

nami rolls her eyes, scoffing, as she munches on some of the pastry sanji had prepared earlier. sanji nudges zoro to witness the scene unfolding before their eyes. usopp sniffles his laugh with his hand, hiding behind zoro.

they could all agree on the fact that you were his soft spot.

♡ his usual grin being replaced with a soft smile whenever you speak is another thing that luffy never realizes. yet the others do.

you'd speak about the most mundane chores or moments you've experienced. albeit it being some of the most tedious things known to man, he'd listen so thoughtfully. as if anticipating a shocking ending, yet there in reality, he wasn't anticipating anything like that. he genuinely just lived your voice.

the way you pronounce the words. the small differences in pronunciation between you and others always bring a small to his face, he finds it absolutely adorable. the specific words you use to describe something never cease to make him smile ear to ear.

plus points if you're talking about something you're passionate about. he'd be so overwhelmed with how endearing you look speaking about your hobbies and loves. the small smile on your pretty face, growing wider and your tone getting giddier.

in conclusion, this man loves to listen to you yap about anything, to be honest.

my other one piece fics

mei's note pt.2 : also if you've seen this post before it was finished (bc someone accidentally published it before it was done) no you didn't...

[ghoulbrain]

Animal Instinct

18+ 3.5k ghoul x f!reader. graphic depictions of violence, wound tending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, feral/protective cooper, cannibalism, blood, dirty talk, vaginal fingering. gif credit. read on AO3. written as part of the Saddle Up, Sweetheart verse, but can be read as a stand-alone.

When you're both ambushed by raiders, Cooper comes to understand the lengths he'll go to keep you safe.

This never would have happened if Cooper was still traveling alone. He would have been more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the signs of an ambush long before he stepped into it, and he wouldn’t have been so focused on you instead.

It’s lazy to blame you, though. The fault is his. Without preamble or flourish he draws his revolver and starts emptying shots into the spill of sorry sons of bitches that decided they would ruin his evening.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you move forward, weapon drawn. His lip twitches. Your grip is good, but your stance is horse-shit. If this is going to become a thing–you taggin’ along like this–he’ll have to show you how to properly fire a gun.

He refocuses quickly, stepping forward to keep himself angled between them and you. The ambush isn’t anything special: just a bunch of jumpy junkies with twitchy trigger fingers looking for their next score. He takes a shot to the shoulder, another to the sternum. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact and pressure of irradiated flesh being forced apart around the bullets. There’s no pain, not so long his system is flooded with chemicals.

It’s your cry of pain that sets his nerves ablaze. He fires two more shots–dropping the men who hit him–before he whirls around, a hot rush of fire rolling through him at the sight of you with a man pressed up against your back, one arm fitted around your throat while he crushes your wrist in his other hand, squeezing hard, keeping your gun pointed at the ground as he chokes you out.

That’s when he sees the knife sunk into your thigh, blood soaking a wide crimson circle into your clothing around the knife’s hilt. In this infinitely long and horrible instant that your gaze meets his. The pain and fear in your eyes trigger something in him, and the whole world becomes both brighter and slower all at once.

Cooper aims, fires, but his revolver clicks emptily. He doesn’t reach to reload. Instead, he moves on pure animal instinct, bearing his teeth and charging with a guttural snarl.

Adrenaline mixes with the chemical cocktail in his veins and he moves faster than the man reacts, ripping his hands from you and throwing your assailant to the ground with such incredible force it dazes the man, his eyes glazing over. He roars in the raider’s face, spittle and yellow flecks coating his dirty skin, before he lunges, sinking his teeth into the pulsing jugular below.

He lends no thought to how natural it feels to bite into warm, living flesh.

Rearing up, mouth bloodied and full of viscera, Cooper winds his fist back and strikes the man in the face. His first blow hits his jaw. The next strikes his temple.

Straddling him, he doesn’t stop hitting. One fist after the other. He aims for the jaw, the temple, the high of his cheek. He misses and shatters his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood spewing from his nostrils to coat his knuckles. His jaw breaks with a pop. Broken teeth and bone slice flesh, mixing with gore and falling to the dirt in wet chunks.

The violence feels raw and good, like the first deep inhale of a vial or a hot wet fuck. He swallows the blood and meat lingering in his mouth and lets out a rough breath. Gritting his teeth he hits harder, driven on by the scent of blood and dirt. The gurgle of choked breaths. The slip of split flesh against his fists. It's all gasoline on the flames your peril sparked.

Cooper thinks of him stabbing you. Choking you. He thinks of your watery eyes, bright and terrified. He thinks of everyone he’s ever let down, ever failed to save, and he keeps hitting. Even when the man beneath him seizes. Even when he drowns in his blood.

Even when he dies.

Cooper is beating on a hunk of ruined flesh when he finally stops, drenched in the blowback of it.

Wheezing breaths saw from his lungs as he places one hand on the dirt road, lifting himself off of the mess of battered meat. He stares down at his knuckles where pain throbs with every heartbeat. It's a welcome sensation. Not because he deserves it, but because the raider did, and because he delivered. Destruction with his bare hands. Suffering where it’s meant to be found. He drags his tongue along the soaked leather of his glove and greedily swallows what collects on his tongue.

Heart thundering in his ears, Cooper stands, dipping briefly to pick up his gun. The grip slides around in his bloodied hand before he holsters it, cloudy eyes scanning for movement until his gaze lands on you. Down on the ground, clutching your wound, you look like a doe with a bum leg, your eyes blown wide and afraid. You look… irresistible. Not just as a woman, not just as his woman, but as an easy meal.

He takes a step forward, lips parted. The edges of you are blurry to his addled mind. The only part of you that’s in focus is the bright red of your wound seeping into your clothes. His memories of lapping the salt from your skin cross wires in his brain and all he can imagine is holding you safe and sound as he devours you.

“Cooper?”

The sound of your voice acts like a shock to his system that drags him back from the sweet coppery tang of warm, fresh blood in his mouth. He’s standing above you, closer than he realized he got. The sweetness in his mouth sours into putrid rot and he takes a step backwards, rasping out a cuss under his breath. He turns his head and spits, aggressively wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, smearing away blood and little chunks of flesh, abruptly and horribly aware of himself.

Shame blooms in his gut, unfurling all the way up to a tightness in his chest. He looks down at the mutilated body on the ground. There’s no head left, just wet gore soaking into the hungry dry earth below.

He completely lost control of himself. He spits, wipes, spits, wipes, rubs his mouth raw against his sleeve in an attempt to scrub away the taste and feel of it before he dares look at you again. He contemplates shoving a handful of dirt into his mouth just to chase away the lingering tang. He never wants to see you–to think of you–like that again. Like you’re just another hunk of meat.

Your touch makes him jerk away. He looks at you sharply, furious that you would come so close after what he’s done. What he could have done to you.

“Cooper–”

“M’not right,” he says roughly, taking hold of your wrist. You flinch and he realizes that he’s snatched the same wrist the motherfucker he beat into a paste had been crushing. He softens his grip, throat tight like there’s a hand squeezing it. “Fuck, would y’just–m’not right,” he says again, an edge of desperation in his emphasis.

“I know,” you say, voice tender, as if somehow he’s the one in need of gentleness. “I know. So come back. Don’t shut me out.” There’s more authority in your voice than you have any right to have in your position, shaking like a leaf while you touch his face, hushing him with such tenderness it fractures something in him that he thought long dead and buried under the weight of the last two hundred years.

Wish I could, he thinks, wiping his hand on his thigh. That you would look at him like that even now, as if he’s somehow still a man, eats at the very core of him. Makes him want to shy away, prove you wrong, and disappear into you all at once. He takes in a steadying breath before he clutches both of your arms, moving you to the ground. 

“Easy,” he says, voice barely above a rasp. “Y’bleedin’.”

You’re holding onto his elbows as he lowers you, gritting your teeth against the pain. He focuses on your discomfort, on the risk you face, fragile thing that you are, to keep his mind far away from the abyss he walked the edge of while maiming the body behind him.

His first priority is to stanch the bleeding. His movements become practiced, hands that of a soldier. He uses a strap from his pack to create a makeshift tourniquet, twisting it around a scrap rod. All the while he’s hyper aware of your gaze on him and the shallow huffs of your breath, the way it catches when he pulls the binding tight.

“Hurts,” you say tightly.

“I know,” he says, drawing his knife. He lifts your blood soaked pant leg–don’t pause, don’t think, don’t breathe it in–and slices open the fabric. “S’about t’hurt a whole lot more. Gimme a count, I’ll pull it on three,” he tells you, bracing one hand on your thigh, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Okay, okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath. “One–”

Cooper yanks the blade free, startling a yelp out of you that carries into a pained groan.

“What happened to three?!” You ask sharply, fingers digging into the dirt.

He hurriedly smothers the wound with the cleanest cloth he has before he works on tightly wrapping the wound. “S’better when y’don’t know it’s comin’.”

“Asshole,” you breathe.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth is reluctant, as if there’s an invisible string tugging at it against his will. “Can’t be that bad if y’still mouthin’ off.”

“It’ll take more than a measly stab wound to keep my mouth shut,” you say, familiar playfulness slipping in alongside the strain in your voice.

“Don’t I know it,” he grouses, glancing up at you. There’s nothing reluctant about your smile. It’s the opposite of his, earnest in a way he’s long forgotten how to be. You’re making an attempt at comforting him, he realizes, looking back down to finish his work, removing the tourniquet once he’s satisfied with the dressing.  “It’ll do for now. Y’need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively, shifting onto your knees.

He makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, sheathing his knife. “Would it kill y’not to be so damn contrary?”

“It might,” you say, catching the lapel of his jacket and pulling at him, bringing his attention back to you. He looks down at your hand, stained now with the crimson wetness spattered all over his coat. His clothes are soaked heavy with misery and blood, but it doesn’t dissuade you any. You touch his jaw with your other hand and lift his eyes to meet yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re close enough that he should feel the ghost of your breath on his lips, but he can’t. Most of the subtleties of life are lost on a man so close to death. The only ghosts he knows now are those of his past. “You okay?”

Holding your gaze, he doesn’t answer you. Sometimes you feel like one of them, like another specter haunting him. The only difference is that you haven’t died yet.

Yet.

“Come back to me,” you murmur. His vision refocuses, finding you closer than you had been a second ago. The warm pressure of your lips grazing his cheek makes him falter, wanting the tenderness of your touch so viscerally it feels dangerous to admit even to himself. “Stay with me.”

Your hand lightly cups the back of his neck, holding him without caging him. You move closer, settling in his lap, grounding him with the weight of your body against his. He moves at that, grasping your hips and squeezing.

“Stay with me,” you say again, the words as fervent as prayer. His own lips parted, he can taste the breath of each word, sweet and warm, the way a distant part of him remembers things like love could be.

Why? He nearly asks. You won’t.

He had thought himself immune to this sickly feeling. This sense of grief for someone who isn’t yet gone, but you rip it out of him. The truth of the matter is that the Ghoul should never have entertained your company. He should have left you where he found you and been on his way without ever casting a backwards glance. The Ghoul would have.

It’s Cooper who didn’t. It’s Cooper’s hands sliding up your sides, squeezing your ribs and pulling you closer, deeper. He kisses you hungrily, craving you the way the Ghoul can’t. The way a man craves.

I ain’t dead yet.

And neither are you.

Two hundred years of surviving for tomorrow has eroded his ability to exist in the here and now, but your touches demand it of him. Your lips against his bring him into the moment as he lives it. As you live it with him.

“I ever look at you like that again,” he says gruffly, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, catching yours in the process. He moves you back enough to lock eyes with you. “You put a bullet between my eyes.”

Your lips curve in a bittersweet kind of anguish. “Like you’re gonna eat me? Because right now–”

He gives you a sharp little shake. “Y’know what I mean,” he says, startling the smile off your face. From day one he’s liked your wit, the cavalier way you face life, but on this matter he needs you to hear him. “You ever look at me, and I’m not there, you promise you’ll put me down.”

The set of your mouth turns to a flat line, your gaze somber, and you nod. “I promise.”

Some of the tension in his haggard lungs eases and he kisses you again, need shooting up his spine like a hot geyser. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, leaning back and bringing you with him, saddling you properly astride his lap, his long legs stretched out behind you.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, heedless of the blood and gristle between your melding bodies, and he’s forced to remind himself that this is the only world you’ve ever known. There’s no time before this, not for you. Your life has always been full of horrors, and for reasons he’ll never fully comprehend, you’ve decided he’s one that you want close.

He slips his hands under your thighs and squeezes, hiking your legs around his waist until you’re seated closely enough to feel the growing ache between his legs. You don’t miss a beat, grinding down against him so fervently his breath breaks into a low groan. Not even he can deny his humanity in this. You turn his blood hot and shock the deadened thump of his heart into thunder. You make him feel alive.

He’ll return the favor. He’ll turn his spit to wine on your tongue and make your whole body fucking sing.

Breaking from your lips, he uses his teeth to tug his glove free, letting it fall to the ground. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, but your lips are plenty wet. 

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles, parting your lips with the tips of his middle and index fingers. Your eager tongue slips molten wet between his fingers, your eyes hazy on his. He pumps his fingers slowly, cups the back of your head to keep you still while plunging all the way to his last knuckles before drawing them back. “That’s it… Get ‘em good and wet.”

It’s agonizing how easily you fall apart under his touch, and even more so how good you look doing it. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws his fingers from your mouth and with practiced ease maneuvers his hand down the front of your pants, curving his fingers to follow the contour of your pelvis until his fingertips slide through hot, wet arousal.

“Cooper,” you exhale, the pitch of your voice canary-sweet. If you have any care regarding the death that surrounds you or the blood between his body and yours, you don’t show it, nor pay it any heed. You’re focused entirely on him, lips parted on shallow breaths of pleasure. He strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rest of the world falling away the longer he watches your euphoria build.

Fuck, you’re goddamn beautiful. Why the hell you let a creature like him have you is beyond him, but he won’t let go. Not now. Not so long as you still look at him like this.

He swallows dryly, finally slipping his fingers into the welcoming heat of your pretty cunt. You’re soaked, his own personal oasis in the Wastes, velvet walls quivering around his toughened fingers. He angles the pad of his thumb against your clit and starts to finger fuck you in earnest, his cock throbbing beneath you. 

“Fuck,” you keen softly. Your hands braced on his shoulders, you meet every thrust of his hand, huffing divine little sounds while he fucks you with his fingers, crooking them until he feels you shudder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, enraptured. “That’s it. Got y’now, don’t I? Ah ah, don’t get shy on me,” he tsks when your eyes fall shut. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Eyes on me,” he says, voice frayed. You pry your eyes back open and hold his gaze, your own heavily lidded. “Good, s’good. Y’close now, ain’t’cha, sweetie?”

You nod fervently, moans bubbling up instead of words, your sweet features twisted in the exquisite agony that comes just before climax. You roll your palms against his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his coat. He wishes he could feel the bite of your nails on his bare skin, wishes it were his cock sinking into you, but all that wistfulness is erased the second you cry out, your back arching, your cunt squeezing his fingers as you’re pitched forward into the throes of release.

Cooper grits his teeth, baring them like an animal as he fucks you through the tremors, grabbing hold of your jaw to keep you from collapsing, to keep your eyes on him. You slide your hands up and cup either side of his face, yanking him into a messy kiss. He falls into it easily, slowing the thrust of his fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm settle until his hand is still against you, fingers pressed in deep, savoring the feel of you.

You kiss him leisurely with tongue, teeth and barely sated hunger. Your bliss slows you, and Cooper is content to simply feel. Even the lingering ache of his own need is a welcome sensation in a world he so often walks through feeling numb.

After a time, he slides his fingers from your pants, wiping them absently on his own before wrapping his arms around you. You sink into him in turn, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The sun has almost disappeared completely, and the chill of night is beginning to nip the air. All of this carnage will attract predators soon, but he finds himself unable to rush the matter. His embrace tightens.

“I love you,” you murmur.

There was a time long before his heart became an open grave that he would have been eager to return the sentiment, but hearing those three little words turns his tongue to lead. They flood him with memories of an era where love came naturally–the way only violence does now–and shooting a man in the head was the most abhorrent act he could fathom for himself.

These days, a headshot is a kindness.

His stomach is tight, a bile-like burn creeping up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing it back. To his relief, you aren’t tense with anticipation. Instead, you pepper butterfly light kisses along the scarred column of his throat, paying special attention to the nicks and scars along the way to his jaw.

You kiss him. He takes your face in his hands and deepens it, pushing into you until your back arches. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers against your lips, the words both a promise and a prayer. Not to God–He gave up on God a long time ago–this prayer is for you. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is. No matter the monster that threatens you, you’ll always have one of your own to bite back. You’ll always have him.

Strained, quieter yet, he says, “I swear.”

Or so help me, I’ll swallow the bullet myself.

“I know,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. There’s a blissful kind of sorrow in your expression, but so too is there understanding. He kisses you, closing his eyes against the dry burn of them. He’s not sure he’s even capable of tears anymore. He’s been worn down to the bone by sandstorms and bloodshed. Nothing goes untouched by the misery of the Wastes. No one goes through it unscathed.

What he does know is that he will do everything in his power to see that you’re never broken by it.

[yanderenightmare]

ooooh what kinda mythic creatures are the jjk boys?

TW: implied noncon, yandere, the supernatural?

gn reader

Fushiguro Toji Hunter

Rumor has it that something far worse than ogres and trolls travel the forest. Beware of the hunter—all you little nymphs, fauns, and fairies. Some say he’ll stuff you in a bag and sell you, while others argue it’s his appetite that makes him hunt—some even mean it’s just for sport, that he’ll kill and stuff you and mount your head on the wall.

You, a poor forest nymph, are unfortunate enough to get yourself caught in one of his nets. You’re a crying little mess by the time he comes around—begging him not to sell or eat or skin or harvest your wings, barely breathing between the words.

He chuckles and promises you he won’t do any of that stuff, but the smile on his face is enough to convince you he’s possessed by some sort of demon. And as he hauls you up on his shoulder and starts carrying you further into those places you’ve never dared venture, into the thicker parts of the forest where the trees all seem riddled with some type of disease—you can’t help but believe all those rumors you’d heard.

He tells you that his snares and nets are meant for rodents and that he didn’t think fae-folk were dumb enough to get themselves caught by them as he starts cutting into the net to free you—only, he doesn’t stop at the net—but goes for your slik garb next. Whistling as he bares your pretty skin while pinning your small wrists above you in one meaty hand.

His grin is sharper than his knife when he advises you not to struggle, saying he would feel awful if he were to accidentally cut you.

Gojo Satoru Hybrid between angel and human

His hair is pearlescent and so are his wings—soft feathers, sharper than blades when he wants them to be. His halo can only be spotted when the sun shines extra bright—like a ring of stardust slowly orbiting his crown.

He doesn’t know his parents, nor which one of them was the angel. But it’s not something he cares much about. People call him Icarus, and he tries to live up to it the way he drowns himself in another’s embrace every new night—never the same one.

Never the same one until you. Another hybrid. No part of Angel, though…

He falls in love with it—all of it—the points of your teeth, the tiny horns that protrude from your hairline, the slim tail adorned with that pretty arrowhead, and the equally sharp look in your eyes as you glare at him with disgust.

He wants to know more. Do have markings in unseen places? How far does your tongue stretch, and is it split down the middle like with a snake? Is it venomous? Is it sweet? Does your skin burn to the touch like the sun does when he flies too close? Or will it be warm and soft and pliable?

He and his angel eyes freak you out. You advise him to leave you alone, the point of your tail threatening to slice his throat open. You’ve been shunned enough by humans—you don’t need to add a snooty angel boy to the fray. 

But then he calls you beautiful. And no one’s called you beautiful before.

Ryomen Sukuna Hellhound

The few times humans have dared try to tame him have all been devasting days of fire and death. Silly humans, thinking they can make him do his bidding like another mutt on a leash—he’ll make them all burn.

But then there’s you. You’re not like the other humans. You don’t come to him with any intention of collaring him. Instead, you have your hands folded together in prayer—sweet scripture leaves your lips, soothing his singed skin until it stops burning.

You wear holy robes and a kind smile on your face, you don’t avert your eyes even as he glares at you with the embers in his own, even as he growls and bares teeth. You don’t ignore him when he speaks, either, even when his tongue comes out split through the middle and all his words reek of smoke. You bathe him in holy water and rinse the soot out of his fur—telling him he’s a good boy.

He feels no desire to bite your hand as you pet his head and stroke his ears—he just ends up wagging his tail. But then again… he is still a hellhound. And you should know better than to feed monsters in the dark…

He leaves his room in the chapel and sniffs yours out—nothing, not even so much as a seal on your door to keep him out. You have too much faith. Your door creaks open, but you remain peacefully asleep—all soft snores as he mounts you with drool dripping down his canines…

P2: Kento, Megumi, Naoya

♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[newtkive]

practice - carmen berzatto

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader, mentioned platonic marcus x reader

summary: The sudden changes at your work prove to be a lot to keep up with, but Carmy notices your efforts where you think he’s just a tough boss. He proves to be more than that when he finds you pulling an all-nighter at the restaurant.

wordcount: 3.8k

warnings: none really, anxious reader, ooc!carmen (he would never let mistakes fly like this lmao), kinda fluff at the end

a/n: this is basically how i would react working there bc i almost have an anxiety attack every ep watching carmy yell at everyone. sorry for any typos!

The fast moving pace that Carmen Berzatto brought to The Beef was something extraordinary. The skill of his professional chef background was carried over into the small hole in the wall that otherwise would have never changed if it wasn’t for him.

His drive was contagious, even infecting the staff you knew like the back of your hand. You never would have thought your coworkers, ever comfortable with a stagnant pace, would become accustomed to such change around their second home.

It was great to see your favorite people quickly see their own potential thanks to Carmy’s vision. The only problem was you.

You were falling behind, and quickly.

You tried to convince yourself you could keep up as things changed. But your mind was faster than your barely skilled hands and you were terrible at cutting ingredients evenly during a rush and you always somehow got sliced or burnt and your eyes always stung from the onions you were stuck prepping because that was the one job you couldn’t fuck up but hated— to put it simply, you sucked.

The faces of your coworkers reflected what you feared every time you turned around to take a breath, heels of your hands rubbing tears from your eyes as Carmy screamed profanities at the crew. Tina’s eyes would linger on you, brows raised and silently asking if you were okay. You would nod and blink the tears away before jumping back in. By the end of every shift Ebraheim would pat you on the back before leaving, and Sydney would send you a small, sympathetic smile and wave while you tied your shoes on the bench near the locker.

Each time you could see the sympathy in their eyes and it made you hate yourself even more.

You were used to sandwiches; assembling simple ingredients between a hoagie bun on a slow Sunday surrounded by the people you called family. Cracking jokes here and there, no pressure to make things completely perfect, which ended up making things perfect. So much so that regulars even seemed disappointed to see you up at the register some days instead of in the kitchen assembling their lunch.

Carmy wasn’t blind, he could see exactly what was going on, which was why he didn’t pick on you as much as he did when he first arrived.

The first couples of weeks that Carmy was there he noticed the difference in your station compared to everyone else’s. Organized, cohesive, clean—save for the multiple drinks you always had. You worked at your own pace, not slow but definitely not up to par with Carmen’s standards. You made it work though, cutting ingredients almost perfectly and whipping up sandwiches and other specialties not a second too late.

The change happened when Carmy upped the stakes and encouraged—or yelled at—everyone to be as quick as they possibly could. His yelling was off putting, and you didn’t respond well to much other than positive reinforcement.

The chef didn’t notice until the uneven bread and too-thin tomato slices lead back to you. He was quick, marching over to you with a purpose; if it was a cartoon, his hair would be alight with fire. “Chef!” His voice was hard and urgent, because he didn’t have time to deal with this.

As he approached, he noticed your hands shaking as you held the dull shitty knife, head whipping up and cheeks red, all but heaving from the pressure. So much pressure.

“Yes Chef?” You asked attentively, waiting for him to explode.

Carmen had all intentions to do just that, tear you a new one, tell you that you’ve been here long enough to know how to cut a fuckin’ tomato the right way but he paused. The look in your eye was wild and scared. His face fell, obvious turmoil behind his blue eyes causing a change in his decision. You waited with bated breath, but what you were expecting never came.

Instead, Carmen did his best to be calm and set his hand on the counter, leaning a bit. “I want you to show me how to slice that tomato.” He said.

“What?” You were confused and it was clearly written on your face. So were your nosy coworkers who exchanged looks and shrugged, expecting the young man to wail on you with his words.

Looking over your shoulder at the others, you tried to exchange weary looks with anyone but Carmy pulled you back in with his words. “Don’t worry about their shit. C’mon, show me.” He said again, motioning to the tomato sitting on the cutting board, looking at you expectantly.

After a beat of weariness you did what he asked. With an exhale your knife pierced the red skin and cut it, your wrist dragging it back and forth to cut all the way through. You gave a few more slices, doing your best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze.

Reviewing your slices, you mentally pat yourself on the back at the sight of them perfectly even and a fairly thin. You turned to look at Carmy, and he seemed to have an epiphany as he stood there holding his chin. Eyes flickering up to you, he nodded. “You know what that showed me?” He asked, and before you could answer he continued. “You’re competent, you did that shit with a dull knife. Don’t cut ‘em too thick or too thin, you have no excuses.”

He should feel ridiculous, like he was coaching a baby how to do the easiest job in the world, but for some reason Carmen was able to swallow his irritation and try to guide you.

You nodded, back straightening and hands sweaty. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmy was about to walk off but stopped himself, turning back around, eyes boring into yours as he grew more serious. “You hear me yelling, you listen, but I need you to focus, Chef. You can do this shit, I’ve seen you pull through before. Don’t let my mouth get to your fuckin’ head.” He said low enough just for the both of you to hear.

He was close, blue eyes staring right at you, the smell of the kitchen clinging onto his apron. It should’ve been intimidating, and it was a little, but you knew this was his version of offering comfort and maybe even some sort of apology.

“Heard, Chef.” You said just as quietly back.

There was a second of him staring, before he simply walked away without another word, leaving you to your own devices. Whatever he said seemed to put some perspective into your work, because you didn’t have anys setbacks for the rest of the day.

On the way home, sitting on the train with headphones in your ears and a jacket wrapping you up tight, Carmy’s words swirled in your head. You knew you could do this, and you could somewhat see in Carmy’s eyes that he had faith in you too. It was just a new world you were all suddenly thrown into and it was hard finding your place. On days where you felt like a baby fawn standing on shaky legs, wobbling and failing to find your footing, you had to keep going.

A single word rang in your mind.

Practice.

Your apartment was pretty small and shared with a roommate, so you lacked the accommodations and tools to really do all you wanted. Aside from that, you didn’t want to be the rude roomie who clashed pans in the kitchen all night long. So, as you made your way off the train you didn’t leave the station. Instead, you waited for the next ride to the city and headed straight for The Beef.

The sun set as you approached the back door, humming a tune as you pulled out a spare key—one that definitley would be confiscated once Carmy found out about it, probably clambering about it not being safe in the foreseeable future—from under the fuse box outside and unlocked the door.

You entered the kitchen, brows immediately raising as you saw all of the kitchen lights on. Slowly moving forward, a sense of anxiety grew as you knew no one would usually be here except for Carmy, and you really did not want to get a talking to from him right now.

Turning the corner, you sighed in relief when you saw the familiar stature that belong to Marcus. He had his phone out, recipe pulled up in front of him and a song playing softly from the speakers that he sang along to. You chuckled softly, alerting him of your presence. Head snapping up at the sound, he almost looked like a deer in the headlights as he met your eyes.

Similarly to you, he let out a relieved sigh and sent you a smile. “Scared me, Y/N.” He laughed softly, hands whisking again.

“Sorry.” You apologized, tugging your coat off. “What’re you doing here, man?” You asked as you headed over to the lockers and shoved your stuff away.

Marcus shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“Practice.” You said simply, shrugging and tying your apron around your waist. Approaching the kitchen, you started gathering a few clean pots to start your work.

Humming and nodding, Marcus gave you a knowing grin. “Same here.” There was a beat of comfortable silence as you gathered a knife, cutting board, and an onion before washing your hands. “I actually stay here sometimes overnight. It’s easier, that way I won’t waste time going back and forth from home.” Marcus explained.

Surprise filled your features and you sent him an impressed look. “Wow, no wonder you’re getting better fast.”

He chuckles bashfully, filling another mixing bowl with flour and whatever else he desired. “Eh, I guess.” The shrug of his shoulders made you laugh before you turned back to your own work.

With one last question of Marcus asking if you minded his music, and you affirming that you didn’t mind at all, he turned the dial on his bluetooth radio up and you both fell into a comfortable rhythm; Marcus in his corner and you on the stovetop.

By the end of the evening you prepared a vibrant beef braciole dish that a few of the others had been practicing since Carmy introduced it. You brought it to one of the stainless steel counters with two forks, setting it next to the two pieces of cake Marcus had sliced up from his recipe of the evening.

You both dug in, humming in satisfaction as you tasted each other’s creations, sharing impressed and ‘holy shit’ expressions that made the other laugh.

“This is fantastic.” Marcus said, another mouthful of beef being added to his mouth.

You laughed and shook your head, muttering a thank you, trying to swallow down your surprise. Marcus could tell, because he doubled down. “No, really, Y/N. This is the best one I’ve tasted yet, aside from the big Chef.” He said with a grin.

Shaking your head, you gave him your appreciation. “Thank you, Chef. I can say the same thing from you.” You motioned with your fork to the cake. In truth, his words pushed you and affected you more than you lead on.

The both of you fell into a rhythm, whipping up treats and savory meals almost every day after work. Marcus playing music at his own station, you timing yourself relentlessly to try and replicate the fast pace of the open hours of the restaurant. You sometimes even found yourself staying overnight, taking turns with Marcus to use his sleeping bag—he insisted where you didn't want to overstep, but sleep called you and his pillow was comfy.

Relentless practice proved to keep you on track and up to pace with everyone else, slowly but surely. The impressed glances shared between Tina and Sydney every time you had them taste a dish or were quicker than usual were enough, but Carmen was ever the critic. A new menu soon graced The Beef alongside their regular sandwiches, and it was a tough menu to master. You almost had them all down pat, practicing relentlessly for almost four weeks now after work.

However, every time you presented a steaming spoonful of stew, or a perfect bite of chicken piccata that everyone else in the kitchen seemed to love, Carmen would bite into it, hum, and shake his head. "Good." He said every time.

"Good like.. good good? Or good but start over, it's trash, throw it away?" You would ask, clearly waiting with baited breath on a slow day.

Carmy shook his head again. "It's not ready yet, Chef." And then he would be off to collect more expo receipts and leave you there disappointed, shoulders deflating in defeat.

"I think it's great, Chef." Marcus would smile, hands busy working on dough for his unmastered donuts. You would offer a sad smile in return, marching off to assemble another hoagie and handing your failed dish to a waiting Richie in exchange for an appreciative rub of his hands together. The negative feedback only spurred you to improve your craft as much as you could.

It was a rare occasion that Marcus didn't stay at the restaurant overnight. He left early in a frenzy after a phone call, muttering something about his mom's nurse needing him. Offering comfort wasn't your strongest suit, so you bid him luck and made a mental note to bring him his favorite coffee during work later in hopes to cheer him up.

At the same time you were plating what felt like your dozenth chicken piccata of the week, soft footsteps approached the kitchen. As soon as the timer went off behind you, you whipped around and hit the top, a harsh exhale and wipe of your forehead following the silence. You felt proud, plating and finishing your dish in record time without any hiccups.

A soft chuckle brought you out of your stupor, head snapping up to meet bright blue eyes from across the kitchen. There stood Carmy with his unruly curls, white tee and brown jacket he was beginning to pull off. In place of his usual stoic face was an amused expression, clearly not expecting to see someone in the kitchen at this hour.

You froze at the sight of him, but his soft smile eased your shoulders a bit. “Smells good.” Carmy said as if it was the most casual thing, hanging his jacket by the lapels on a hook. He sat on the bench, beginning to change his shoes into nonslip ones.

Stuttering, your cheeks turned pink. “O-oh, uhhh, thanks.”

“You’re here early.” He said back, standing now and readying to tug on his apron.

Brows furrowed, you looked above him to glance at the kitchen clock. Big red numbers read 6:15 AM and your brows raised in shock. Before you had a chance to respond, he walked closer, beginning to talk again. “I’ve noticed you and Marcus are always here before anyone else.”

You shrugged, nervous smile gracing your lips as they upturned slightly. “Ah, yeah. We both wanted to practice. Y’know, catch up with everyone else.” You explained. Conveniently, you decided to not mention the instances of spending the night, figuring it would be a little to embarrassing or earn you a talking to.

Carmy was now approaching the other side of the counter where you stood, hands tapping the steel. His little smug smile didn’t leave his lips as he nodded. “I also noticed a few things missing from our inventory.” His words were clearly teasing, but they made your face run pale.

“Fuck, I'm sorry, Chef. Take it from my paycheck, please—I didn’t even consider—“ The rambling was embarrassing, and his head shake cut you off.

“No, stop, Y/N. I'm teasing you.” Carmy laughed softly with a small smile, clearly endeared. The use of your name made you bashful.

A beat of silence followed, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. Carmy glanced behind you at the dish that laid perfectly plated, motioning to it with his hands. “Let’s see if your hard work is paying off.”

Blinking in surprise, you obediently nodded and turned to grab the dish. Sliding it in front of him, you gathered a fork and knife. Carmy grasped the utensils with a ‘thank you’, fingers brushing yours. It didn’t take long for the chef to dig in, eyes immediately closing once the first bite hit his taste buds.

“So.. what do you think?” You plucked up the courage to ask after he swallowed.

Carmy looked up at you, lips curling upwards and a proud look dawning his features. “Great, as usual.”

Usually those words would make you excited, but Carmy had a habit of complimenting your dishes before declaring how they weren’t good enough just yet. You simply nodded, swallowing thickly as he took another bite and savored the taste. “What should I change?” You asked, straightening your back in preparation for the inevitable criticism.

Humming, Carmy shook his head, the same amused look as before coming back. “Nothing, Chef. It’s perfect.” He said firmly. Those words made your breath leave your lungs, hands becoming clammy, and before you knew it you were grinning.

“Really?” You asked, not able to keep your excitement together.

Carmy let out a full laugh at that. “Really.” He confirmed.

You clapped your hands together before covering your face, hiding the grin as best you could. It had been awhile since you felt so elated due to cooking, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. You felt like the whole month of dedicating your time to cooking was culminating to this moment. Carmen watched you with soft eyes, taking in how happy his words made you. You turned back to him, giving up hiding how ecstatic you were. “I braised it differently this time, could you tell? Well, obviously you could if it’s good this time.” You rambled on, a bit of a giggle in your voice.

“It’s always this good, Y/N.” Carmy suddenly said. His words had you pausing, tilting your head playfully. Hand trailing along the counter, he rounded it to stand next to you.

"What do you mean?" You asked, smile falling a bit. The man's words echoed in your head and you looked around the room as if to try and find meaning from his statement. Surely he didn't have you remake the dish for no reason, right? But Carmy's strong posture and raised brows, waiting for you to figure it out yourself, made you think that's exactly what he did. Sobering up, you scoffed and crossed your arms as you sent him a look. "Are you serious? This whole time..." You trailed off.

"Yes, this whole time." He said, leaning on the counter with one hand, eyes not leaving you. "I needed you to bust your ass, Chef. I knew you needed the practice, so I gave you the motive." Carmy explained. The scrunch of your nose made his chest hum with something warm, akin to looking at a kicked puppy that he wanted to scoop up and reassure. Guilt washed over him a little bit as he feared he was acting more and more like his old Chef, but he pushed those feelings down as best he could. He did this for the right reasons, unlike that dickhead in New York did to him. There was no berating and preying on insecurities, just some tough love.

Sighing, you were torn between being angry and feeling grateful that Carmy saw this potential in you. You didn't know what to say, so you blurted out exactly how you felt. "I'm embarrassed."

Carmy frowned, ducking his head to catch your eyes where you looked down a bit. "Why are you embarrassed?" His voice was soft, tiptoeing as to not make you more upset.

Allowing him to meet your eyes, you curled into yourself at the attention. "Because I've made a fool of myself these past few months." You murmured, spilling your guts to your new boss for some reason that you didn't know. Maybe it was the quiet kitchen, or the sudden defeat you felt, but your mouth was faster than your mind.

A small 'no, no, no' left Carmy and he shook his head, reaching a hand out to place on your shoulder. "Don't be. I came in and turned shit upside down, it just took you a bit more practice to get the hang of things." His hand started to rub your arm comfortingly, leaving heat where he touched. You knew this must have been a form of an apology in his own way. The words didn't come easy to Carmen, but he tried to convey it the best he could.

Leaning forward, Carmy mustered his best stern expression, wanting to keep your gaze so you couldn't look away and distract yourself from his next words. Your breath caught in your throat, not used to this proximity. "I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself too."

Heat encapsulated your cheeks and you nodded, spurring him to nod as well. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

As soon as Carmy saw your shy smile he gave one right back to you. Still close, he radiated heat that made it all the more difficult to calm the butterflies growing in your stomach. Eyes never leaving each other's, the air grew tense as the dust settled. Unlike the usual sandwich smell, an aroma of a clean linen scent came off of him as you realized he must have showered before coming here. Carmy never would admit it, but your perfume filled the air for him, making him linger longer than he should have. The blink of your stare looking up at him made Carmy's chest tighten, and he immediately pulled himself out of whatever trance he was in.

Clearing his throat, Carmy let go of your shoulder and backed up a bit. "No more all-nighter's here. Okay, Chef?" He tried to seem playful to rid himself of awkwardness and whatever that just was.

Mouth falling open, you gaped at him. "How did you know?!"

Hands up in surrender, Carmy just shrugged. "A Chef never tells his secrets," He began, heading over to the drying rack to busy himself, playfully adding, "And someone kept leaving the spare key out, so I figured." The smirk he sent you made you grin and roll your eyes.

Carmy would never tell you he knew because that's what he used to do. Before he got the hang of things in his earlier days as a chef, late nights in the restaurant kitchen and a half hour of sleep was the norm for him. As you began cleaning up your work the chef's gaze lingered on you, blue eyes studying your form with a thoughtful look. Carmy shook his head, smiling to himself and starting his work. He reckoned he saw himself in you more than ever.

[lowkeyremi]

SWITCHIN' THE POSITIONS FOR YOU, COOKIN' IN THE KITCHEN !

pairing: s. gojo x fem!reader (drabble) note: i saw a poll asking who would be the worst in the kitchen and a lot of people (along with myself) voted gojo summary: satoru wants to make you dinner for a change but it goes terribly wrong for him ! content: fluff, gojo can NOT cook, established relationship (marriage), just cute stuff nothing crazy :3 wc: 783

An hour ago. That was when your husband told you not to worry about dinner, because, 'I've got it covered!' You've been married to Satoru for a long time, so you trusted his judgement. That was then, and right now you're worried because you are 100% sure something in the kitchen is burning right now.

If the groans and frustrated clanging of pots and pans weren't something to go by, then you weren't sure what was. As happy as you would have been to eat whatever burnt mess your husband made, you really didn't want the fire department to have to put out a fire in the building.

So, the only other option was to help him. He was bound to complain and tell you he can do it himself, but you won't have any of that.

"Baby? You okay?" All of the noise in the kitchen quiets when you call out for your husband.

"Yeah, I'm fine! Don't- don't come in here yet I'm not done." A loud crash sound ensues and a loud groan leaves Satoru's lips.

"I think I should come in now, yeah?" He sighs quietly. He's so let down that he nods forgetting that you can't see him before whispering a soft, "Yeah."

"What are you in here making, 'toru?" His blue eyes are just as pouty as his lips are. You find it hard to keep your own eyes on him when out of the corner of your eyes you can see something bubbling over onto the stove with a "psh" sound.

"Was making you pasta, but I burnt the noodles and now the sauce is burning." His voice holds none of his usual cheeriness, his lips hold a very deep frown, and his eyes droop down.

"Aww baby, that was really sweet of you. How about we clean this up and order takeout?" His frown deepens, if that's even possible.

"But I wanna cook you dinner," He whines quietly. Of course you're going to help him make dinner now, because he was so set on cooking for you. Satoru's never had to cook because of his family background, which is why everything in the kitchen is in the state that it's in.

An uneasy feeling washes over you when you see the amount of dishes that are in the sink and what time it is. By the time you guys finish cleaning the kitchen and buy groceries for dinner, it'll be late, but it's worth seeing a smile on his face.

"Well, let's get to cleaning if we wanna eat before midnight." His pout is immediately turned into a big, bright smile.

"Okay!!"

After much cleaning and a trip to the grocery story you and your husband are ready to cook.

"Okay, now that our hands are clean and we have everything that we need, do you mind passing me a tomato?" Without hesitating he picks up a the red fruit and slips it into your hand.

"Thank you, Honey." He smiles diligently as he watches you slice the tomato into halves.

Once he thinks he's seen you do it enough times he asks to give it a try.

"Careful 'toru. Don't cut yourself." With ease he slices through the tomato, keeping his hand away from the knife just as you had. Satoru Gojo is good at everything he does, so of course the cut is perfect.

"Look at you baby, you're a pro at this!" His ego is already pretty big, but it wouldn't hurt to let him feel some pride after his cooking disaster earlier.

While Satoru cut up the rest of the tomatoes, you started boiling the water and browning the beef. You make sure to season the meat with Italian styled seasonings such as oregano, basil, parsley, a long with the essential seasonings.

Satoru's attention is turned to you when he finishes the tomatoes. "Why didn't we just get the fresh stuff at the store instead of those seasonings?"

"Because I want to cut some prep time off. It does the same thing, don't worry too much about it. On top of that we're making homemade sauce so it'll be fine." He nods, but you're 100% sure he has no clue what any of that meant.

The pasta turned out way better this time and Satoru was so excited, "Okay okay, one more picture and then we can eat. It's just- gosh baby this looks so good. Thank you for teaching me how to make this."

It's not fair how he can easily fluster you. "Your welcome, 'toru. Now can we eat? I'm starving."

He lets out a laugh deep from his belly, "Yeah, let's eat before our hard work gets cold."

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites thanks!