#light blue cube side table

[allonsyblue]

Paris Game Room Family Room Example of a mid-sized tuscan open concept game room design with white walls, a standard fireplace and a plaster fireplace

[lavshaze]

❤️ | Beautiful thing

Continuation to terrible thing, but can be read as a stand-alone, I'm terribly sorry this took so long, I'm starting to think writing silco smut is my destiny and I should just drop out and do this 24/7

✧ contains ⤐ continuation of the wet dream shenanigans, so naturally also smut! finger sucking and fucking, oral (female receiving), missionary, a lot of feelings, like the yearning truly hits its climax (but so do both of them so it's alright), oh and lovely tween jinx is there at the beginning <3 w.c. ~ 7.7k (big boy)

It’s around 7:35 when you reach The Last Drop. 

You could blame it on the amount of time you spent in the shower, staring at the tiled floor and trying to get over the visions you had, but you weren’t going to tell Silco any of that. ‘I almost got robbed’ sounds a lot nicer and just as believable. 

You’re greeted with ear-splitting music the minute you walk through the door, a usual for the club, especially at this hour. It was only getting started and was probably going to be a lot worse by the time you leave. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you scan the crowd of faceless dancing bodies, looking for your possible silver line for tonight, a tall and strong woman who you’d actually pay to come up to Silco’s office and bully you just for this night. 

You visibly deflate when you don’t catch sight of her in her usual spots, not playing poker nor flirting at the bar. All you can see is a lot of sweaty people and a lot of shimmer being passed around. You do, however, spot Ran by the pool table, and you place her in your mind as your backup plan. 

Fortunately for Ran, your favorite blue haired devil is at your side the minute you open the door to his office. 

“Jinx!” 

You yelp out her name in equal parts excitement and surprise. Her hug attack nearly knocks you off your feet, if it weren’t for the door frame you’d managed to hold on to. You can’t help the grin that spreads on your face at the eagerness; the poor girl is stuck with a monologuing villain as a father all day, it’s probably a relief to see you, a normal human being who doesn’t glower and speak in riddles.

“Hello, Jinx.” You fondly run your fingers through the hair at the top of her head. She turns her head to look up at you, pearly whites exposed in a wide grin. “I missed you, sweet girl.”

She's grown taller over the past few months, now tall enough to reach your chest when she hugs you, but she's still as lanky as the day you found her. Or, well, the day Silco found her. She was smaller back then, but just as skinny. You look at the man who took her in, deeply immersed in whatever document is stressing him out tonight— looking just as malnourished as she does— and it all makes sense. 

“I've been waiting for you all day,” comes the squeaky whine from below, demanding your undivided attention. “Silco is so busy, he doesn't have the time to check out my new paintball gun, which is really lame, because this one has explosives!”

At the mention of his name, the man looks up from the troubling piece of paper. He stares at you for a minute, eye adjusting to the sight of another human being, then begrudgingly places the wretched document down on the desk and pushes the chair back to stand. 

“You're here.” 

You smile, absentmindedly petting the girl attached to your waist, “yes, I am. Did you not hear me talking just now?” 

He reaches for his glass of bourbon, three melting ice cubes in a nearly empty cup, “I did. I wasn't quite sure if you were a figment of my imagination or not.” 

Your smile almost slips into something sinister, all the nervousness from before suddenly escaping your body, “what, you have fantasies about me?” It’s so easy to slip back into the subtle flirtatious routine, the light comments that aren’t supposed to mean much to either of you. The earth-shattering dream almost seems like a silly thought now that you’re here, in his office, breathing in the air that’s tinted by him in every way. 

It’s Silco. Things didn’t have to change between the two of you, you could always just enjoy purgatory. 

He looks at you from atop the rim of his glass, a flicker of a smile on his face, “only when I'm at my wit's end.” 

The moment ends there, if only to protect Jinx. 

He makes his way around the desk to settle on the couch, leaning back and finishing up his drink. You observe the way his hands curl around the glass, how he crosses one slender leg over the other, and bite down on your lip like a voyeur— always watching through the glass, never having the chance to lay your hands on the merchandise. 

Jinx detaches from your waist and goes over to sit next to him, thankfully pulling you out of the slightly unpleasant thoughts you were having. He puts his arm out, and she automatically goes for a side hug. You smile to yourself, watching The Eye of Zaun growing softer around the edges at the hands of the blue haired menace never gets old. 

You sit beside her on the couch, and she draws you into countless conversations. Reminiscing the past week, telling you about the progress she's been making with the explosives/paintball gun, and how she's already tried it on Sevika a couple times— ‘Jinx, that's not nice’ ‘it's sevika, she doesn't deserve nice!’ — and retelling a particularly funny bar fight that she witnessed.

While she’s explaining the process she went through to implement the explosives into a harmless toy gun, your eyes flicker back to the man at her side. He’s leaning back, craning his neck to look at the ceiling, and you take the chance to admire his side profile. Enhanced by the dim light of his desk lamp, the curve of his nose is particularly alluring at the moment. From his nose to his charming overbite to the strands of hair that fall to the side as a result of a long exhausting day, you sneak subtle glances at him, as much as you can without getting caught. 

But you know, in your heart of hearts, that he must be aware of your burning gaze on the side of his face. And you know, when he turns his head slightly to lock eyes with you, that the look he gives you is just as loaded and dangerous as this little game you were playing.

“..anyways, I’d really like to show you the gun now.” 

Your attention falls back to the child nestled between the two of you, big blue eyes blinking innocently at you. You know she’s not clueless, and you know she’s probably sick of you playing eye games with her father when she’s right there. 

“Of course, honey. Silco?” 

He removes his arm from around her, adjusting his position so his body is drawn away from yours. Huh, funny. You hadn’t noticed how much it was angled towards you until now. 

Jinx sighs in relief the minute the two of you are out of the door and you can’t help but laugh.

“Jinx.” 

“Oh, c’mon, it’s impossible to be in the same room with the two of you without you making kissy eyes at each other!” 

Thankfully, you’re far enough down the hall to know Silco wouldn’t hear that. “We do not make kissy eyes at each other.” 

She stops, turns to give you an unamused look, then turns back around and continues walking. 

You follow her down to the basement, where she pulls out her magnificent invention. She shoots it far enough away so neither of you get impacted and you’re thankful to see that the explosions are more like fireworks than actual big booms. You’re proud of her and you tell her as much, she practically glows at the praise.

But then her smile drops and she sighs dramatically— the spitting image of her father when it comes to dramatics, how are they not blood related— “if only things could always be like this…” 

You frown, “like what?” 

“You and me, having fun, no Silco.” 

The statement is so jarring that it pulls a stunned laugh out of you, and Jinx grins, proud of herself. “Kidding! I like him too, I just wish you two would stop your secret messages.”

“Secret messages?” 

She nods, “the ones you communicate with your eyes. I wanna be in on those conversations too!” 

You smile. She definitely does not want to be in on those conversations, but you'd preserve what was left of her innocence. 

“So, Jinx,” you lean down to be on her level, “what do you wanna do next?” 

You watch as all thoughts of those secret conversations practically vanish from her head, replaced with much more important things, like visiting Jericho’s stall. 

When you make your way back to Silco’s office, it’s with a lot more food than you left with. Jinx is happily satisfied with the meal that she had at the stall, but she carries the extra food bags like ammo. She was nice enough to consider leaving some of it for her dear father. 

To your disappointment though, the office is empty. You think maybe something came up and he had to take care of it, as it often happens, and you feel a little relieved that maybe you’ll get to end the night here and postpone the sensual torture he puts you through to a later time, when you're not so hormonal. As you’re about to back up into the hallway to ask the standing guard of his whereabouts, you feel a pair of hands on your hips, holding you in place.

“Careful,” Silco leans forward to speak the words right into your ear, “it’s awfully rude to cause such an injury to your host.” He’s not even whispering, he just always uses that tone. 

His hands are gone from your hips as fast as they’d been placed there, and you almost mourn the loss. But the sight of Jinx’s knowing, bored expression diverts your attention back to the girl. 

Right, no kissy eyes. 

“Jericho’s?” He asks, one eyebrow raised. Jinx nods and rushes to place the remaining food on the coffee table, “we got some for you too!” 

“How nice of you, Jinx. Unfortunately, I’m rather full at the moment so I must postpone such an appetizing meal to a later time.” You note the smell of smoke in the air, he definitely had his meal of the night. “In the meantime, I think we should be getting you to bed.” 

Jinx groans, “already? But she just got here! I barely get to spend time with her.” 

You put an arm around her shoulder, “I’ll come by earlier on Monday if you go to bed on time right now.” She moves to wrap her arms around you for a final time, looking up at you with glossy blue eyes, “you promise?” 

“I do,” you plant a kiss on her forehead. 

Silco extends a hand and she takes it, small fingers engulfed in his much larger one. She waves at you as he guides her outside his office, down to her bedroom, you wave back as they slip out the door. This leaves you in the dim office alone. 

You saunter over to the couch and mindlessly drape yourself over the cushions, your head occupied with the inevitable decision you’re facing now. You either make up an excuse to leave early, one that he’d know better than to believe, or stay and put up with more hidden innuendos and dark, poorly masked looks. It’s not that you’re not used to it, or that it’s a new development, but rather the fact that you’ve come to the harrowing realization that whatever you felt for him ran deeper than you anticipated. It had been bubbling in your chest, threatening to overflow like a boiling kettle on a stove, and the final straw— the thing that truly pushed you over the edge— was that dream. 

And it's not the fact that it was dirty, you've had those about him before, and consequently, you’d learned to brush them off as wild fantasies. It happened once in a dream kind of deal, you weren’t going to get hung up over the possibilities of those thoughts ever coming to fruition. The problem with this particular dream was how romantic it was— the heated gaze in his reflection, the appreciative scan of your body, gods, just the feeling of him inside you. You weren’t fucking that man, you were making love to him. 

The thought is so cliche it makes you gag, but that look in his eyes when he was watching you in the mirror, your unconscious brain was endlessly cruel to make it look like he held such love for you. The longing, the monstrous yearning that dream instilled in you was dangerous. It planted a feeling inside your chest that now threatens to split it open if you're not careful. 

You're not blind to possibilities, there's a chance that Silco shares the sentiment and you're not in this mess entirely alone; but you're also aware that he's extremely mission oriented, and he probably wouldn't consider the prospect of something serious with you as long as Zaun wasn't free. It’s something you respect him for, never losing sight of his goals, you just wish it didn't make him nearly unattainable.

Because gods above, you'd love to attain him. 

It’s a thought that’s been brewing in the back of your mind since you first met. Three years ago, a much more distressed version of yourself was too tipsy to feel endangered by his presence at one of the less frequented bars. Back when Vander was in charge, you didn't know who Silco was or the implications of what had happened between them. All you knew was that this strange man had a sexy scar and his eye kinda glowed in the dark, and that made your alcohol-addled brain see stars.  

To this day, you aren’t quite sure what about your slurred conversation skills made him tolerate you enough to listen to you all night. You’ve suspected it was the loneliness he was dealing with at the time, and you were likely his least dangerous form of entertainment, or maybe he thought you were pretty and perhaps much more charming when sober. It’s probably the second one.

But that's how your unconventional friendship started, chance encounters in small bars. He was always able to find you alone and you were never sure how he did it but you didn't really mind. Where you found your curiosities being satisfied every time he shared something about himself, he found someone willing to share the burden with him. Eventually, you learned about Vander and what actually happened between them. The river, the betrayal, the blood; the respect you'd had for Vander soured into distaste, and turned into borderline hatred when you learned of the deal he had with the enforcers. 

Things were progressing quickly though, and it wasn't long before Vander was out of the picture. The Hound had been overpowered by The Eye, and that's when you met Jinx for the first time, hysterical and wailing in Silco’s arms. Powder, they used to call her, peculiarly fitting for the girl who had crumbled in your hold that night. You held her until the screaming ceased and the three of you fell asleep on the couch. 

That's when your relationship with Silco started changing, getting much more intimate. That night where Silco discovered just how useful you could be with Jinx, that was the first domino in a long line that led up to this moment, to the present where you were fighting tooth and nail against the feelings that were threatening to suffocate you. 

The sound of the door unlocking pulls you out of your thoughts, the object of your suffering walks in. 

“Drink?” He walks over to the bar cart.

You shake your head, “actually, Silco, I'm thinking of going home early today.” 

He pours himself some whiskey and doesn't look up at you, “oh, were you now?” He takes a slow, agonizing sip of his drink before he speaks again, “anything important?”  

You smile in spite of yourself, “not really, just tired.” 

He looks up from his drink, two mismatched eyes settling on your frame. His gaze travels down your body, assessing you as if you were one of the chembarons working under him. But under that scrutinizing gaze, you catch embers of something else, something dark and seductive, something that looks a lot like desire. 

Your face burns. 

“I guess I shall not keep you then.” He turns, walking over to his desk, “I wouldn't want to distract you from such important appointments.” 

He settles back in his chair and is almost immediately immersed in work again. You envy him for being so focused, knowing that if you go home now you'll just keep yourself awake thinking about him. You watch his fingers grasp the pen that he puts to paper and feel yourself grow light-headed, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that you had to go home and sit with your thoughts while all he touches is paperwork. You wanted him to touch you, put you out of your misery. 

You stand but make no move towards the door, instead making your way over to him. He doesn't look up when you pass by, walking over to the grand window that highlights the main wall of the office. You'd always been fascinated by it, the color was certainly a choice, and in daylight it looks mystifying. Right now, it's dark enough for you to catch your reflection, you pretend to adjust your hair. 

“You don't really want to leave, do you?” 

He doesn't move, doesn't turn in his chair. You know he can't see the gesture but you shake your head, “I don't know.” 

“Is there something you'd like to tell me?” 

Your body feels a tad too warm for comfort. 

“I don't know.” 

He discards his work with a sigh. Your lips curl in amusement, knowing that whenever you’re around, he’s too distracted to get any actual work done.

You watch as his reflection comes up behind yours, the heat in your body intensifies in response to the glowing glare of his dark eye. You know he's aware of the effect he has on you, and you know he does it on purpose. You wonder if he's ever haunted with thoughts of you the way you are of him, you wonder if he ever has dirty dreams about you. 

“Has something happened?” 

You shake your head. 

“Is someone threatening you?”

You shake your head again and laugh, of course that's what he would ask. 

“Look at me.” 

You don't have it in you to resist, especially when he's using that tone. You turn around, coming face to face with his narrowed eyes, sea green and charcoal eyes looking back at you. It’s difficult to miss the hint of concern that you’ve become accustomed to recognizing over the years. 

“What's on your mind, dove?” 

Your heart sings at the pet name and your lips curl bashfully, “I can't say it.” 

“Can't you?” His eyes trail down to your lips, “you can tell me anything.” 

In theory, you can. In theory, you have, ever since you first met and you'd spilled way too much about yourself to him, and that leap of faith is exactly how you ended up here. Standing in front of the man who holds your heart so firmly, unable to reach out and touch him, unable to have more than a small part of him. 

He draws closer, too close. 

“No, Sil. I'm afraid I can't this time,” your voice comes out soft, strained, “I'm afraid I have to leave before I do something stupid.” 

He pays no mind to your statement, hands reaching up to cup your face, rough fingertips contradicting the gentle nature of the act. Your eyes gloss over, the spark you've been feeling erupts into wild flames that threaten to consume your whole being. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone with such care that it makes your chest squeeze. Expression unreadable, he observes your face carefully; when his thumb skirts the outline of your lips, your breath catches in your throat.

You part your lips slightly and something inside him understands the silent communication. Something else throbs.

Experimentally, he brushes his thumb over your lips, appreciating the rough texture of the chewed skin. He watches as you open your mouth wider in invitation, assessing the situation before he pushes his thumb past your lips and right into the wetness of your oral cavity. Your mouth closes around him, careful not to bite, as you stare back into his observant eyes.

His breath hitches, pupil of the good eye blowing wider, as he watches you take his finger to the hilt. You think this must be another cruel trick from the gods, another wet dream that you're going to wake up from in frustration, but the feeling of his finger against your soft, wet tongue is unmistakable.

You’re not sure what this means, for you or your relationship with him, but you’re sure that it’s happening and you feel the need to savor what you can. Your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, thumb caressing the inside of his hand as your eyelids grow heavier. 

For a moment, the world stops. For a moment, all you can think about is how he tastes in your mouth, and flashes of the wicked dream you had only a few hours before run through your mind. Weeks of filthy thoughts push at you to do more, to ask for more of him, but you’re insistent on taking it slow, on memorizing every little gesture, just in case you never experience it again. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” 

You hum around his finger. The tent in his pants may be a visual representation of the effect you have on him, but you’re feeling rather greedy. 

“Surely, you must, or else, you wouldn't walk into this office with such pride, so confident knowing that you've got me wrapped around your finger.” Your lips curl into a smile around his finger and he scoffs in amusement, “happy to know that you're my weakness, aren't you?” 

He removes his finger and you're left to think about the implications of a ‘weakness’. A soft spot, a passion, a sweetness, a hazard, an obstacle, a problem. Did Silco see you as a problem? And most importantly, as you look into hungry, lustful eyes, does he care about that right now? 

You can't help the hand that comes up to grasp at his vest in desperation, you can't help the frantic need to keep him close while you can, to touch him for as long as he deems himself touchable. You can't help the force that makes you pull him closer to press your lips against his in a bruising kiss, and you can't help the shiver that runs through your body when he kisses you back with just as much force. 

He tastes like the cigar that you knew he was having earlier, sweetened by the taste of whiskey still in his mouth. The contact overwhelms your senses, unable to process anything besides how he tastes, how he smells, how he feels. 

He backs you up against the window so your burning hot skin is pressed against the cold glass, tongue shoving into your mouth with admirable ferocity. You let him tilt your head for better access, place his arms around your waist, push you up against the glass, you'd let him do anything to you right now. 

Sharp teeth bite down on your lips and the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, you find yourself unable to contain the small sounds of pleasure at his vicious probing. You can feel his arousal through his pants, poking at your thigh. Hungry for more, you reach down to give it a stroke over the clothes, to which he groans directly into your mouth.  

He draws back and you come face to face with the feral look in his eyes. 

“Needy little thing.” 

He reaches underneath your skirt and you gasp when his cool fingers make contact with the warm wetness of your underwear. He runs his finger back and forth in slow tortuous cycles. 

“So wet, so eager for my touch. Tell me, dove, how many times have you fantasized about this?” Your breath catches as he moves the offending fabric to the side and presses his finger to your bare cunt. “How many times have I made you this wet?” 

“Silco, please.” 

A devilish smile extends on his lips, “I know. Answer my question.” 

You throw your head back against the glass in frustration, breathing deeply. 

“More than I can count.”  

The fire that catches in his eyes is enough to burn down the greatest libraries in the world, mere embers of it manage to set your whole body aflame. It would be mortifying to witness if you weren’t the object of his affection, the recipient of what pleasure he has to offer. 

“You terrible little thing.”

Your answer rewards you with one, long finger easing its way past your lips and into your cunt. Your hips stutter at the contact and it elicits a sharp smile from your assailant as he curls the digit inside you. He watches your face contorting in pleasure, drawing out helpless needy moans from your sweet little mouth. He moves to swallow the gasps with his own, planting soft but relentless kisses on your lips. 

He's kind enough to insert a second finger in, working you on his hand as he angles his wrist to reach further inside. You break off from his mouth to peer down at the sight, watching his fingers disappear into your cunt; it’s endlessly obscene and it only feeds the fire burning inside you. You tighten around him when the pleasure gets too much and he grunts into your ear, the sound rolling down your spine. 

You force your head back up so he can kiss you again, shoving your head back against the glass. He claims your mouth once more, fingers relentlessly probing at your opening. His thumb moves to rub against your clitoris and your body twitches with pleasure, forcing you to draw back from his searing hot mouth. He observes you with the ravenousness of a predator observing its prey, appreciating the way your mouth helplessly hangs open. 

His thumb continues to rub against your clit as you approach the precipice at an alarming rate.

“I should like to see you speechless like this more often.” 

The smug smirk that stretches upon his kiss-bruised lips, the sinful tone of his voice, and the burning hot gaze he observes you with— it’s all too much. 

It takes a lot of control to keep your eyes open, but you don't strip him of the pleasure that comes from watching you crumble at his hand— on his hand. Those cursed, rough fingers that have committed atrocious crimes in the name of a greater cause, they continue to fuck the common sense out of you until you have no fight left in you.

When he pulls his fingers out, they’re coated with your wetness and you flush in embarrassment. Undeterred, he places the fingers in his mouth and licks them clean, before he leans forward and presses a soft kiss against your lips.

“Shall we continue this in the bedroom?” 

Gods above, thank you Janna. 

“Please.” 

When you're laid down on the silky bed sheets this time, it's miles better than you dreamt it to be. 

Silco wastes no time undressing you, having pulled your shirt off on the way to the bed, he figures out how to unhook your bra pretty quickly. You shouldn't be too surprised, those fingers are seriously skilled at everything they do. Once they're off, he dives to catch one of your breasts in his mouth, teeth grazing sensitive nipples. You take rapid deep breaths as you watch him devour your chest, creating bite marks that you'd definitely admire later. The wanting between your legs is overwhelming, but so is the one in your chest. You affectionately thread your fingers through his hair, pulling on it when he bites down on your sensitive skin. You think you could come from this alone. 

When he's satisfied with the assault on your chest, he moves lower. Your skirt is unzipped and removed at an alarming speed and his face is between your thighs before you have a chance to protest. 

Warm breath fans over your underwear, still wet from your first orgasm. He pauses, eyes peering up at you in such an uncharacteristically serene manner that you almost think something's wrong. 

“I've thought about this before.” 

You tilt your head, eyelids heavy as you smile down at him. “Have you?” 

“You have no idea, darling. I've thought about you in positions much worse.” 

You bite your lip, “I know. I've thought about you too.” There's a silent, unspoken implication in your statement that you hope the breathlessness and aching look you give him convey well enough, you're not sure that you'd be able to push out the confession otherwise. His eyes flicker from your face back to your clothed cunt, deep in thought. Almost mindlessly, he reaches up to lace his fingers through yours. He does it on his left, you reach for both his hands, rubbing gently at his knuckles. If it weren't for the position, you'd lean down and kiss them. 

“You must understand how badly I've wanted this,” and you do, “you must understand that this isn't a mindless act of the body.” Your breath hitches at what he's implying, and you're thankful that he doesn't declare it just yet, because you think you'd explode under the weight of the feeling bubbling in your chest.

“I do, Silco. I feel the same.” 

‘We can talk about it later’ is unspoken, but well understood between the two of you. For now, you focus on the way his body feels against yours, the way he noses at the inner side of your thigh in a slow absentminded motion. 

“Are you going to eat me out or should I get up and leave, Sil?” 

That catches his attention, eyes snapping to meet yours. His fingers leave yours to curl possessively around your thigh, digging hard enough to leave marks. 

“Leave? I would never let you, not when I have you in my hands like this.” 

And oh Janna, did he have you in his hands. 

The first contact of his tongue against your folds has you arching your back in fervor, eager to meet his mouth with your core. His eyes flicker in amusement as he pins you down by the hips.

“Patience.” 

You whine, the amount of need circulating your body overwhelming your senses. He presses his tongue flat against you and licks another experimental strip; your chest heaves, heart beating erratically against your ribcage. The frustration has you untangling your fingers from his to grip onto the sheets. He glances up at you, a dangerous look playing in his eyes, and goes for another lick. 

You sharply inhale, “Silco.” 

His lips curl in amusement, “good things come to those who wait, my love.” 

You throw your head back and release a sound that's a combination of pleasure and frustration. Teasing, evil bastard. 

“You've waited a long time for this, haven't you?” You nod, feeling too frustrated to answer. “Tell me, dove, what made you snap this time? What gave you the audacity to wrap your lips around my finger so desperately, looking at me like I hold the key to all your desires?” 

Your skin feels impossibly hot, his warm breath fans over your exposed core but he makes no move to relieve you of your suffering, looking at you expectantly instead.  

“I had a dream,” you push out through gritted teeth, “I had a dream about you.” 

He draws lazy circles on the inside of your thigh, “have you? Did it feature such promiscuous positions?”  

You shake your head, smiling down at him, “worse, you fucked me in front of your mirror.” 

His breath hitches, pupils going wide at the mental image. He speaks slowly, entranced, “is that what you like?” 

“Maybe for another time,” your smile drops, “right now, I'd like you to fucking eat me out, please.” 

He chuckles, planting a toothy kiss on the inside of your thigh, “so impatient.” 

When his tongue makes proper contact with your pussy, you let out a wanton moan. The relief it provides is inexplicable, allowing you to melt back into the covers, his grip on your thighs keeping them wide open. Your hands travel down to thread through his hair, and you get the wonderful vision of dream-disheveled Silco as a very real projection between your thighs. 

“I always knew you were good with your tongue, Sil.” You sigh in bliss. He hums against your core, “gave it a lot of thought, have you?” 

“You have no idea.” 

His wet tongue rubs against your soft walls, eliciting more needy sounds from your throat. He eats pussy like an experienced veteran, silver tongue curling inside you to reach the deepest spots. If only he could always put it to such good use. 

His sharp nose rubs against your clit and your body jolts in pleasure. 

“Right there, Sil. Don't stop,” he looks up at you with dark eyes as you continue to beg in the neediest tone known to man, “please, don't stop.” 

And he doesn't. True to his nature, he has the stamina of a fighter, and if this is how good he eats you out, you look forward to what comes after. 

He works you with his tongue until you approach your second orgasm of the night. Your back arches in anticipation, grip tightening around his hair, all you can manage in warning is a breathless close that he responds to with more vigorous probing. His hands around your hips pin you down, resisting the relentless twitching that's evoked by his tongue moving inside you. 

You call out his name in desperate pleas, hips stuttering with every deep plunge into your cunt. His eyes meet yours from between your legs, practically glowing in enjoyment; your heart stutters at the sight, you don't know if you'll ever witness anything like this in your lifetime. He mercifully continues to rub at your clit, providing you with the release you've been begging for.

The tight rope inside you continues to curl and tighten further until it snaps, reverberating through your body like an intense war cry. You come with a broken moan that has you squeezing your eyes under the intense weight of pleasure, unshed tears wetting your lashes.  

Silco squeezes your thighs, silently asking you to look at him, and you shakily comply, allowing him direct eye contact while he fucks you through your high. 

He detaches from you within a few seconds, and the affection swelling in your chest has you pulling at his vest to pull him up for a bruising kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, the evidence of your orgasm mixing into your shared spit. When you pull back, you're met with his wonderfully disheveled and flushed face, and you notice— with great amusement— that you've rubbed some of his foundation off on your thighs. 

Your eyes trail down to his clothed chest, you realize that there's a great disequilibrium between your states of undress. Your hands rise to trace the gold in his clothes, all the way up to his collar. 

“Will you take this off?” You tug at his clothes, “please, I'd like to see you.” 

You're aware that it's a big request, that his bare body would put him in such a vulnerable position that he would never recover from if this doesn't go well; but you're not quite sure what ‘this’ is either, between the lust you feel in your core, and the love beating in your chest, the one feeling that courses through you is ‘want’. 

You want him naked, vulnerable, offering himself to you just as you have to him. 

He looks torn, hesitant.

Your hand creeps up further to brush at what little skin is exposed from his neck. Slow tentative movements over the sensitive area has him twitching in your hands, but he doesn't move away. Your hands creep higher to settle around his neck, feeling for the physical and emotional scar that was left there ages ago, but still burns as if recently instilled. 

Discussions about Vander have been few and far in-between, and you understand the wound still runs deep. For a minute, you're afraid that he's going to turn away from your touch when his breath catches in his throat at the incidental scratch of your nails, but he relaxes in your grip when you continue to rub soothing patterns over the sensitive skin. 

With what power you have, you trace mindless circles on his shoulders, leaning forward to plant soft kisses along his collarbones. “It’s okay.” You kiss upwards, drawing closer to the junction of his shoulder and neck. His breath hitches as you draw closer to the sensitive skin, but he tilts his head back and allows you unspoken access anyways. 

Trust is not easy to come by, especially with someone like him, but the sight of Silco practically melting in your hands while you trace over his most sensitive scar, it feels like a bond even deeper than trust. 

The need to be brave for him, to lay yourself bare— even more than being entirely naked under him— is imminent. You take a deep breath before your fingers hook together behind his neck and pull him down for another kiss, once more for courage. 

“I like you, Silco,” you speak against his lips, glistening with the proof of your kiss. “I like you a lot, and there's nothing you can say or do that will make me like you less.” Your eyes trail up to his own, the next words feeling much more serious than you intend, “I like you so much that nothing you can show me now will make me turn away.” 

It's a reckless promise, a heated confession that admittedly just follows the weight of the moment without much previous thought. Later, you'd have to enforce the idea of boundaries, the things that he isn't allowed to do, but something in your head tells you that you weren't lying. Regardless of what he does, you don't see yourself ever walking away. 

His gaze softens, the hesitant look from earlier replaced by a prominent ache, the aftermath of a healing wound. 

“Ever the sweet talker, dove.” 

You smile, “only for you, Sil. Only for you.” 

He draws back, moving to undo his vest before he halts, instead reaching for your hands. 

“Would you like to help?” 

Your eyes twinkle with mirth, “please.” 

Slender fingers wrap around yours, guiding you to undo his tie, take off his vest, push his shirt off his shoulder. You appreciate the sight of his bare, scarred chest, running your fingers across his torso. You lean forward to plant a few soft kisses on his shoulder while you attempt to undo his pants without looking. 

You’re forced to draw back with a laugh when you undeniably fail. 

“Your pants are killing me.” 

He huffs a light laugh, “it takes a moderate amount of skill, dearest,” something flickers in his eyes, “you'll gain experience in no time.”

Your heart squeezes at the implication. You watch as he illustrates how to undo those buttons, burning every movement to memory. Once the pants are off, you reach for his underwear eagerly, grunting out a finally that only amuses him further. 

Within a few seconds, he's back on top of you and you're both equal parts naked this time. You wrap your legs around his waist, secure him against you as you exchange more open mouthed kisses. He grows harder against you, rubbing against your thighs and wet, sensitive cunt. You groan into his mouth and he takes it as a sign to reach between your legs and position himself properly. 

Your arms squeeze around his shoulder when he slips in. His girth is impressive for someone of such stature and it has you gasping for air. He raises his head to look at your face as you take him in, allowing you the glorious vision of his ruined, flushed face— he's continuously coming undone under your touch. Janna, you could watch him like this forever. 

Your fingers dig crescent moons into his pale skin once he begins moving inside you. It starts out slow, he enters all the way until you're taking him to the hilt and then allows you the pleasure of slow thrusts. Needy moans bubble in your throat as your grip on his shoulders tighten so much that you think you're about to draw blood, giving him a more pleasurable sort of scar. 

“It's been hard holding back around you lately,” he whispers against your lips. “You're impossibly alluring when you want to be.” 

You kiss him once more, “how do you think I feel?” He chases your lips when you part but you speak again, “how long has it been for you?” 

“Since the day I took in Jinx.” He drops his head into the crook of your neck, almost like he's shy, “and for you?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck, “since the day we met.” 

He breathes a light laugh against your skin, you continue. “No seriously, I'd have fucked you back then if you initiated anything. Men with scars are lethally sexy.” 

“Aren't you lucky, then.” 

He bites into your neck, eliciting a soft moan from your mouth, and sucks until you're sure it forms a nice satisfactory bruise. He licks the sensitive skin and moves to other sites to plant more marks. “Always knew you were a biter,” you say breathlessly, throat constricting under his hot mouth.

Once he's done with his assault on your neck, he stands tall and you watch something shift in his expression. The soft, loving look is replaced with something hungry and dangerous, it has you squeezing around his cock. 

“You've waited so patiently,” he hooks your legs higher around his middle, “I have to make sure I live up to your expectations.” 

And then something is set off inside him, because his pace changes from soft and romantic to goddamn animalistic. His pace speeds up, drilling so deeply inside you that you think you feel him in your stomach. Your fingers dig into his back for some sort of grounding ritual but it only makes him groan right into your ear and the sound travels down to where you're connected. You can barely catch your breath. 

“You, oh my gods, you exceed expectations, Sil.” 

“Oh, I know, darling, the way your cunt squeezes around me is proof enough.” 

Every obscene word goes right to your core and you feel him tugging on every sensitive string in your body. It's much more than that dream— gods that stupid, wonderful dream that had started the cascade of events that lead to this. There was no need for dreams anymore, his cock inside you was very much real and it was throbbing with need, one that you matched in your own core. 

His arms are on either side of your face as he fucks the living daylight out of you, and you turn and burry your teeth in his left hand to feed some of the gnawing need in your core. You think it would be delightful if you could have more of him in your mouth, you consider if you should bite down until you draw blood but you choose to be kind this time. You can save it for the next few times, something he seems to be planning as well. 

You turn back to face him and find yourself grinning stupidly at the knowledge that you're going to get this sight again, and again, and again, until you are either satisfied or dead. And if you happen to die during it, that'd be even better. 

“Dirty girl, smiling to yourself while you take my cock. What are you thinking of?” 

“I'm thinking of how beautiful you are, and how you're going to fuck me over and over again until we're both satisfied.” 

He releases a low groan, hips stuttering momentarily before he picks up the pace again, slamming against your bare ass with newfound vigor. 

“You're going to be the death of me.” 

Then he leans down and catches your mouth in one last sloppy kiss, tongue assaulting yours in a similar fashion to his cock assaulting your cunt. You wrap your arms around his neck once more, whining pleas into his open mouth. The pleasure in your lower abdomen is overwhelming, overstimulated by his bruising kiss and arms coming around you. 

It accumulates, all the sensations and the continuous coiling in your pelvis, until it explodes. The ecstasy washes over your body in waves, making you gasp against Silco’s mouth as you come undone. It shakes your whole body and for a second you think you see stars in the glowing orb of his damaged eye. He's endlessly beautiful, even as he brings you to your ruin. 

He continues to fuck you through your orgasm and long enough to reach his own, too. He finishes inside, spilling himself deep within you, making you shudder at the sensation. He doesn't stop until he's completely soft inside you. 

It's severely disappointing when he pulls out, but you understand that you can't be joined at the hips forever without an unfortunate lab accident. Instead, you settle for his embrace when he puts an arm around your shoulder, cuddling into him— two sweaty heaving bodies and an uncertain future. 

When he traces invisible patterns into your bare skin and leans down to kiss your forehead though, it doesn't really matter. 

It especially doesn't matter when you look up at him with a smile that matches his own, and it doesn't matter even more when that smile of his turns into a smirk at his next words.  

“If that's what one dream can do, I look forward to the rest of them.”

Lovely illustration for silco being an #eater right here ♡

[dee-writes-anime]

So I saw that your requests are open and that you do JJK and I was wondering if you’d be interested in the idea buzzing in my brain for the past week. Nanami is a total jazz lover in my mind and there’s a jazz club in town and the reader is a jazz singer full of passion. I’m thinking Nanami falls head over heels for reader especially with her voice as she sings love songs. Also I love your work it’s fantastic and always a joy to read.

The Echoing, All-Encompassing Sound of Love

FEATURING Kento Nanami x Female Reader

SUMMARY The Blue Note was a place Nanami went to unwind after hard, long days of endless, meaningless work. It was a place for him to fall into the shadows and familiarity of the deep blues and jazz, it was a comfort, but nothing had ever touched him, enraptured him like you had when you stepped on that stage.

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff, cuteness, introspective??, Kento gushing over his WOMAN (bark bark bark), obsessed man, this is some deep, soulful shit yall, only edited ever so slightly T-T

AUTHORS NOTE I have no idea where I went with this or how it got to this point, but I really hope I brought your vision to life darling anon. <3

The jazz club, nestled in the heart of the city, is alive with an intimate, cozy energy. The space is dimly lit, with soft, warm lighting casting long shadows across the room. A thin haze of smoke lingers in the air, adding to the club's mystique. The gentle hum of quiet conversations mixes with the soft clinking of glasses and the occasional low laugh, creating a comforting backdrop for the evening.

At a small, round table near the stage, Kento Nanami sits, his posture relaxed yet composed. His impeccably tailored suit fits him perfectly, as always. He swirls a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid catching the faint light. His sharp gaze is focused on the stage, where musicians are setting up their instruments, tuning and adjusting, preparing for the night’s performance. The familiar ritual of the pre-show calm settles over him, a welcome escape from the chaos of his usual day-to-day life.

Nanami takes a sip of his drink, savoring the smooth burn as it slides down his throat, and leans back slightly in his chair. His eyes flicker around the room, taking in the scattered patrons, each one lost in their own world of jazz and ambiance. He’s been coming to this club for a few weeks now, drawn by the soothing allure of the music and the promise of an evening where the only battles to be fought are between trumpet solos and sultry saxophone notes.

He doesn’t know it yet, but tonight will be different. Tonight, a new performer is set to take the stage, and with her first note, Nanami’s world will begin to shift in ways he never expected.

Nanami wasn’t the type to indulge in luxuries. He preferred the quiet satisfaction of a well-brewed cup of coffee, the crisp pages of a book, the efficiency of a perfectly executed plan. But there was something about this jazz club that drew him in like a moth to a flame. The dim lighting, the haze of smoke, the low hum of the bass—these were not things he typically sought out, but here, in this place, they provided a strange sense of comfort.

Tonight, the club is alive with its usual hum of activity. Patrons sit scattered around small tables, their faces barely visible in the shadows, illuminated only by the soft glow of flickering candles. The scent of whiskey and old leather mingles with the faint traces of smoke, creating an atmosphere that is both timeless and ephemeral. The band on stage plays a slow, steady rhythm, a saxophone gently crying out a mournful tune that fills the room with a bittersweet nostalgia.

Nanami sits at his usual table, close enough to the stage to see every detail, yet far enough to remain unnoticed by most. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, his suit crisp and neat despite the casual setting. He swirls his glass of whiskey, watching the ice cubes clink softly against the sides, his gaze occasionally drifting to the stage. His mind is calm, his thoughts quieted by the gentle rhythm of the music. He’s been coming here for weeks now, finding solace in the music, in the anonymity of the darkened room.

But tonight is different.

The moment you step on stage, something shifts in the air. It’s as if the very essence of the club changes, the room becoming quieter, the audience collectively holding its breath in anticipation. Nanami feels it too—a subtle tightening in his chest, a flutter he can’t quite name. He watches as you move into the spotlight, the soft, golden light catching on the sequins of your dress, making you shimmer like a dream. Your eyes are closed, your posture relaxed yet poised, as if you’re in a world all your own.

And then you start to sing.

The first note is like a whisper, gentle and soft, yet it carries through the room with a clarity that demands attention. Your voice is unlike anything Nanami has ever heard—smooth as honey, rich as velvet, with a depth that speaks of experiences and emotions he can only begin to imagine. Each note is carefully controlled, each word filled with emotion, and he finds himself leaning forward slightly, his focus entirely on you.

As you continue, your voice grows stronger, more confident, filling the room with a warmth that wraps around everyone like a comforting embrace. The lyrics are a love song, simple yet profound, speaking of longing and hope, of heartache and desire. Nanami feels each word as if it’s directed at him, as if you’re singing just for him, your gaze occasionally sweeping across the audience, and he can’t help but wonder if you see him.

The way you move on stage is mesmerizing. You sway gently to the rhythm, your hands occasionally rising to emphasize a particularly powerful line. There’s a passion in your performance, a raw emotion that spills out with every note, making it impossible to look away. Nanami’s heart races, a strange sensation for someone usually so composed. He doesn’t know why, but something about you, about this moment, feels significant—like a turning point he didn’t see coming.

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, the liquid warming him from the inside out, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth your voice brings. As you hit a high note, the room seems to hold its breath, and Nanami feels a shiver run down his spine. He’s never felt so captivated, so drawn to someone. It’s as if your voice is a thread, pulling him closer, wrapping around his heart and refusing to let go.

For the first time in a long while, Nanami feels something beyond the constant grind of his duties. He feels alive, his senses heightened by the music, by your presence. He doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t know your story, but in this moment, none of that matters. All that matters is the music, the way your voice makes him feel, and the strange, undeniable pull he feels toward you.

He tries to stay for the rest of the night, anticipating the moment he can go up and introduce himself when all the performers do crowd work. However, it seems his phone has different plans as it buzzes insistently in the back pocket of his slacks, calling him cruelly away from the opportunity to catch your name, to hear your voice once more. Kento Nanami doesn't consider a man who's easy to anger, but that night, having lost the opportunity to know you, to catch just a single glimpse at your soul again, he can't help but feel his blood boil under his skin.

As he leaves the club, he convinces himself that he will see you again, that he will take the next opportunity as it comes and talk to you.

And that is how Kento Nanami quickly becomes a fixture at The Blue Note, his visits growing more frequent, timed perfectly to coincide with your performances.

He never deviates from his routine: arriving a few minutes before your set, he always sits at the same small table near the stage, his broad shoulders relaxed yet somehow still commanding in his perfectly tailored suit. He orders a single glass of whiskey, savoring it slowly throughout the evening.

His presence is quiet but unyielding, like a shadow that’s always there, watching, observing. Every time you step on stage, his gaze is already on you, unwavering, a steady anchor amidst the flickering candlelight and swirling smoke. It’s a look that’s intense, focused, as if he’s trying to unravel the secrets hidden within each note you sing.

You’ve noticed him, of course—how could you not? At first, he was just another face in the crowd, another patron drawn to the allure of jazz and dim lighting. But as the weeks passed, you found your eyes lingering on him more and more, intrigued by his quiet demeanor, the way he seemed to hang on to every word you sang. There was a mystery about him, a sense of restraint that made you wonder what thoughts lay hidden behind those piercing eyes.

As the days turn into weeks, his presence becomes a comfort, a constant in the ever-changing tide of the club’s clientele. You start to look for him as you step on stage, your gaze naturally drifting to his usual spot. The way he watches you feels different from the others—more profound, more attentive, as if he’s listening not just with his ears, but with his entire being.

And each time you sing, you can’t help but feel a strange connection to him, a silent understanding that grows stronger with every performance. His steady gaze becomes a source of inspiration, a quiet encouragement that pushes you to pour even more of yourself into each song. It’s almost as if you’re singing just for him, even though you’ve never exchanged a single word.

One evening, after a particularly soulful rendition of an old jazz standard, you notice him again. He’s there, as always, sitting at his usual table, his eyes following you with that same intense focus. But tonight feels different. There’s something in his gaze that you can’t quite place—an emotion that lingers in the air like the final note of a song.

The club is quieter than usual tonight, the dim lights casting long shadows across the room. As you step off the stage, your heart still pounding from the performance, you find yourself drawn to him, almost against your will. You’re not sure what compels you—perhaps it’s the curiosity that’s been building inside you for weeks, or maybe it’s the intensity of his focus, the way he seems to see right through you, as if he knows every emotion behind your songs.

You make your way through the tables, your steps slow and deliberate, your heart beating a little faster with each one. As you approach, you notice the subtle shift in his expression—his eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise passing across his otherwise stoic face. He sets his glass down carefully, his movements calm and measured, but you can see the tension in the way he sits up straighter, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Hi,” you say softly, your voice carrying just above the soft hum of the club. Up close, you notice the sharp angles of his face, the way his hair falls neatly over his forehead, and the intensity of his eyes—eyes that are watching you with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something deeper.

He nods slightly, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile. “Hello,” he replies, his voice low and smooth, matching the ambiance of the club perfectly. There’s a moment of silence, the kind that hangs heavy with unspoken questions and unsaid words.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. “I’ve noticed you here before,” you say, trying to sound casual, though your heart is racing. “You come to listen a lot.”

Nanami’s eyes soften, and he nods again. “I do,” he admits, his gaze steady and sincere. “You have a… remarkable voice. It’s not something one can easily forget.”

His words catch you off guard, the sincerity in them striking a chord deep within you. You smile, a genuine, warm smile that reaches your eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”

He tilts his head slightly, a subtle curiosity playing across his features. “From me?”

You nod, feeling a strange sense of comfort in his presence. “Yes. You always seem so… focused. It’s hard not to wonder what you’re thinking.”

Nanami chuckles softly, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. “I suppose I’m just… listening,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “Trying to understand the emotion behind each song. You sing with such passion; it’s hard not to be drawn in.”

Your heart flutters at his words, at the honesty in them. For a moment, the world outside fades away, and it’s just the two of you in this small, smoky club, sharing a connection that feels almost tangible.

As the evening goes on, the conversation flows naturally, each word revealing a little more about the enigmatic man who has been such a mystery to you. And as you talk, you find yourself wanting to know more, to understand the quiet strength behind his stoic exterior, and to uncover the emotions that lie beneath his calm façade.

Tonight, you’ve taken the first step into a new rhythm, one that neither of you could have anticipated.

But your exploration ends there-- at least, for the time being as Nanami finds himself pulled back into the Jujutsu world, all his extra time lost to consistent missions and training as a grade-one sorcerer.

It's only about a month later that he is finally able to force just enough time into his exhausting schedule to come see you again, the dim glow of the jazz club's lights dances across the walls, and the familiar hum of chatter fills the room as patrons settle in for another night of music.

Nanami sits at his usual table, but tonight feels different. His normally calm and composed demeanor is slightly frayed at the edges. His fingers tap nervously against the rim of his glass, and he takes a slow, deep breath. He’s been thinking about this moment for weeks, rehearsing his words, imagining every possible outcome.

He can no longer ignore the pull he feels toward you—the singer who has become more than just a beautiful voice on stage. Every performance has drawn him deeper into your world, and he finds himself wanting more. He wants to know you, to understand the person behind the melodies that have captivated him so completely.

As the final notes of your current song fade, you take a small bow, the audience’s applause a warm, familiar comfort. When you lift your gaze, your eyes naturally drift to his spot, widening ever so slightly when you see him watching you with that same intense focus. There’s something different in his expression tonight, a hint of determination that makes your heart skip a beat.

When the set ends, you make your way offstage, your steps lighter than usual. As you head toward the bar for a drink, you see him rise from his table, his tall figure cutting through the smoky haze of the club. He’s coming toward you, his movements purposeful but not rushed. There’s a resolve in his stride, a quiet confidence that makes your pulse quicken with anticipation.

“Hi again,” you greet him with a smile as he approaches, leaning casually against the bar. Up close, he’s as striking as ever, his presence commanding but not overpowering. There’s a softness to his eyes tonight, a warmth that wasn’t there before. "Long time no see."

“Hello,” he responds, his voice a touch lower than usual, an embarrassed blush lightly dusting his sharp cheekbones. He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. You can see the faintest hint of nervousness in the way he briefly glances away before meeting your gaze again. “I wanted to… say something.” He hesitates, then continues, “First, I wanted to apologize for my absence after our conversation. I see how it might seem that my lack of attendance is directly related, and I want to make it clear that it wasn't."

"That's alright," you say so sweetly, your voice dripping with a honey that doesn't reach the stage. It makes him pause, that soulful tone that you sing with is so at odds with your personality it almost makes him want to enquire whether or not you are the same woman.

But he has more important things to do, like reveal his truth. "A-and also.. your voice… it moves me in ways I can’t quite explain. It’s like every note, every word carries a piece of you, and… it reaches me.”

His confession is quiet, almost lost in the low murmur of the club, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart swell. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes now, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the composed exterior.

A smile tugs at your lips, and you feel a playful urge to lighten the moment. “So, does that make you my most dedicated fan?” you tease gently, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

Nanami chuckles softly, a hint of color rising in his cheeks. “I suppose it does,” he admits, a small, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoicism. “I can’t seem to stay away.”

There’s a moment of shared laughter, and in that instant, the tension between you softens, replaced by a warm, unspoken connection. It’s a feeling that’s been building for weeks, and now, standing here with him, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you have a favorite song from my set?” you ask, curious to know more about the quiet man who seems to hang on your every word.

Without a second’s hesitation, he answers, “The ballad you sing—the one about longing and quiet devotion. It… resonates with me.”

You nod, recognizing the song he’s referring to. It’s one of your favorites too, a song filled with deep emotions, a story of unspoken love and silent yearning. His choice surprises you, but it also makes your heart flutter. There’s something incredibly personal about his answer, something that touches a place deep within you.

As the evening progresses, you prepare for the next set. Nanami returns to his table, but there’s a newfound lightness in his demeanor, a subtle shift in his posture. You take the stage again, the band picking up the soft, familiar notes of the ballad he mentioned. The room falls silent as you begin to sing.

Your voice carries through the club, each note delicate and filled with emotion. As you sing, your eyes search the crowd, drawn inevitably to him. When your gaze finally meets his, it feels like the air is charged with electricity. His eyes are locked on yours, and suddenly, the song takes on a whole new meaning. It’s no longer just a performance; it’s a conversation, a silent exchange of feelings that neither of you has dared to voice until now.

The words spill from your lips with a newfound intensity, each lyric filled with the raw emotion that’s been building inside you since the moment you first saw him. The love song, once a simple ballad, now feels like a confession, a declaration wrapped in melody. You can see it in his eyes too—a depth of feeling that mirrors your own, a quiet devotion that makes your heart race.

As the final note fades into the silence, you realize that the room has disappeared, leaving just the two of you connected by the invisible thread of the music. The applause is distant, a faint echo of reality, but all you can focus on is the way he’s looking at you—as if you are the only person in the world.

In that moment, under the soft glow of the club’s lights, something shifts between you. It’s a beginning, a step into uncharted territory, but it feels right. And as you both stand there, wrapped in the warmth of the song and the quiet understanding between you, you know that whatever comes next, it’s a melody you’re both eager to explore.

It's not long before the nights at The Blue Note become something more than just performances and applause. After the crowd disperses and the lights dim, the club transforms into a sanctuary of quiet conversations and shared silences. Nanami stays longer now, his reserved demeanor softening with each passing evening. You sit together at the bar or at his usual table near the stage, sometimes talking late into the night, sometimes just sitting in a comfortable silence that says more than words ever could.

You’ve come to look forward to these moments—the way Nanami listens so intently when you speak, as if every word matters, the way his eyes soften when he catches you smiling. There’s a calm about him, a quiet strength that you find yourself drawn to more and more. He never pushes, never asks for more than you’re willing to give. Instead, he’s just… there. A steady presence that has quickly become a constant in your life.

You learn things about him in these quiet hours. He speaks of his work in vague terms, his shoulders tensing slightly whenever the topic drifts too close. But he’s open about his love for jazz, about how he finds solace in the melodies and rhythms. He tells you about the first time he heard you sing, how something inside him shifted, how he knew he would return again and again.

In return, you share pieces of yourself with him—stories of your childhood, your love for music, and how it’s the one thing that has always made you feel truly alive. You tell him about the first time you sang on a stage, how nervous you were, and how that fear melted away the moment you began to sing. He listens with an intensity that makes you feel seen, truly seen, in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

As the days turn into weeks, an unspoken bond forms between you. It’s there in the way Nanami orders your favorite drink without you asking, in the way he waits for you to finish after every performance, ready with a quiet smile and a listening ear. It’s in the way you look for him in the crowd, your heart lifting just a little each time you find him sitting at his usual spot, watching you with that steady, unyielding gaze.

You begin to see the depth of Nanami in the little things—the way he’s always mindful of your space, the way he listens more than he speaks, and how his rare, gentle smiles are more precious than any grand gesture. He shows his affection in thoughtful ways—a book he thought you might like, a warm cup of tea on a rainy night, a steady hand at your back when you’re feeling overwhelmed.

It’s these moments, small but meaningful, that make you realize just how much he’s come to mean to you. He’s become more than just a regular at the club, more than just a face in the crowd. He’s someone you’ve come to rely on, someone whose presence brings a sense of calm and comfort that you hadn’t realized you were missing.

Tonight, the club is busier than usual, the crowd buzzing with energy. You’re back on stage, the warm glow of the spotlight casting a soft halo around you. The band starts to play the familiar opening notes of a love song, the same ballad Nanami had mentioned that night—the one filled with longing and quiet devotion. Your heart flutters with a mix of nerves and excitement. Tonight feels different, charged with a new kind of energy.

As you begin to sing, your eyes naturally seek him out. Nanami is there, as always, sitting at his usual table. But tonight, there’s no distance between you. He’s no longer just a quiet admirer in the shadows; he’s someone who knows your stories, someone who’s seen you in your most vulnerable moments. And when your gaze meets his, it’s like the whole room falls away, leaving just the two of you connected by the music.

Your voice carries through the club, each note filled with a tenderness that wasn’t there before. You sing for him now, every word an unspoken confession, every melody a shared memory. The song is more than just a performance; it’s a dialogue, a way to say all the things you haven’t yet put into words.

Nanami watches you with a quiet intensity, his eyes soft and warm. You can see the emotion there, the depth of feeling that he so rarely shows. And as you sing, you can feel it too—a warmth spreading through your chest, a sense of belonging that makes you feel more alive than ever.

The final notes of the song hang in the air, a delicate echo that slowly fades into the silence. The crowd erupts in applause, but all you hear is the quiet, steady beat of your heart, all you see is the way Nanami’s lips curve into a gentle, knowing smile.

You take a small bow, but your eyes never leave his. There’s a shared understanding between you, a silent promise that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together. And in that moment, under the soft lights of the club, with the music still lingering in the air, you know that you’ve found something special—something worth holding onto.

As the night draws to a close and the crowd begins to thin, you make your way off the stage, your steps light and purposeful. Nanami is waiting for you, his figure a steady presence amidst the shifting shadows. He doesn’t say anything as you approach, but his eyes speak volumes—filled with a quiet devotion that makes your heart swell.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs softly, his voice carrying just above the soft hum of the remaining patrons.

“Thank you,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “For everything.”

Nanami nods, his expression gentle, and without another word, he offers you his hand. You take it, feeling the warmth of his touch, the strength of his grip—a silent promise that whatever comes next, you won’t have to face it alone.

And as you stand there, hand in hand, with the music still echoing softly around you, you can’t help but feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

[rapunzelbro]

Hi! Could you write an Angel Dust x Reader (Platonic) oneshot. Where the reader comforts him after his day with Valentino. And in return, he comforts them when their feeling sad

I find comfort in you…Angel x Reader

An: thank you so much for requesting! I hope you enjoy this. I accidentally made it longer haha. Enjoy it! Any feedback’s appreciated.

Masterlist Taglist

If you had a penny for every time you comforted Angel after meeting him, you'd have a room full of pennies, and then some. Angel was super protective of others seeing his true feelings, he didn't want to have to risk the people he cared about getting hurt by being his friend, he didn’t want Valentino to find out by any means. He kept his guard up a lot around you when you first met him. But after time of just talking, he finally slowly started opening up to you, which led to him finding comfort in you.

The first time he came to you, he was a crying mess, you instantly rushed out of your bed wrapping your arms around him, he instantly did the same back. You gently hummed trying to soothe him the best you could. You never seen him like that before. Ever. You guided him to your bed, not letting your hand leave his side, he didn't want to let go quite yet. “Angel… Angel please look at me” you softly spoke, wiping his tears. He looked at you still a mess of emotions “Please just, try to copy my breathing” you said before taking some emphasized breaths, trying to get him to calm down. Thankfully it ended up working, averting his eyes to look at the light blue blanket that rested on your bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you start looking at him with concern. Angel sighed, not saying anything for a while, leaving you two in a comfortable silence “It's my boss Val, he is a piece of shit you know?” he finally spoke looking at you, you just nodded letting him continue “He always has me as his little fuckin toy and I can't get out of it if I wanted to” Angel laid back on your bed,groaning as he focused on the ceiling now. “Y/n, do you ever wish you could go back to the past and prevent yourself from doing something stupid?” Angel glanced at you “Believe me Angel, I really wish I could, everyday I do” you muttered laying back too, looking at the ceiling with him, gently squeezing one of his hands “But then we’d never be friends you know?” you smile, earning a chuckle from Angel “You make a good point.. Thank you..” You let out a hum in response just laying there as Angel scrolled on his phone.

This became a common occurrence for you two. He always came to you when he was upset, he felt like he could trust you and you were more than willing to be there for him. While he was open with you, you didn't often show your feelings to him. He had enough issues as it was, you didn't want to add yours to the list, which leads back to when he first comforted you.

Angel arrived back at the hotel late. Putting it simply, he looked like shit, but you’d never say that. Sitting at the bar. You held your head up with one arm that rested on the table of the bar, while the other hand swirled the ice cube that remained in your drink using the tip of your nail. You could hear him walking in, but you didn’t look at him just watching the icecube. “Did he hurt you again?” you mutter, loud enough for him to hear, you sounded tired.

Angel walked over to you, obviously put off by how blunt of a statement you made “Straight to the point toots?” he sighed before going around the bar and grabbing a whole bottle of vodka, sitting next to you. “Yes, but nothing I couldn’t handle, ya know? Hey wait, are you okay?” Angel paused trying to look at your face, noticing you haven’t looked at him since he walked in. “Angel don't worry I’m fine” you looked up from the glass, removing your nail from the glass, drying it with your shirt. “Cut the shit Y/n, what happened?” Angel looked concerned, noticing your usual makeup was smeared, like you were crying.

You stood up wanting to walk away from this conversation but Angel grabbed your hand before you could leave “Oh no you dont, you deal with my shit, I deal with yours too. What happened?” His voice was full of concern as he felt your hand start shaking, that's when he pulled you into a hug, you not returning it for a while, until you started to sob holding onto him like you'd lose him if you didn’t. He picked you up with one of his many hands, taking you both back to his room, before putting you on his bed, grabbing a box of tissues for you.

He’d never seen you like this, you never seemed upset around him, or anyone in the hotel. I'm sure the only other person who would've gotten any light clue of the feelings you hid would be Husk, being the way he is. Angel comforted you the best he could, he honestly didn’t know how to be of much help except by keeping too close to him, waiting until you were ready to speak. “I just, I feel so lonely okay?” you finally spoke hiccuping as you tried controlling your sobs

“I know that.. Everyone at this hotel cares in their own way, and I know you do, but I cant help but feel like everything I had while I was alive is just, all I ever had'' you stared down at your shaking hands, Angel taking one of your hands just listening to you “I don’t regret anything I’ve done, but what if what I did was all for nothing?” you muttered looking at Angel “I feel like that too darlin.. All you really can do is focus on the future.” He started “Look I’m.. not the best when it comes to comforting someone, but if anyone has changed things around here for the better it’s you” he smiled slightly at you. “And so what if you didn’t do enough while you were alive? You have another shot here, and that’s enough ya know?” Looking at Angel you gave a faint smile looking at your friend “I think you’re doing great Y/n” he finished before you gave him a hug, which he returned

Angel would check on you often after this, and you would continue to check on him. Sure you both ended up in hell, but you're glad you were in hell with him. And he was glad you ended up with him too.

Angel dust Taglist @vendetta-ari @brithedemonspawn @satansmanager @storydays @saturnhas82moons @zamadness @fizziepopangel @saitisfied @the--rebel--fae @mcueveryday @rainbowbunny15 @molaroo @bonkbonkbobk

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Law and Order - A Once In A Blue Moon Story

Part II

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Description: When a blind date leads to disaster, you’re almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don’t want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn’t seem to want a thing to do with you?

Warnings: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, imbalance of power in the work place

This chapter includes sections which may be too much for sensitive readers. They will be denoted by *** Trigger Warnings *** Please do not read these sections if you believe you will be triggered by it. Bradley is rude, cruel and incredibly rough while having sex with the reader and she feels it acutely.

Word Count: 4893

Author’s Note: Hiya lovelies! It’s been a while since I’ve posted a story on here. I kind of lost my muse and had to find her, and my love for writing all over again.

Thanks to @horseshoegirl @sarahsmi13s and @desert-fern for chatting with me about this story and making sure I’m handling all of the things which happen in the best way I can!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

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Part II

“Garcia!” 

It would normally be funny to see your training partner’s head stick up over his files at your mentor’s shout from his office across the bullpen if you weren’t so desperately waiting for your own to be called every once in a while. You’ve been working at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw for three months. But it has been three months of digging through files and typing out the transcripts of interviews while Mickey gets to sit in on the interviews and learn how to prosecute a breach of contract case. It stings, the outright rejection. Outwardly, your mentor is all smiles, never hesitating to include you in the trial and pre-trial preparations.

But you know your mentor won't call your name. He hasn’t looked twice at you, not since that disastrous first day. And you're not sure there is anything you could do to change how he feels. You’ve pulled long hours, working ceaselessly to make yourself irreplaceable, make him see you’re worth keeping on at the firm. But all your effort hasn’t made a dent; your hard work, for naught. He talks to Mickey, only Mickey. Any time he needs someone, he calls for Mickey.

The others all look at you like you’re some pariah or martyr, seated in your cold, dismal cube night after night, long past the time when everyone else is packing up to go home. You have ears after all. And they’re not subtle in the slightest with their snarky mutters of how, “she must’ve pissed Bradshaw off already, goody-two-shoes.” 

It’s true. You have pissed him off already. Nobody knows how, nor are you inclined to share the secret either. It’s a filthy little thing you keep trapped behind iron gates in the back of your mind. You swallow the glib words down with every word they say, ignoring the harsh observations. Instead, you smile blandly as they poke and needle at you over the lunch table, when you eat with them and not in your cube, of course.

The office always feels colder, almost menacing when you’re left here alone. It’s dark and silent in the room, only the rustling of the papers in front of you and the absent-minded tapping of your pen echoing in the room.

“What are you still doing here?” 

You squeak, knee colliding painfully against the underside of the desk, pen rolling away as the tremors cause a paperwork avalanche.

“M-Mr Bradshaw!” You’re stuttering as you stand, trying desperately to remember whether your hair is as much of a mess as you remember it being the last time you wandered into the restroom. You undid your braid hours ago, your head aching from the pressure the length of your hair was putting on your scalp. You’ve been running your fingers through your hair ever since. So you wouldn’t be surprised if your hair is climbing to the rafters by now. But more importantly, there isn’t supposed to be anyone left in the building. Even the janitors ignore you sitting hunched over your desk as you sob pathetically into your paperwork. 

Honestly, you’re not sure why you’re surprised. Who else would it be on a Friday evening? His eyebrow quirks up higher the longer you scramble for your heels under the desk. You don’t find them, but instead, do your best to hide your toes as well as you can.

“I was going over the briefs for Monday morning.”

He blinks then, one curl slipping free over his forehead.

“Seriously,” he sighs, running a big hand over his face. “Go home. You’ve done more than enough work this week. Don’t you have Friday plans like all the rest of them?”

You would have been gratified all those months ago at the compliment couched in an observation. You would have been touched, maybe even pleased. Now, though, you’re starting to see red.

 How dare he? How dare he be nice to you when he’s the reason why you don’t have a life? You’re moving into his space before you’ve even thought about the movement, your bare toes toe-to-toe with his polished leather brogues.

“And whose fault is that, Mr. Bradshaw?” Your voice is still quiet, hushed in the dark office space. He looks taken aback by the vitriol in your voice, eyes widening imperceptibly. “I’ve been here every night because my mentor, the person who is supposed to be teaching me how to be a lawyer, Kazansy, Mitchell and Bradshaw would be proud of, simply can’t bother.”

You smirked then, all the hurt you’ve been plastering band-aids over finally spilled over. 

“And why is that, Mr. Bradshaw?” You hum condescendingly, relishing how his nostrils flare at your flippant, impertinent tone. “Could it be because you picked me up in a bar before I started working for you? Because you fucked me?”

“Or is it because you liked it?” There’s a flush building across his cheeks. He swallows then, Adam's apple bobbing as he licks his lips.

You laugh then, the sounds harsh and cruel as they echo through the space.

“Oh, look at you, Mr. Bradshaw!” You trail a finger over the triangle of skin exposed by the undone top button of his shirt. His breath hitches gorgeously as you turn away, an exhale of breath following you. “Oh wait…. You like Bradley in bed.”

You sit on Mickey’s desk across the way, the surface clear where yours isn’t. When you cross your legs, your skirt rucks up a little. His eyes trace over the inches of exposed skin like they’re the best thing he’s ever seen. You are. You’re not so insecure as to pretend otherwise. Bradley Bradshaw had wanted you three months ago, and it’s abundantly obvious he still wants you now.

“See?” You grin wickedly. “You did like it. So why am I the problem here?”

You lean back, trusting in your splayed out arm to hold your weight. His eyes are on your breasts now, scorching as they trace over your figure on display.

“I agreed to your deal, Bradshaw.” You chuckle mirthlessly at the words. “I mean, you didn’t exactly give me much of an option otherwise. I wanted to keep my job. I wanted to work for Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw.  I told you we wouldn’t talk about that night. So why are you going out of your way to torpedo my career?”

The hurt shows itself for the first time since your anger spilled out of your crimson-stained lips.

“Either mentor me, switch me to work with Trace or Seresin, or fucking fire me. I’m done playing this game. I’m not doing a single thing for this firm like this, and I refuse to waste any more of my time when I could have gone to any other firm in the state.”

Your ultimatum has his lips flattening.

“Sure, sweetheart.” He rolls his sleeves up, then, something derisive in his tone as he ignores you. “Maybe you can get a job at another firm in California. Maybe they’d give you a little bump in pay and set you up to be a perfectly average lawyer. But you won’t be a Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw lawyer. We’re the best of the best, sweetheart.”

It’s his turn to smirk as he takes a step forward.

“But you know that.” He curls a lock of your hair around his long fingers. “You wouldn’t have applied here otherwise. And we wouldn’t have hired you if we didn’t think you could flourish here.”

He hums then, undoing a single button in your blouse, one of the little ones at your cuff. He doesn’t seem to mind how inconvenient it is, your sleeves having been rolled up to your elbows hours ago. “But you may have a point. I have been unfair.”

You’re ready to jump for joy at his words. Is he finally, finally going to give you a chance?

“What was it you said?” His hands are just a little cruel as they yank on the lock of your hair. “Mentor you, switch you to work with Trace or Seresin or fucking fire you, right?”

You nod then, head falling at the cold, hard look in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to face it, unable to keep eye contact as he looms over you.

“How about if I just fuck you, instead?”

Your head snaps up fast at those words. 

“What do you mean?” Your voice sounds as lost as you feel. “Y-you can’t do that.”

He just smiles, pinching your chin between his fingers.“What can’t I do, hmm?”

His tongue flicks over his lips as his eyes twinkle.

“You can’t be serious.” Your voice is stuttery, paper-soft as your chest heaves under his steady gaze.

“We can’t fuck each other. Not anymore.”

He ignores your words, curling a warm hand around your hip. You know what he’s doing is wrong. He’s supposed to be your mentor, to teach you how to be a good lawyer. He’s not supposed to be propositioning you in the office like this.

“Why not, sweetheart?” Bradley smirks at you, then. You’re a little disgusted to find how turned on you are. He feels so good, despite the danger and all the reasons why you shouldn’t and can't.

You’ve thought about him. About the night you shared quite a bit over the past few months. But you also thought you’d laid the feelings to bed. When you voiced your frustrations earlier, you only wanted an honest conversation with your direct supervisor. You’re not sure what you were expecting. You should step away, leave him standing in the center of the dark office. If you had any integrity at all, you’d go to HR as soon as you can, to report him for his inappropriate conduct. But it’s obvious your integrity and morality are just as flawed as his own. Because you curl into the warmth of his skin, relish in the scent of his cologne.

He laughs as you draw him even closer, just a little cruel, as his arms clasp around your form. They’re insistent and searching, tugging your skirt up and squeezing your ass periodically. His lips slant over yours, claiming and ferocious. It's a series of rough kisses, his mustache and stubble abrading over your sensitive skin as he steals your thoughts from your head. Every kiss disarms you more, which is why you shouldn’t be doing this. The arguments for why you shouldn’t do this dissipate like you’d never thought of them at all. It’s passion, pure and simple, which has the buttons of your blouse scattering with one tug as his teeth sink into the muscle at the side of your neck. It stings, the ache acute and echoing the persistent throb of your heartbeat between your legs.

He doesn’t let you take control. Not when his big hands cradle your skull, tangling in your hair.

“God, look at you, sweetheart.” His voice is a harsh purr. “You’ve been waiting for this, huh? Three months with that little pussy wet?”

He tugs your bra off with another insistent yank. It falls to the floor in a pile of rags, the pristine pastel lace in shreds, underwire bent out of shape, the clasp ripped free. You’re kneeling before you can blink, skin bare, lips parted.

*** Trigger Warnings ***

He hisses as he pulls himself free. Your lips, your tongue are forced wide as he pushes himself between your lips. He cradles your skull in his hands as you take him to the hilt. You’ve never done this before. He treats you like a doll, like you’re expendable. Yet you’ve never been so turned on. He pistons his hips into your face, uncaring of how your eyes tear at the rough treatment. He’s using you for his pleasure, eyes dark as his hands position you as he wants. You’re choking and gagging on his length, saliva dribbling from your parted lips in long strings. The only sounds in the office are his grunts and growls. Your whimpers are cut off quietly. 

But you’ve never been wetter. You can barely breathe when he pulls you up.

*** Trigger Warnings ***

“Shh, sweetheart.” He brushes the tears away as you cough. “C’mon. Let’s go to my office. Grab your clothes.”

Your bra is nearly torn to shreds. The pretty blouse you donned this morning was definitely damaged beyond repair. Your skirt has survived, rucked up around your waist as it is. 

Your panties, however? 

They’re probably ruined, just from how wet you are. On the other hand, Bradley is nearly pristine, only the unbuttoned state of his trousers showing  what the two of you have been up to. It makes you feel cheap and tawdry as you pick your way to his office. It’s dark as you step in. You should pull on what is left of your clothes and walk away. A glance towards the deserted bullpen gives you pause, you don't have to continue, you can leave. 

And if someone walks in on you? On the two of you in Bradley’s all-too-visible glass-walled office? Everything would be over. But you can’t bring yourself to walk away. His touch is seductive, elusive, and you chase after it like an addict chasing their next high. So, you set your blouse and bra in a wrinkled bundle on the chair in front of his desk and sit on the sofa.

“Mmm, don’t you look pretty sitting on my sofa like this.” He pulls you up by your hair. “But I don’t remember giving you permission to sit there.”

You shiver as he pinches one taut nipple.

“Nuh, uh, beautiful. Take off that skirt and your panties.” 

You feel like you’ve been bewitched, spellbound as you wriggle gracelessly out of your skirt and panties. They join the bundle of your blouse and bra on the chair. You can feel his eyes on you with every motion. When you turn around again, your heart is in your throat, and you are fighting your need to hide yourself from his piercing, intense eyes.

“On the floor, sweetheart. On your hands and knees.” The carpet stings against your skin as he pushes you down. You expect to settle on your haunches, staring up at him like you were earlier. But when he pulls away, your forehead rests on your folded arms, nipples brushing against the fibers.

You’re completely exposed, knees parted, and cold air brushing over every bit of you. The clink of his belt buckle echoes through the small space as he frees himself. But he doesn’t touch you, content to have you there instead. You can hear him walking around behind you, the rustle of papers. It’s the second time he’s had you splayed out for him. You can’t help but muse how different it feels this time.

Last time, you had the pleasure of feeling his lips against your skin, his mouth lapping at your wetness like you’re the sweetest nectar. Last time, you felt like the most precious thing in his eyes. This time, he swats at the meat of your ass, jolting you forward as your nipples brush over the carpet. It’s harsh and hard—your skin stings and prickles with every swat. You crave the roughness and how he makes you feel so small, yet wholly owned, like you are his.

“Oh, you’re so wet, sweetheart.” Finally, he laps over your folds. The touch is light, teasing. And maddening. Every pass of his tongue over you drives you crazier. But he doesn’t let you come.

“Please!” You’re begging. But the more you beg, the less likely it seems Bradley will give you what you so desperately want. His hands pull away just as you’re about to orgasm, once, twice, thrice. By the final time, you’re practically sobbing as he pulls away. His laughter is mocking and harsh as he settles in the chair he’d pushed so carelessly to the side before this latest round of his game began. His eyes crawl over every inch of your exposed skin. He swats the meat of your ass with every motion, watching silently, mercilessly as you yelp. 

*** Trigger Warnings ***

“You’re so pathetic.” There’s a dark curl to his voice as he watches you beg and writhe on the carpet. He’s been saying similar things for a while now. You hate it, hate how it makes you feel. But you love it, too. Love how small the words make you feel. You know they aren’t true. But they curl into your brain and burrow into your thoughts. Every growled phrase, every sharp smack drives them deeper. They also make you wetter, needier and inexplicably louder. You no longer care that someone could walk in and see you with your boss. All you want is Bradley’s hands on your skin, big, hot, and so rough you could cry as he positions you as he wants.

Maybe you’re a little messed up to crave this as much as you have. But you’re starting to realize how strong a hold Bradley has on you, even months later. During the first night, Bradley Bradshaw had fisted an iron hand around your heart. It was perfect, then, just tight enough to make you want to give up the control you chase after on a daily basis. Tonight, with you laid out on his office floor, it feels stiflingly hard and harsh. You’re strung up like a marionette on its strings, lips sewn shut like the most pathetic of little dolls. You can whimper, sure. You’re not completely silent. But you’re a slave to his demands, a slave to his desires and a slave to your own.  

Bradley lets you beg until tears are dripping down your face, creating damp drops on the carpet below. Your face feels red, eyes puffy and swollen as you sob for the second time in as many hours. There has to be something wrong with you. Why else would someone want to tear you down so easily? Why else would you like it? Bradley’s shuddery growl when he finally buries himself in you is like a balm for your shivery muscles and cotton-filled head. There’s no slow glide, no adjustment period. From the beginning, it is harsh and rough as he pounds away at you. It’s a relentless assault as he teases you, strung out and wet, so wet. Your muscles twinge as he fucks into you. The abused flesh between your legs stinging and aching, the pain melding with pleasure as he yanks you where he likes. You squeal and sob, begging for more, begging for your release, begging for the pleasure and satisfaction of his.

“Bradley!” 

You meet every thrust with pumps of your hips. He drags you up until you can feel the heat of his chest against your bare back. He traps your arms between your bodies, using the firm grasp he has on your crossed arms to move you on his cock.  He pinches your nipples harshly as he bites at your throat, every action calculated to make you cum with a scream.

 He continues to fuck you like that, skin slapping wetly as he pounds into you over and over. You cum for the second time just like that, your head thrown back over his shoulder. He lets go of you shortly after, pressing you into the carpet in his office, as he chases his release. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh echo through the room as he fucks into you, interspersed with the moans, mostly pained, leaving your lips.

And when he cums, it’s with little concern for your comfort. 

He pulls away soon after, leaving you sprawled over the carpet with your mixed releases cooling over your aching skin. 

*** Trigger Warnings ***

There are no gentle kisses or soft touches, not tonight.

Your knees ache when you stagger to your feet, muscles twinging painfully as you pull your clothes back on. Bradley looks unbelievably smug, a lit cigar perched on his pouty lower lip as he looks coldly over you. It takes only a few minutes for you to tie your blouse over the ruined rags he’s reduced your undergarments to. You feel a little more put-together than you were before. But it doesn’t ease the knowledge that anyone who sees you will be able to see exactly what you were up to.

“Well, don’t you look deliciously fucked, sweetheart.” 

You can’t read the expression on his face any more tonight than you have any other day since you started working at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw. But you do know the expression isn’t nice, kind, or even loving. It’s distant, oddly amused, with a cruel tint to it.

“Go back to work.” 

It’s a dismissal, clear and simple. You feel dirty as you limp away. There is cum trickling into the ruined lace of your panties with every step you take. Why doesn’t he seem to care about you anymore? Where is the sweetheart of a man who wiped you down, peppered gentle kisses across your skin? Inexplicably, your throat feels tight, breath hitching as you try to swallow back the tears welling in your eyes. It’s horrifying, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward, using wadded-up up damp paper towels to clean yourself up, at least a little. The odd sob leaves you as you try your best to undo the damage and put yourself back together, at least outwardly.

Your head is spinning, muscles aching just as much as your heart does. Why did you try to reason with him? He’s only made it clear over and over again what your worth is in his eyes. Yet you’d still tried to reason with him, professional to professional. But he’d subverted your questions, turned them into a tug-of–war set within the sex game he’d wanted to play with you all along. 

You can’t believe you fell for his games. It was different when he was a stranger. Then you’d found his dominance sexy and willingly submitted to it. You thought he wanted you as his equal. But he’s made it clear since then where you stand with him. You’re a subordinate, an employee, and not even a good one. 

Now you’ve broken the only rule you had since you started working here.

You can’t ever have sex with him again.

Well, you’ve gone and done it now, breaking the rules like they never existed in the first place. And you can’t help hating him and yourself just for doing it. The heat of his body had drugged you, the scent of his cologne. You’d let him destroy you. You let him drop you into the most vulnerable place you’ve ever been in, keep you there while he uses you for his pleasure. And you hadn’t been enough to keep him with you after everything was over and done. You want his hugs, his kisses, the soft pressure of his limbs as they curl around you.

 But he didn’t want to stay. He didn’t see anything in you worth sticking around for. He isn’t the first, and you know, he won’t be the last. You should go home, but somehow you can’t make yourself leave, can’t allow yourself the comfort of one of your safest places. But the longer you sit at your desk, the screensaver on your company laptop cycling in front of your eyes, the worse you feel. The papers are still stacked around you, a flimsy wall of protection as your skin cools and the aches become known.

The clock ticks onward to midnight, even though you would desperately like to freeze it, to turn the time back. But you can’t. It would be easier to forget what just happened. You turn your feelings over and over in your mind until you could be sick. All you want is to forget everything, or barring that, become numb to the actions, the words, and above all, the feelings themselves.

What's that phrase people like to use so often?

You made your bed. Now you have to lie in it.

They make it seem so binary. You made a choice. You - in the singular. What happens if multiple people are playing the game, multiple decisions colluding into a perfect storm? Who is to blame then? Obviously, you are, for letting a man make a fool of you, deceiving you so thoroughly. You're frozen in your office chair, angrier than you've ever been before. But you can blame him, too.

He's made choices of his own tonight, damaging choices, vicious, cruel choices. His choice was to blur the line between mentor and mentee, employer and employee. It was his choice to rip at the softest parts of you until he saw blood. His prerogative was to mark you up in the scarlet substance until you bore the letter A like Hester Prynne did. But the act has marked him, too. His fingers, his person, are now just as smeared with the shade as yours are.

How come he doesn’t feel the weight of that brand like you do? Maybe it’s because you’re the only person physically branded here. When you finally drag yourself home, it’s to find bruises blooming on your knees, and on the meat of your hips. The bites he’d left against your skin, littered all the way from behind your ear lurid and deep to your jugular are lurid and deep, the crescent impressions tender to the touch and burgundy from where blood has pooled under the skin. He’s left you feeling like one big bruise, tender and sore.

That disquieting, uncomfortable feeling niggles at you through the night. Your thoughts don't let you sleep, not a wink, nor does the ache of your muscles. All you can think about is Bradley. You drag the memories forward in your mind over and over again, trying to figure out what you did. Trying to make it okay. Sure you were maybe a little flirtatious when you sat on Mickey's desk. But you'd never hid how much you wanted him, not once since the day you met him. You had goaded him into acting, into making the move he made so easily. But he had taken your interest and ran with it. Maybe you’d wished he would take you out for dinner, and then brought you back to his gorgeous apartment in the city. Maybe you’d hoped he would lead you into HR on Monday morning, ready to disclose your romantic relationship. But now? Now, how do you walk back into the office on Monday morning? How do you know Bradley didn't go out with Trace or Seresin later that night and bragged about getting to fuck you again?

He'd said he doesn’t want his mother to know. But she’s going to find out. She might not find out now, or even in the next week or month. But now that the seal has been ripped away, eventually somebody will find out. Knowing corporate America, you'll be the one to blame. 

So what can you do? You love your job. It’s something you’ve always wanted to do. How do you work with a man who has so little respect for you that he’d leave you hurt when you didn’t ask for the pain? It’s obvious you won’t get the chance to practice or learn how to practice what you love at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw. 

But how do you keep one bad decision, a string of bad decisions really, from ruining your life? Leaving behind everyone you know in San Francisco is definitely an option. After all, who hasn’t thought of running from their problems? But you’re an adult. You can’t run quite so easily. Your mind keeps circling back to how Bradley has treated you. And over and over again, you come back to the thought of running away. But you don’t desert the city and disappear halfway across the country. 

Instead, you draft an email. 

to: Human Resources <hr@kmb.corp> subject: I humbly tender my resignation CC: b.bradshaw@kmb.corp To whom it may concern, I joined Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw with the goal of becoming the best lawyer I could be. I wanted to learn from the esteemed partners and develop my own style as a law professional. But over the past three months, I have spent more time with the law books, doing the work of a glorified paralegal, rather than learning how to prosecute and apply the law. I want to explore opportunities where I can do so. So, it is with a heavy heart that I take this step. Please consider this my formal resignation from the law firm of Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw, effective immediately.  The past three months have been an amazing experience. I appreciate the opportunities you've given me to learn and grow, and I value all of the professional relationships I've developed here. They weren’t quite the lessons I hoped to learn, but they were vital lessons nonetheless. I hope to stay in touch. Sincerely,

It shows none of the pain you feel, nor does it show the exhaustion, the rage. It’s bland as well as short, sweet and to-the-point. But the moment you hit send, you feel a weight you’ve unknowingly carried for months dissipate. The pre-dawn hours feel easier to face. Obviously, hard work is coming your way in the coming days, but for now, you put your weary mind and body to rest.

Taglist:

@sarahsmi13s @horseshoegirl @desert-fern @dakotakazansky @teacupsandtopgun @cherrycola27 @chaoticassidy @kmc1989 @eloquentdreamer @redhope446 @stvrbrighttt

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[typewritingyip]

Bluestreak was on shore leave in Iacon. Sunstreaker was on duty, and Bluestreak didn’t feel like hanging out with anyone else. So, he decided to wander around sightseeing. 

Despite having been to Iacon a hundred million times, it was a city that constantly adapted to new trends and changed itself to fit new generations and groups of people. It was a city that mimicked its inhabitants, continually transforming while still remaining itself. Bluestreak always found something new when he went exploring in the city.

This time, the “something new” he found was a little cafe he hadn’t seen before. 

The barista greeted him as he came in and looked around. He was an orange and white bot with an engraved magnetic nametag that read “Swerve.” 

Usually, when nametags are used, they’re set on the pre-existing virtual system of the shop or business. The nametag function operates for a specific area that anyone can ping to learn the employee’s name. However, sometimes businesses will have their employees wear physical nametags as a uniform or simply for the aesthetic. Usually, businesses that do this are well off since it’s an extra expense with no real payout. Because of this, more expensive custom engraved nametags are the most common, but copycats tend to use less costly magnets with writing on them to emulate this. Physical nametags are a gimmick more than anything else, so most of the time, they’re used in tandem with the virtual system. 

Inside the cafe, there were four tables. Two were low to the ground and made of a polished organic material that Bluestreak was pretty sure was called wood. Positioned around these tables were four large chairs, each made of the same organic material as the tables but with plush cushions on the seats, backs, and arms that made them look extremely comfortable. The other two tables were black metal, and quite a bit taller than the others. They both had two armless chairs each, made of the same metal as the table, with the seats at about waist height. They had cushions matching the other chairs, but just on the seats, not the backs. 

The walls were a pleasant but simple light blue. The ceiling was different though, painted to match a night sky, complete with a few constellations that Bluestreak didn’t recognize. It was beautiful. 

In the side and back corner of the shop was the counter. Below it, there was a glass display case filled with pastries and other confections. Above it, there were three menus. The one in the middle was a list of all the flavoring add-ins that they had in-house, the one on the left was a list of specialty hot drinks, and the one on the right was specialty cold drinks. 

Bluestreak ended up ordering from the “Hot Drinks” list, getting something called “Hot Chocolate.”  It was a warm cube with roasted-bitter copper powder and sweet gold flavor-syrup, topped with rich cobalt cream and drizzled with a touch more of the gold flavor-syrup. Bluestreak didn’t know what chocolate was, but he thought the flavor combination sounded really good.

Gold syrup is made by slow heating a two-to-one mix of Vosian high-grade and gold to molten levels, then mixing the two while cooling slowly. If someone was able to consume both cybertronian and human foods and compare them in taste, it would be described as a similar taste to sugar syrup with a hint of vanilla. 

Cobalt cream is made by taking cobalt dust and mixing it with chilled, heavy low-grade energon until whipped to medium-firm peaks. In comparison to human food, it’s nearly the same as whipped cream. 

Copper powder is made by grinding shavings of oxidized consumption-grade copper into a fine powder. When in comparison to human tastes, copper powder tastes like unsweetened cocoa powder.

Bluestreak took a long drink out of the “mug” the drink was presented in. It was a cylinder-shaped container instead of the usual cube, and it had a half cordate-shaped handle Bluestreak could fit his servo into on the side. 

The drink was really, really good. Bluestreak licked his lips with a quiet hum of contentment. He’d have to tell Optimus about this place. 

For the Prime to go anywhere, it was always a hassle. Having to deal with scheduling, alerting, and managing guards and attendants, double-checking that the place was safe, and examining the staff of the venue was just the tip of the iceberg for everything demanded by proper procedure. Because of this, the Prime rarely visited places in person.

When someone does recommend something to the Prime that catches his interest, he usually sends a trusted attendant to get it for him, then enjoys it in the Primal Palace. This place though, both the drinks themselves and the actual cafe, would be worth it to Optimus for a visit. 

Bluestreak took another long drawl of his hot chocolate, getting blue cobalt cream on his upper lip that he had to lick off.

Primus, that’s good.

He sat deeper into the chair he had picked in the back corner of the room. With chairs, praxians were very particular, since the sensitive doorwings on their backs got in the way of most regular seating. They needed either no-back chairs or chairs that could hold their doorwings comfortably. Bluestreak had taken one of the big seats at the low tables, and he was right about it being comfortable. 

I need one of these at home.

The rule that was set about new furniture in the house was that the other two housemates had to approve it unless it was going in your room. The actual rule was that if Prowl approved it, it would happen, because Prowl could convince Smokey or Blue of damn near anything when he really wanted to. 

Prowl liked leaning back and relaxing when he sat down, so Bluestreak was pretty sure he could convince him to get at least one chair like that for the house. 

By now, the cobalt cream had melted, and Bluestreak used the stirring implement given with the mug of hot chocolate to stir the remnants of it in. Once he was done, he took out the utensil, tapped it over the top, set it back onto the napkin, and took another sip. 

Yep, definitely recommending this place to Optimus.

Bluestreak was nearly done with the mug when Sideswipe walked into the cafe. Bluestreak did a double take. Sideswipe, who could not drink energon, just walked into a cafe that served energon. Sideswipe was walking to the first lower table when he spotted Bluestreak. He changed his direction from the first lower table to the seat across from Bluestreak.

“Bluestreak,” Sideswipe greeted him, taking a seat. 

It wasn’t a very friendly greeting, but it wasn’t mean either: just cordial. 

“Sideswipe.” Bluestreak tried to match Sideswipe’s tone, but there was a hint of sadness that Bluestreak always had when talking to Sideswipe.

“I’m waiting for Elita and the others. Team-bonding and stuff.”

That explained why Sideswipe was in a cafe, but not why he was talking to Bluestreak.

“I’ve not gotten a chance to talk to you about this, so we’re doing it now.”

Doing what now?

Bluestreak opened his mouth to ask, but Sideswipe answered first.

“You’re dating my brother,” Sideswipe said.

Bluestreak did not know how to respond to that.

“That- wasn’t a question?” Bluestreak asked.

“And that was,” he replied. 

Sideswipe paused, leaning in, examining Bluestreak through his visor.

“I know my brother better than anyone. I don’t need to ask to know that even if you two aren’t dating, he’s in love with you,” Sideswipe said quietly.

Bluestreak wasn’t someone that gave up opportunities to talk, but in that moment, he didn’t know what to say. Bluestreak knew he was in love with Sunstreaker, and he knew that Sunstreaker was in love with him. It was another thing to hear it said out loud by someone else, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that Sunstreaker was in love with him.

“You don’t need to respond, but I do need you to know that if you ever, ever hurt him on purpose,”

He took a vent before continuing. Bluestreak did not try to interrupt.

“I will shove that gun of yours so far up your aft that I can blow your processor out from your mouth. Are we clear?”

It was the first question Sideswipe had asked throughout the conversation.

Bluestreak had to take a moment to process what Sideswipe had just said. Sideswipe didn’t like Bluestreak, and he wasn’t subtle about it. Bluestreak knew Sideswipe was still angry. He wasn’t particularly mean to Bluestreak, but they had been friends before. At the very beginning, before he messed up, and before he messed up twice. 

Still, despite Sideswipe disliking Bluestreak, Bluestreak hadn’t ever thought Sideswipe would threaten him.

Apparently, Bluestreak was taking too long to respond, because Sideswipe started snapping his digits right in Bluestreak’s face.

“Hey, Hey, you’re thinking about this too hard,” he said, like he hadn’t just threatened Bluestreak to his face.

“Are you actually freaked out?” Sideswipe asked.

Bluestreak realized he had said that out loud. 

Sideswipe sighed.

“Oh, for fu-” Sideswipe cut himself off.

“Bluestreak.” He looked directly into Bluestreak’s optics with his visor.

“You’re freaking out over nothing. I do this with all of Sunstreaker’s lovers,” Sideswipe stated.

“You threaten all of them with bodily injury?!” Bluestreak was still freaking out a bit.

“I tell them not to hurt my brother.”

Bluestreak paused. Sideswipe continued.

“Despite all of the times I’ve ever given a shovel talk (and it is a lot of times, Sunny isn’t exactly a prude), I’ve only beat someone up once.”

A shovel talk? Bluestreak thought.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Bluestreak said out loud, talking about the ‘beating someone up’ part. 

“Yes, because the bastard I beat up was someone who had raised a hand to him. I’m not going to police his relationship. I’ve got issues, but Sunny and I have boundaries. I’m not telling you to treat him like he’s a god or something; I’m telling you not to be abusive.”

Bluestreak’s mouth responded quicker than his processor.

“Oh. I- No. No, I won’t ever. Sunstreaker is.. He’s amazing, he’s kind and sweet and strong, and I love him like I’ve never loved anyone.” 

If Bluestreak could see Sideswipe’s face, he thinks he’d see a smile.

“Good,” Sideswipe said simply. 

Despite Elita and some others (it couldn’t be the whole squad; this place wouldn’t be able to fit them) coming soon, Sideswipe didn’t make any indication of moving just yet.

“Hey, Sideswipe?” 

“Yes?” Sideswipe answered.

“What’s a shovel talk?” Bluestreak asked.

Sideswipe visibly paused. 

“It’s when- someone who cares about someone, a family member or a friend or whatever, gives a threat not to hurt them to someone else, usually a lover.”

“Is that a human thing?” Bluestreak asked.

“Yes, yes it is.”

He hesitated before continuing. 

“Cybertronians don’t have that, do they.” Sideswipe wasn’t really asking.

“No, no we do not,” Bluestreak replied anyway.

“You thought I was legitimately threatening you,” Sideswipe stated.

“I did,” Bluestreak responded.

Sideswipe brought both servos to his visor and sighed before bringing them back down.

“I’m sorry,” Sideswipe said.

“What?” Bluestreak thought he had misheard what Sideswipe had said.

“I said I’m sorry. I don’t feel bad about shovel talks, but you thought I was giving you a real death threat. I’m apologizing for that.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence. Bluestreak considered his options. There wasn’t really a choice.

“I forgive you,” Bluestreak said.

Sideswipe was now the one who needed a moment to process.

“What?” Sideswipe sounded far too confused about the three-word sentiment.

“I forgive you,” Bluestreak repeated.

“Yeah, but I didn’t earn it. You can’t just- forgive me?” Sideswipe sounded just as confused as before.

“You didn’t mean to do it.” Bluestreak shrugged.

“I still did it, though,” Sideswipe said, sure of that much.

“Yeah, and I forgive you,” Bluestreak said a third time.

“Oh.” 

There was a lull between them, neither saying anything. Sideswipe hummed inquisitively, tilting his helm at Bluestreak like he thought the new angle would help him understand better.

“Yes?” Bluestreak answered, raising an optical ridge.

“Ok. Then I forgive you too,” Sideswipe said.

“What?” Bluestreak didn’t understand.

“For Sunny’s visor,” Sideswipe clarified.

“I-” Bluestreak tried to respond, but Sideswipe cut him off.

“I get that I’m not the person you apologized to, but I was holding a grudge over that.”

“I-” Bluestreak vented. 

“Yeah, I know you were.” Bluestreak sounded sad, but he felt like a weight had been lifted. 

Bluestreak was not expecting forgiveness.

“I still can’t forgive you for the first accident. You could have killed my brother, and-” Sideswipe hesitated, taking a vent.

“And I’m not ready to let go of that. But the visor? I can forgive that,” Sideswipe explained.

Bluestreak smiled.

“Ok.”

Sideswipe responded to that far too quickly.

“We’re not going to be friends again, not for a while at least. I don’t trust you,” he said. 

While the declaration hurt,

“I know, but I didn’t think I’d get a chance at all,” Bluestreak replied.

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

2200 words and two pictures in three days. I’m pretty impressed with myself.

Obligatory rambling warning 

I couldn’t work it in, but I headcanon that Optimus has a massive sweet tooth, which is part of why Bluestreak thinks he’d like the place.

Bluestreak doesn’t recognize the constellations because they’re the constellations we can see from Earth, not Cybertronian constellations. Yes, I’m glad you asked: one of them is Orion.

Cordate is heart-shaped, so half cordate is half of a heart shape. I’m choosing not to use the word “heart” because cybertronians don’t have hearts; the equivalents are sparks, which are spherical, and fuel pumps, which are also spherical. 

The setting description was supposed to be a one-liner. As you can see, that did not work out. I didn’t plan the cafe, the hot cocoa, or any of the world-building that took place. 

I have an entire new tab on my Google Doc about different types of energon, the different flavors of add-ins, and how to make various foods. 

Bluestreak totally wanted a pastry, but he knew he was not going to have room for one in his tanks. He’ll come back later.

I was not expecting to write apologies lol, but I felt like it fit. I know shovel talks either don’t happen or are far more subtle in real life, but I thoroughly enjoy it in writing when they’re over the top and also normalized, because, for the most part, they aren’t real threats. Cybertronians don’t have that though (by my hc, at least), so it’d be taken as a real threat.  

Because it wasn’t Sideswipe pov, I couldn’t put this in, but it was a good line, so:

It wasn’t as grave an offense, but both were accidents.

Characterization may be wonky in this one; hell if I know. SS’s emotional intelligence go brr.

I made two extra things for this chapter, one:

^ Layout of Swerve’s cafe. No, I do not have a better name for it than that. The red thing is the door, and the unlabeled blue squares are seats. Bluestreak is in the chair on the upper right corner, Sideswipe takes the one directly across from him. 

Two:

Bluestreak’s Hot Cocoa ^ I spent about an hour and a quarter on this. 

Right, now I’m done. I hope you enjoyed, @ me if you have questions, this will be labeled as Shovel Talk in the masterpost

Super cute. Super fun.

So, we’ve seen Swerve earlier in the series, BUT I like the idea of him just being everywhere. It’s funny.

It’s also funny to have like, all these small connections to Earth. Like the first time Sides went into this place with Elita and Chromia he spent is all staring at the ceiling till he saw the Big and Little Dipper. Stars weren’t his strong suit but it’s the fact it was HIS hemisphere.

Now it’s just the place he recommends, not because he can eat/drink there but because it feels more familiar.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Two photos of a saucy dish in a bright blue serving vessel with offset lid. End ID]

Blueberry-leek tajine

A typical Moroccan spice profile and cooking method with an unusual flavor combination. Slow steam cooking brings a hint of sweetness out of the mild, earthy leeks and rutabaga; blueberries cook down to a deep, jammy tartness; fennel and mint add sharpness and complexity. The result is a surprising, well-balanced dish that pairs well with a crusty Moroccan bread, or may be served as a side with seitan lamb chops.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Paypal | Venmo

Ingredients:

Serves 2-3.

3 leeks

1/2 rutabaga, halved and cut into wedges

1 red onion, cubed

4 cloves garlic, chopped

1/2" chunk ginger, peeled and minced

1 tsp table salt

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground black pepper

1/4 tsp ground turmeric

1/4 tsp ground fennel

1/4 tsp ground allspice

1/4 tsp ground paprika

3/4 cup blueberries

2 sprigs fresh mint, roughly chopped or torn

1/4 cup (60mL) good olive oil

Instructions:

1. Prepare leeks by chopping off the root end and the tough dark green upper leaves; reserve the latter for a saute or to boil for stock. Cut the remaining white and light green portion of the leek in half lengthwise, and in half or thirds widthwise. Soak in cool water while you prepare the rest of the vegetables to remove dirt.

2. Halve a rutabaga lengthwise (through the root) and reserve half for another use. Halve the remaining half again widthwise and peel, then cut into large wedges. Cube the onion and chop the garlic.

3. Add onion, garlic, ginger, and a large pinch of salt to the bottom of a tajine, Dutch oven, slow cooker, or heavy-bottomed pot. Arrange rutabaga and leeks on top of the aromatics.

4. Sprinkle salt and spices over the rutabaga and leeks. Drizzle olive oil over top. Slowly add about 1/2 cup (120mL) water over top (so as not to rinse off all the spices).

5. Heat pot on medium low, or as necessary to maintain the water at a very low boil. Cover and let cook without stirring until the leeks and rutabaga are almost finished cooking, 1-2 hours. Occasionally use a spoon to pour broth from the bottom of the pot over the vegetables.

6. Add blueberries and mint, and, if necessary, a little bit of water. Cover and continue to cook until blueberries, rutabaga, and leeks are very tender. Taste and adjust salt.

[dont-f-with-moogles]

The Envelope (Part 2) (NSFW) Dazai x Reader 1261 words

Cold morning. A tentative blue threaded with pale clouds. Mist had gathered in the corners of the windows. The double doors remained closed for now; you still had time to unload the gleaming cups and saucers from the dishwasher. Your manager - Uzumaki’s renowned, veteran barista - passed by the counter. His mouth was pulled to the side as though he was suppressing an uncomfortable smile.

“I, ah… think someone is trying to call you.”

With a wave of his hand he gestured to the lit smartphone which lay, singing idly to itself, nestled between a tray of glasses and the petty cash tin. A leaden weight had settled in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t need to check to know who it was.

As you continued stacking the cups within a wall-mounted cupboard the phone’s melody ceased, only to be followed by the sound of a chime. One insistent ping followed another; a flurry of notifications without pause. With a pained sigh, you retrieved your phone. Refusing to scroll back and read the long reel of previous messages, your eyes settled on the most recent.

Not that I want you to rush back of course! It’s only a small fire after all.

There came the rapid tap of your thumbs in reply.

I told you this morning that I’m not coming back until after my shift.

Dropping the device down with a thud, you continued to put cups, glasses and cutlery away, all the while ignoring the series of shrill sounds which rang impatiently from your phone.

“Sounds like someone wants to talk to you,” the café owner observed, unlatching the double doors and releasing a flood of warm light into the long room. Rather than answer, you pretended to search for something in the dishwasher’s cutlery basket.

“Perhaps you ought to answer him?”

“What makes you think it’s a him?” you countered, looking up at just the wrong moment. The café manager’s smile was all-knowing. He was a people watcher; an inadvertent gatherer of secrets. He had held his position with quiet pride for many years, unobtrusively pouring coffee as the lives of his customers played out around him.

Lifting a small bag of sugar cubes, you began to refill the ceramic containers on the tables.

“...in any case, if you don’t answer, he might come up here.”

Hesitating, sugar tongs still in hand, you managed a derisive snort. It did not take long for your false bravado to cower upon itself. Thinking better of it, you stalked back to the counter to seize your phone.

I won’t be back til 6. Grab a shower or a coffee or some fresh bandages if you have indeed set fire to yourself - whatever you need, but don’t wait for me to get back. Spare key in the teapot.

The device had hardly touched the surface when its screen glowed in response.

Good to know there’s another spare. I took the key you hid in the sconce. Think I’ll hang onto it ;)

You do that. Think I’ll have the locks changed.

Ah! You’re driving me insane! <3

“Miss?”

“Coming!” you called, relieved by the distraction. A steady queue of customers had formed from the cash register, snaking out into the hallway beyond. Stifling a yawn, you poured coffee into paper cups, adding a dash of milk here; a shot of syrup there. Plastic lids were fastened on in succession. You stretched your arms and arched your aching back. Names were penned on cardboard. The morning rush was always this busy, only to be followed by… silence. There was the respite after the madness. The calm before the storm. Only a visit from your rather irregular regulars could break up the monotony now. The Armed Detectives from the fourth floor, with their wild antics and raucous laughter… You ground your teeth. Not that you were thinking about him though. Not that you were, even now, considering checking your phone for his messages. Too often you had witnessed those poor souls who fell for his superficial charms. They would weep, helpless, struggling to comprehend the reason for his sudden absence. How ignorant they were, never knowing he had already moved on to his next person of interest…

Even as you stood, reasoning so calmly with yourself, your hand was inciting a mutiny against your mind and body. You reached for your phone again.

Ditch work. Tell the boss you have a headache and need to stay in bed ;)

I think he might see through that brilliant scheme?

Cruel mistress! Don’t make me beg :(

This is on you. I’m not making you do anything.

Three little dots danced, taunting, as he crafted his reply. You set the device to one side each time the café owner strode past. It was more than your job’s worth to be caught sending messages to one of your regular customers.

As the manager stooped to clear one of the tables, your phone buzzed irritably.

Don’t pretend. And for the record, I hate being made to wait.

Wait for what exactly? You smiled; it wasn’t like you to behave so coyly but, somehow, his persistence had reeled you in like a spider’s silk.

Seriously? Don’t forget that I’d been trapped behind bars for WEEKS. You know I couldn’t stop thinking about you in there. I thought last night was all I needed but holy fuck, I already miss your pussy…

The weight in your stomach shifted. Something sparked, like flint on stone.

It’s 9:28 am! We’ve only just opened.

Well what time does your pussy open? Cause I’m

Heat flooded your cheeks. You felt your pulse beating in your throat; blood roared thunderously in your ears. You looked up - another poorly-timed gesture - to witness Ranpo glance away thoughtfully, his finger tapping his chin. The detective who saw through everything.

You dropped your phone with a clatter.

“I thought the temperature was mild today,” he observed dryly, such was his way of small talk. “Is it hot in here?”

“Yes,” you answered automatically, placing your phone face down before you could read the rest of Dazai’s message. Given the brief glimpse of the words hard scream beg and gag you could only assume it contained some tangible threats. You dusted down your black skirt self-consciously and reached to tighten the fastening in your hair, remembering that you had been forced to wear it loose today. Only its dark curtain, as it swung about the white frill of your collar, could hide the blemishes he had left upon your skin the night before. Incriminating marks which had branded you as his.

“Sorry, I uh- Let me pass you a menu-”

“Sweet curry,” Ranpo declared without pause. “And, not that it’s any of my business, but Dazai thrives on dysfunction. Nothing bores him more than having his own schemes go smoothly. I wouldn’t be so quick to give him the replies he wants.”

You gaped in astonishment. “That’s not- that’s-”

“One doesn’t need ultra deduction to read it in your distracted demeanour; the way you’re repeatedly picking your phone up, cursing to yourself… we’ve seen it all before. It’s the Dazai effect. Not to mention the circles under your eyes, your constant yawning…”

“Plus those hickeys speak for themselves.” Yosano had appeared behind him. “Pour us both a coffee - you look like you need it.”

Ruefully brushing your hair down against your neck, you turned away, poured out two cups and grabbed a blue Ramune from the fridge. What had ever made you think that sleeping with Osamu Dazai would have gone unnoticed by a group of professional detectives?

Part 1 (tw)

[kitty384]

Right Here

Pairing: Gen (Catherine, Tony & Pepper – found family)

Summary: A nightmare leaves Catherine shaken and lost—but instead of going to the usual rooms, she ends up outside Tony and Pepper’s door. Wrapped in soft blankets, gentle hands, and unexpected warmth, she learns that sometimes safety comes in the quietest places.

Warnings: Nightmare aftermath, trauma responses, emotional vulnerability, soft comfort, found family tenderness.

The dream was different this time.

It didn’t start with screaming. It didn’t even start with pain. It was quiet—eerily so. White walls. Bright lights. Footsteps clicking like metronomes. A metal table. Cold restraints.

But the worst part?

No one was coming.

Not this time. No Sam. No Steve. No Bucky. No Avengers bursting through the walls like heroes from a comic book. Just Catherine—helpless, silent, alone.

And the same voice she’d never been able to forget, murmuring, You didn’t really think they’d keep you, did you?

She woke up gasping.

Sweat clung to her skin, and her blanket was twisted around her legs like vines. Her heart was racing too fast, her mouth dry, her chest too tight to breathe.

She pressed both hands over her face, trying to ground herself.

The compound. You’re in your room. You’re safe.

But the room didn’t feel safe.

Not right now. Not in the dark. Not when she could still feel the imaginary pressure of restraints on her wrists.

She climbed out of bed slowly, her knees unsteady, fingers trembling as she fumbled for her slippers. The hallway was cool and still, lit only by the faint blue glow of wall lights designed to mimic starlight. She passed Sam’s room. Steve’s. Bucky’s. She could’ve gone to any of them.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she kept walking.

Until she reached the far end of the hall—the one reserved for the people who technically weren’t Avengers. The ones who’d stayed anyway.

She hesitated in front of the door.

Then knocked once. Soft. Barely audible.

She almost turned around. Almost ran back to her room and pretended none of it had happened.

Then the door clicked open.

Tony blinked down at her, hair messy, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes still adjusting to the dim hallway light. “Catherine?”

She stared up at him, too embarrassed to speak.

His gaze dropped to her shaking hands.

“Oh,” he said, voice immediately gentling. “Nightmare?”

She nodded.

“Come in, kid.”

Pepper was already awake when they walked in. She was sitting up against the headboard, reading on a tablet, but the second she saw Catherine, she set it aside and opened her arms without a word.

Catherine didn’t even hesitate.

She crawled into the bed, burrowed under the covers, and curled up beside Pepper like she used to with her mom, long ago. Pepper’s arms wrapped around her immediately, warm and soft and steady.

“You’re okay,” Pepper whispered into her hair. “You’re safe.”

Tony watched from the doorway for a moment, then moved to the other side of the bed and climbed in. “You want me to have FRIDAY turn the lights up a little?”

Catherine shook her head. “It’s okay.”

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the quiet hum of the arc reactor embedded in Tony’s chest.

Pepper brushed Catherine’s hair back gently. “Wanna talk about it?”

Catherine swallowed. “No. Just… didn’t feel real when I woke up.”

Tony nodded, reaching for the nightstand and fiddling with something for a second. Then he held something out to her.

It was a little cube. Smooth, silver, warm to the touch.

“Mini grounding cube,” he said. “Made it for you a while ago. You squeeze it, it warms up and hums just a little—like a heartbeat. Helps your brain remember where you are.”

She took it carefully. “You made this for me?”

Tony shrugged. “Well, not for me. My nightmares involve flying alien worms and not paying my taxes. Yours sounded worse.”

Catherine almost smiled.

She held the cube in both hands, feeling it pulse softly like a quiet drumbeat, and let herself breathe for the first time since waking up.

Pepper pulled the blankets higher over her shoulders. “You know you can come here anytime, right? Doesn’t have to be a nightmare.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” Catherine murmured.

“Sweetheart,” Pepper said gently, “you’re not a bother. You’re ours.”

Catherine’s chest ached.

Tony settled in, pulling the blanket over his legs. “You do take up a lot of space though. Small person, suspiciously sharp elbows.”

“I do not,” Catherine muttered into the pillow.

“Do too,” Tony said. “You spiked me in the ribs last time you fell asleep on the couch.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “She did not.”

“She did. Tiny assassin.”

Catherine let out a weak laugh. It was quiet, but real.

Tony looked over at her, pleased. “There it is. You should smile more. You’ve got Stark-level sarcasm. Just needs time to blossom.”

“I think she’s fine exactly how she is,” Pepper said.

Catherine smiled again.

And slowly—very slowly—her body began to unwind.

The blankets were soft. The bed was warm. And for the first time in days, her limbs didn’t feel like live wires.

Pepper’s fingers brushed gently through her hair.

Tony turned off the bedside light.

And just before she drifted off, she heard him say, softer than she’d ever heard:

“You’re safe, kid. Right here with us.”

The next morning, Catherine woke up between them, one of Tony’s arms draped lazily over her waist, and Pepper snoring softly beside her.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t panic.

Just breathed.

And smiled.

Masterlist

Request

[midnight-society-tlou]

WIP Wednesday - thank you so much @messitydepressity for the tag ;)

This is for everyone I left hanging, waiting for “grasping at straws” over the summer. I have some bit of a rewrite in the works, nowhere near done, but it’ll get there. This has been VERY MINIMALLY edited—so excuse that it’s nowhere near perfect, or even done.

It’s almost dark by the time Joel gets her through the door, nothing but cool, blue late-evening light spilling through the sheer drapes behind their kitchen table. He has the light switched on above the table. For all he’s been trying not to use it because the bulb needs replacing and they’re damn near impossible to find, Joel can’t imagine there’ll be a time he needs it any more than right now. Yellow light flickers every few seconds, but most of the time, it casts at least somewhat of a glow down onto Ellie’s face. Enough for Joel to get a decent look, at least.

It glints against thick, scarlet liquid in the bowl Ellie’s had her head over for the past half hour.

“S’not stopping.” Joel murmurs from the chair next to her. He’s pulled her hair up into a bun to stop it from getting any stickier than it already is, and it flops off to one side when she shakes her head. The fingers of the hand she’s not using to pinch her nose twitch, pressed to the table, next to the bowl. “Can we try the ice again?”

Not like it’ll do anything, but he’s starting to get even more anxious about this whole thing, and the idea of not doing anything about it doesn’t exactly seem like it’ll help–even if he knows that whatever he tries is most likely going to be pointless.

“I don’t think it’ll work.” Ellie sighs, groaning as she lets go of her nose for just a second and thick, heavy drops spill out.

That shouldn’t still be happening.

He knows it shouldn’t, and the urge to do something about it only grows when she follows it up by spitting another mouthful of it into the bowl.

“Jesus.” Joel murmurs, rubbing gently at the back of her neck with one hand, and reaching for the little bowl of half-melted ice cubes on the counter behind him with the other. “Look, even if it don’t do much…” He presses the ice against the bridge of her little nose, and Ellie nods silent agreement, eyes drifting shut for a few seconds before she blinks them open again, meeting his.

They’re tired, scared in a way Joel hasn’t seen from her since the hospital and fucking hates. There’s blood, dried and crusted, smeared across her cheek. The ice cube runs down one drop at a time and washes it away, and Joel focuses on that instead of the sad little eyes locked on him. Looking for him to fix it.

It feels so much like another day, over two years ago now, where he sat with her just like this, at the table of some cold, damp old house on the outskirts of Silver Lake. Another day, watching snow melt against her already too-cold face because it’s all he had to numb the ache of the marks that man had left on her.

What he wouldn’t have given back then, to be in the position they are now.

To have warmth, and safety in knowing that whatever this is, it’ll be fine-

And Joel has to keep telling himself that. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. She’s fine.

That does get harder and harder to believe though, the longer he sits here with her, fingers numb from holding ice cubes to her nose, throat and chest tight from watching the bowl in front of her fill up more and more by the minute.

“Baby, I really don’t think it’s stoppin’.” Joel whispers, rubbing circles over her shoulders. She’s still in her bloody T-shirt, what was white earlier now stained crimson in entire patches, the two broken only by a couple of bright green grass stains along her front and sides.

He’d get her a new one if he wasn’t so afraid that she’d pass out in the time he’s gone.

Ellie shakes her head. “Doesn’t feel like it is.” She mumbles, moving to sit back in her chair. She’s moving so damn slow, tired, as she slumps back against the seat.

“No.” Joel agrees, sucking in a deep breath as she looks up at him through wet lashes, shoulders curled in.

Blowing that breath out slowly, he takes her in–heavy eyes and pale skin and a trickle of blood over her top lip that hasn’t let up in damn near an hour at this point. It ain’t right. He knows it, the same way he knows that she’s going to hate him for making her do something about it.

He’d let her off the hook with nothing but the doctor coming to their house once every couple days, when she burned the bite off her arm. Didn’t make her go to the clinic either, when she caught some bug in the winter that had him up all night for three days straight, practically living on the bathroom floor with her either sweating through her clothes, or puking or both.

This just feels different. Maybe it’s not–maybe it’s nothing, but he can’t just sit by and watch her bleed all fucking night if there’s something he can do about it.

“Look, I know how much you don’t wanna-”

“I don’t.” Ellie cuts across him, shaking her head hard, eyes wide.

“I know, baby.” Joel continues, patient, reaching for her hand despite the layers of blood caked into her skin that he hasn’t been able to clean off yet. “But I don’t think we got a choice here anymore. I promise-” the fucking look in her eyes breaks his heart, but it’s not like he has a choice, “-I promise you, it ain’t gonna be like before. It’ll be in and out. An hour max.”

She chews on her bottom lip, one leg bouncing rapidly between them. It takes a long moment before she says anything at all.

And then she does, and it’s still no. “I can’t.” She sounds so fucking sure of it, too.

“Ellie, you can.” Joel tries, giving her hand a little squeeze. He cups it in both of his, squeezing again to get her to look up at him. “You can.” He repeats, keeping his voice as firm and reassuring as he can possibly make it. “Please, kiddo.”

Please.

[bluegoblinzz]

Clouds Fill the Mind of the Drone

The room was cramped. Every wall was black and shiny, and the ceiling was low, and the room, for a moment was only lit by a set of square lights on the perimeter of the room. They were the kinds of lights you’d see lining the aisles at a movie theater, but they were a bright white instead of a dim red. I tried to stand, but cold metal pressed against my wrists, holding me back. I shuddered, and I felt a pit in my stomach. I wanted to scream, to shout for help, but I knew whoever my captors were would have none of that. So instead, I shut my eyes and told myself I would be okay… my roommate would realize I’m missing and call someone… I would be found. 

I looked around, trying to calm myself, to ground myself. I tried to observe where I was but not dwell upon why I was there, yet…

Five things you can see…

I can see… a table.

On the table is… a really old computer. Holy fuck that thing is a dinosaur, it’s cube shaped.

And I see… my chair… it’s metal. 

I see… my cuffs attached to the chair… they have a blinking light. Damn, if they can invest in futuristic handcuffs and fancy lights, you’d think the would at least get a new computer. 

And I see… My old sneakers, that I’m wearing. 

I took in a deep breath and shut my eyes. 

Four things I can hear…

…I can only hear my breath…

..also I can hear my heartbeat in my ears… 

… and-

CLICK!

The silence was broken by a loud sharp click, which made me flinch. When I opened my eyes, I saw the screen of the old computer had lit, up, and then went dark. In the middle of a black screen, bright white text appeared in blocky letters.  

‘PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE’

Right when I read those words, the lights on my handcuffs turned green and the cuffs opened up. I stared at the old screen for a moment, taking a deep breath inward before pressing the space key on the keyboard. The entire screen lit up white, and there was a hiss as white noise came from the speakers on either side. Happy cheesy piano music played through the muffled crackling speakers, and a logo appeared on screen. The logo was of the stock cloud image, the one with the three puffs, but it was angular, where each puff was a trapezoid, and the logo was a deep indigo. 

“Hello, and thank you for joining Cumulus,” An enthusiastic female voice spoke. It was muffled and garbled as well. A scene faded into focus on the screen. The screen was fuzzy and the color contrast and lighting were off, too warm. The scene was of a white middle class cishet couple sitting at a breakfast table. The overall enthusiasm of the video, combined with the low quality computer combined with my disposition… It made me feel nauseous. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. 

“Here at Cumulus we are committed to making communities around us are safe, and making work run quicker!” And this was where the video went from weird to frightening. There was a big tall person in a black shiny suit. Or at least I think it was a suit. They were covered head to toe so I couldn't tell if it was a person, but if it were a robot then it would be way too high tech. Well, whatever this… figure was, it had a broad stature and was very muscular. Bright blue lines ran up and down the suit, from its boots, up its torso, and around its arms. On the center of its chest were a set of blue letters and numbers. It said “CC-552”  There was some kind of metallic pack on the back with two tubes that connected to the helm…

And the helm was the strangest part… the eyes were covered with some glowing screen that looked somewhat like ski-goggles… There were two big triangular points on top of the head, which I couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be ears or horns. And where there was supposed to be a nose a and mouth, there was a vague square bump that looked like it could have been the snout of a bull, or some kind of lizard? The muzzle of some animal, is all I could tell. That was where the two tubes connected to. 

… Oh and the suit also had a tail because it couldn’t be weird enough!

Anyway, this thing, whatever it was, put a platter of pancakes on the table. The man sitting  at the table smiled and nodded, and the thing saluted back, and moved stiffly and robotically back to the kitchen counter. The camera dollied out until it was outside of the house, outside of the window looking in at the scene, and soon, the couple was out of view, and another similar suit stood guard with a gun outside the door. The mask here was much more clearly dog-like, the rubber muzzle coming into a point. Except, the lines and numbers on this suit were lime green instead of blue. The numbers on its chest were “GD-001”

  “Our mission is to make life easier and to make everyone happier.” The scene changed; it showed one cat suit manning the counter at some fast-food restaurant, wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and a cap with the fastfood logo on it. Off to the side, another bull suit with the same uniform played with a claw machine, took the toy out of it, and handed it to a child, who jumped for joy when she received her new unicorn toy.

“And we can’t thank YOU enough for helping contribute to that!” The shot there was of four of these suits. Two of them had arms around each other, and all of them either waved to the camera, or held up peace signs.

“So, what do you need to do to join the family? How do YOU get started?” A graphic of a stick figure in a box in front of a computer appeared on screen. 

“Once this video is done, you will have access to the changing room. In there, you change into your uniform.” The stick figure hopped into a second box, and then was replaced by the outline of an anthropomorphic bull.

“Then in the next room, you can gain your visor, batteries, and other implements, to fully become one of our state of the art drones.”  A chill went down my spine, and I felt my breath get stuck in my lungs.

Drones, I thought, that’s what those were… and that’s what they’ll make me. 

“After that, you will have a chat with one of our seasoned employees about any questions you may have working here.” The anthropomorphic bull figure sat at a table in front of another anthropomorphic animal.

‘How do I get out of here?’ was the only question I had, but I had a feeling whoever was there wouldn’t have an answer for me. 

“And in the final room, you begin your programming.”  The little figure hopped into one last box, where it lied down and was overlayed with a spiral. I told myself I wouldn’t go into that room. 

“Take all the time you need growing accustomed to being a drone, but for your own safety and health, please do not wait too long. Thank you for volunteering, and we hope you enjoy working at Cumulus!” The cheesy piano music abruptly came to a stop and the screen went black. 

“Volunteered,” I muttered sarcastically. At that point i was beyond panic; i was completely removed from reality. My chest felt tight and I still felt shaky, but emotionally I felt nothing. My thoughts went from ‘this can’t be happening’ to ‘this isn’t happening. How could it?’ And I believed them. 

A beep and another click made me flinch again, and when I looked down, I noticed the cuffs around my ankles were undone, the lights on them going green as well. To my left: the wall slid upward soundlessly, revealing a brighter room lined with black UV lights. This room was larger, and the ceiling was higher. The walls and ceilings were black the lights revealed zigzagging fluorescent lines on the walls, and blue fluorescent lights on the ground. At the end of the room was a big rubber suit hung on the wall.  Below it were a pair of rubber boots and a helm. The black rubber had an especially shiny coating to it, a thin silvery finish, as if the rubber had been UV coated. There were purple fluorescent markings on the suit as well, with a purple logo of the angular cloud on one shoulder, and big purple numbers written across the chest: “AQ-320.” I walked up to the suit and stared at it… it was mine, they made it for me… 

“I don’t… need to put it on,” I told myself, “They can’t make me.”

But then my heart sank as I had a realization: they had said: “for your own safety and health, please do not wait too long.” They weren’t going to do anything until I put the suit on. My choices were either to comply or to starve. I know a lot of people say that they wish to “die with dignity,” or go by that old phrase “give me liberty or give me death,” but I knew I was weak, and wasn’t ready to die. I could not be a martyr, I’d rather be a drone. 

I changed into the spandex pants. They were especially snug, and there were soft rubber pads all along the outside that made the suit look muscular. Whoever designed this probably did it to intimidate ordinary people, to make them think we’re stronger than we actually are.  The inside of the boots were padded with a soft matte rubber, making them feel squishy to walk in. Next I put the gloves on. There were clips on the edges of the gloves, and different types of clips over each knuckle. The rubber of the gloves was about two or three millimeters thick, making the gloves feel heavy and making my hands feel bigger.

I noticed that there were tiny flat electronic circuits on the inside of the gloves, and on the inside of all the other pieces of the suit as well. I wondered what they would do and why I would need them. I myself was not a robot. Nonetheless I changed into the chest piece of the suit, and it was especially snug and especially heavy. At that point, I couldn’t notice how comfortable, how cozy the suit was. It made me feel both more relaxed and more unnerved. The chest piece also had thicker rubber padding around my pecs, my abs, and my biceps and triceps, telling me that the design was definitely about intimidation. The sleeves and the gloves had matching clips, so I snapped the two together. I knew I was reaching the point of no return. 

And finally there was the helmet. I picked it up and gripped it with my big rubber hands, and stared at its face for a moment. The goggles, or the ‘visor’ as the video called it, was missing, and there were clips to hold it in place. There were two circular clips on either side of the muzzle, probably where those tubes connected to. The muzzle was shorter and snub in comparison to the muzzles in the video, and the helmet had two big, floppy ears. Its cheeks were round but the jaw overall was square

A bunny, I thought to myself, and a chad bunny, at that. 

I held the helmet in one hand, and then slowly reached down behind myself to check something, and I huffed and rolled my eyes when I noticed it was there: a tiny ball of rubber above my lower back. A tail. They HAD to give me a tail. 

Slowly I put the helmet over my head, letting it rest on my crown and my shoulders, and then I snapped the clips of the helm to the clips around my neck on the chest piece. And once I did that, the smaller wall on the rectangular room beside me slid open. There were more fluorescent lines marking the floor and walls, but inside of this room was a large rectangular pack with three devices on top of it. 

It was hard to move around in the heavy suit, but I made my way over to the devices and examined each one. The first one had the appearance of a tablet except it was curved, and had a “screen” on both ends. I assumed this was the visor and I clicked it into place on the  helm. It was dark and hard to see through. Then there were two identical devices: Tiny metal boxes with four holes on each one. It took me a moment to realize that these connected to the clips on the back of each of my gloves. I clicked each device into place. Hesitantly I stared at the large metal box. It must have been a battery pack, or some kind of control panel or something… 

This is it, I thought. I had no idea why I was complying up to that point. I suppose I knew it wasn’t going to go well for me if I didn’t. I guess I was afraid and wanted to rip off the bandaid so to speak. But I knew once I put the pack on my fate was sealed. I looked up and looked around, looking for some way out one last time. I didn’t see any cracks in the walls, any ways to open the doors… I didn’t even see any cameras, but I knew there had to be, because how did they know what I was doing? Uncertainty took hold.

“Hello?” I called out, “Are you watching? W-why am I here?! Why me?!” There was no response… I knelt next to the box, still looking up at nothing in the room. 

“Why?” I repeated. 

… still no response.

I waited for a few minutes, expecting some ingenious escape plan to pop into my brain, or expecting someone to come get me. But that was the thing… I was waiting for something to happen. I was scared but the silence scared me more, I wanted to move on. I wanted to know what was next. Perhaps I was curious.

I hoisted the metal box upward, and examined it for a moment, there was a power button on the right hand corner. When I clicked it, blue and purple lines lit up all around the pack and gave off a soft glow, like a gaming computer. I turned the box around to make the clips face away from me, and clicked the clips on the right of the box to the right of my back, and swung the box around like a closing door to click the left clips to the left side of my back. And finally I grabbed a hold of the two tubes on top of the box, and connected them to each of the clips on my muzzle. 

There was a click and then everything went completely quiet, like I hadn’t noticed how loud the airflow of the room was until my helmet turned ‘noise cancelation’ on. The visor gave off a dim glow and showed that angular cloud again, the ‘Cumulus’ logo. A bunch of numbers and charts appeared on my screen, with the words “VITALS” written on top, and after a few seconds, the an EKG started spiking and falling, numbers appeared at the “BLOOD PRESSURE” section, there was some brain activity chart i didn’t understand, and also a chart that I believe measured my breath? 

Before I could even process what was going on with each of the readings, big red letters appeared on the screen. 

TERMINATION: 3

“Wait what?!” I shouted, my voice muffled by the suit. 

TERMINATION: 2

“What does that mean?!”

TERMINATION: 1

“Am I gonna die?!” 

… when the number hit zero, there was a sudden and sharp pain in my chest, making me flinch. In that moment there was nothing. I didn’t see or hear anything. I didn’t think. I couldn’t acknowledge myself. I wasn’t there… I was completely gone. 

“Rᴇʙᴏᴏᴛɪɴɢ.” There was a robotic monotone voice, and suddenly I was aware again. My head shot up abruptly. Through my peripherals I could see that my arms and legs snapped to a stiff posture, and my back was straight. But… I couldn’t feel them at all. I tried to move from the position I was standing in but I found I couldn’t move or feel my arms or legs. Everything was completely numb. And then I saw the vitals in front of my eyes. I had no pulse. The breadth readings weren’t there, and my blood pressure was listed as N/A. And at the top, of the screen, were the words: READINGS: NORMAL. The vitals then disappeared, and I could see through my visor clearly. 

“Cᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴄɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛᴏʀʏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ.” The monotone voice spoke again. And that was when I noticed the monotone voice was my own, and I was saying these things against my will. I felt absolutely nothing. My heart didn’t speed up and I didn’t feel my stomach twinge or churn. My mind buzzed with thoughts like “oh my god oh my god” and “what the hell what the hell?!” But emotionally, I felt nothing. My thoughts matched what i would have felt in the past but I didn’t have an emotional connection to these thoughts.

Then my body marched forward on its own. One leg and one arm snapped outward simultaneously, not bending at the knee when I took a step. And then the other. And then this robotic motion was continued until I passed through the door and walked up to a metal table beside a metal chair, and then my body dropped suddenly to sit down in the chair, and pulled itself to face forward in a quick snapping motion. The room was lit about the same as the other rooms, however above the table was a bright light that accented only the table And those who sat there.  Across from me there was a drone whose helm had green markings on it, and had the features of a German shepherd. There was a dim animation of a green spiral on its visor. Then I read the numbers on its chest: GD-001. Just like in the video. 

“AQ-320, Tʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴊᴏɪɴɪɴɢ Cᴜᴍᴜʟᴜs,” It said. “Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ǫᴜᴇsᴛɪᴏɴs ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ?” Its voice was deep and despite its mechanical articulations, its voice was gentle. My lungs did not move that whole time, but when I went to speak, my chest expanded.

“Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪs?” I asked, my voice monotone. I wanted to see the one in charge. I didn’t know what I would do, if I would beat them up or demand answers, or what, but I knew this wasn’t right and I needed to see them. 

“Nᴏ I ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ. I ᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ʜɪɢʜᴇʀ ʀᴀɴᴋɪɴɢ, ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ I ᴀᴍ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Mᴀsᴛᴇʀ.”

“Wʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ?” 

“Nᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡs.” 

I seriously expected GD to respond with “classified” or something like that… The way they gave such a human response there made me think they were more human than initially thought. I knew if I could still feel anything: I would feel I some empathy for them. I would feel sad that this fate I have been subjected to for less than an hour has been their reality for… I’m not sure how long. 

“Wʜʏ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ I ᴍᴏᴠᴇ? Wʜʏ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ I ꜰᴇᴇʟ? Wʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ?” 

“Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ,” They said,  “Bᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟsᴏ ɪᴍᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ. Nᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴄᴇʟʟs ᴀʀᴇ ᴠɪᴛᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇsᴛ ᴅɪᴇ. Yᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴜʟsᴇ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʙᴀᴛᴛᴇʀʏ. Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴏꜰ TENS ᴜɴɪᴛs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʟᴇx ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴜsᴄʟᴇs. Aꜰᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ TENS ᴜɴɪᴛs ᴀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ.”

I shook my head. None of it made sense to me, and one question kept repeating in my mind. I tried to shout it out: ‘why… WHY?!?!’ trying to seep my desperation into my voice, but it still came out monotone. 

“Wʜʏ. Wʜʏ.“ 

“AQ-320,” They began “ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ sᴇɴsᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏs ᴏꜰ ᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ. Iᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜᴛᴇ. Iᴛ ɪs ᴇᴀsɪᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ, ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ.” And then it did something that I didn’t expect. Something that surprised me so much, for a brief moment I felt a chill down my spine, a lump in my throat, and real sadness in my heart. It reached across the table and gently touched my hand. 

“… Tʀᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇ.” 

I stared at the canine figure in front of me. We were drones, both of us, but maybe whatever ‘drone’ meant wasn’t what I thought. Maybe there was still room to be me, and also room to be AQ-320. I wasn’t content with my disposition, but I now knew that I wasn’t alone. I attempted to nod in recognition, but I found I still couldn’t move. 

“…ᴏᴋᴀʏ,” I replied. 

Its hand snapped backward to its side. At first I was offended but then realized it probably had no control over whether it wanted to do that. 

“Aɴʏ ꜰᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ǫᴜᴇsᴛɪᴏɴs?” GD-001 asked. 

So many, I thought. But too many right now. 

“Nᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ,” I stated. 

“AQ-320, ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ.”

My body snapped into a standing position, and once again it began robotically marching by itself, past GD-001 toward the door that was sliding open at the end of the room. 

“Nɪɢʜᴛʏ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ,” GD-001 said. I could see its reflection in the shiny wall waving at me.

When I crossed the threshold of the final room, the door slid behind me. The room was dark but there was a soft purple light that filled the entire room, making it feel cozy. Inside the room there was a big bed without a blanket, a pillow, and a night-time hat. My hands shot outward, picked up the night time hat, and put it over my bunny ears. Then, my body went stiff and flopped on top of the bed, my head resting on the pillow. 

And so it began. One moment I was staring at the blank ceiling, the next moment I was staring at a pink and purple spiral in my visor. Two similar pitches rang in inside my helmet, causing a waving dissonance. At first the spiral and the tone didn’t do anything; I felt completely normal. But then the spiral became harder to look at, harder to understand. My own thoughts became harder to understand, and they became harder to form. Happiness washed over me and I felt my lips curl into a smile. I tried to stop, but my face then was frozen in place. 

I knew this feeling of joy was bad; it was insidious and was being used to control me, so I tried to suppress it, but it was the best I had felt so far during my time at Cumulus… so I had to just let it wash over me… at a certain point I didn’t want to resist the happiness, and I didn’t know why I did. There were low whispers and mutterings of thoughts in my head. They didn’t come from the visor or from the speakers but I knew these thoughts weren’t my own, so I tried to resist them. But then my mouth began moving on its own.

“Oɴʟʏ ᴄᴜᴍᴜʟᴜs.. mmmm… H-ʜᴀ…hʜhʜᴀᴘᴘʏʏʏ…”

The thoughts got louder and more persistent.

“Oʙᴇʏ… no- Dʀᴏɴᴇ… uhhh… ᴍ-ᴍ-ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ.” 

And then something clicked, and these intrusive thoughts and my own mind became one. 

“Oɴʟʏ ᴄᴜᴍᴜʟᴜs ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ᴍᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ.

I ᴀᴍ ᴀɴ ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴛ ᴅʀᴏɴᴇ

I ᴏʙᴇʏ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ.

Mʏ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ sʜᴀᴘᴇs ᴍʏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ.” 

I kept repeating that over and over again, feeling calmer and calmer the more I repeated it, thinking less and less the more I did, and forgetting more and more. The more I said it, the more it became true, and the less I cared. 

I was in the middle of repeating my programming again, when a robotic voice interrupted me. 

‘Iɴɪᴛɪᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴇsᴛ ᴏɴᴇ.’

I fell silent. Text appeared on the screen in front of the spiral. 

YOU ARE A BUNNY

My mouth shut and my eyes widened, and I shot upward into a sitting position. I didn’t know what those words meant but I felt them and I believed them with all my heart. And then an image of a carrot appeared in front of the spiral. My mouth watered. Craving and hunger and excitement overwhelmed me. I grinned and picked up my hands, letting them flop forward in front of me. The rubber tail on the back of my suit shook. I wiggled my nose some more. 

Then the carrot swung back and forth in front of the spiral, and my eyes followed it, and my tongue lulled out of my mouth as it did. I was overwhelmed with both joy and confusion. The more I watched the carrot and the spiral, the less I thought, and the more I gave into Cumulus’s programming. And eventually my eyelids grew heavy and it was hard to keep an upright posture. I began swaying as I fought sleepiness, wanting to keep watching this entertaining video in my visor, wanting to keep being a bunny and wanting to keep obeying. But then a new word appeared on screen. 

DROP

Once again, I didn’t understand the word, but my body followed. I slumped forward, my head dropping and my arms falling limp. And then one word kept flashing on the screen over and over. 

FORGET

FORGET

FORGET

This tranced state, this programming, had burrowed its way into my mind. I forgot without resistance and without question. I fell backwards, lying down once again, relishing this happy state of mind that was made for me, and obeying the command over and over again, allowing the visor to guide me into creating a new me… a better me… 

I love Cumulus.

I love my job.

I love to obey.

I am a drone.

My mind is devoid of thought.

My mind is clouded with calm.

My mind is clouded… 

Cumulus…

[postapocalyptic-cryptic]

Rock and a hard place tfp ratchet?

RAHHH THIS ONE MADE ME INSANE. This takes place in the "What Sun Still Rises" universe, where Sideswipe and Sunstreaker come to Earth in the TFP universe as kids. CW for food shortage/food deprivation

It’s nothing he hasn’t been through before. That’s what he tells himself as the days drag on into weeks, as that quarter-cube decrease in rations starts to really get to him. It’s nothing he hasn’t been through before, and the team needs this.

Things have been different since the twins arrived, in more ways than one. Ratchet wouldn’t trade them for the world, certainly wouldn’t turn them out on their own, but in all honesty, they hardly had the energon to sustain themselves before Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s arrival. They don’t have the resources to feed two more mouths, let alone two more growing ones.

He knows they’ve been subjected to energon deprivation before. It shows in their frame size, in their labwork, in the thin spots in their armor. He refuses to let them feel that pain, not when they’re so young. Not when they’re just now learning to be bitlets. They’d accept it, he knows. If he explained the situation to them, Pit, even if he didn’t, they’d accept it. He just… he can’t. So he shorts himself, and he keeps shorting himself even when their next raid comes up wonderfully successful. It’s just half a cube a day saved, but it’s something. It’s more than what they would have otherwise, and it’s not as if he needs it as much as the rest of the team does. He’s not a child and he’s not a fighter. He’ll be fine.

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind he’s come to appreciate since settling into the Bunker. Optimus and the rest of them are out on a scouting mission, and the twins and the humans are playing video games in the common room. Ratchet is in his lab working on the synthetic energon formula. He’s sat at a table, and everything is fine. He’s tired and achy and his helm hurts like the Pit, but he’s fine. All that is normal. He needs something from a bench on the other side of the room, he realizes, and pushes himself to his feet with a groan.

Immediately, he knows he’s made a mistake. His vision narrows to a dim pinprick of light and all his energon seems to drain from his head. He stumbles, tries to catch himself on the desk, then—

—the ground, blinking, trying to—

—hand to his helm, hurts—

—little hands patting his face, weight on his chest. “M’whazzat?” He cycles his optics a few times, and Sideswipe comes into focus alarmingly close to his face. “What…?”

“Ratchet!” Sideswipe’s perched on Ratchet’s chest, leaning over his face. Sunstreaker can’t be far, Ratchet figures, and he’s proved right when he pipes up from somewhere on Ratchet’s left. “Are you okay?”

“We heard a crash and we came in and—”

“---You were on the ground.”

“Did you fall?”

“Should we call Optimus?”

“We should call Optimus.”

Ratchet shoos Sideswipe off his chest and sits up with a groan. “No one is calling Optimus. I’m fine. Just got a bit dizzy, is all.”

Two sets of bright blue optics fix on him with intensity and, he realizes, no small amount of fear. Their plating is slicked down flat and their fields are going wild.

“Are you sure?” Sideswipe asks, tucking himself close to Ratchet’s side.

Sunstreaker presses up against his other side. They both sit against him for a few moments, vents working overtime and fields reaching out to Ratchet for stability, before Sunstreaker says it. “Is it because you’re low on fuel?”

Ratchet sighs, pulls both of them closer. “Now, why would you say a thing like that?”

Sunstreaker pouts. “We know you don’t fuel as much as everyone else. It’s not a secret.”

Well, frag.

Sideswipe speaks next. “And we know it’s because of us.”

Frag it all. “You two are too smart for your own good, you know that?” Both of them laugh, but it’s strained. “Listen. You’re right, I have been shorting myself, but it’s not your fault. That sort of thing is never your fault.”

“But it’s because of us.”

“You don’t have enough fuel to feed us.”

“That’s for me and the other adults to worry about, you understand? You two are bitlets; your health comes first.”

Sideswipe makes an indignant little noise. “But—”

“But nothing.” Ratchet gives both of them another squeeze. “I’m sorry I scared you, but I’m alright. All you two need to worry about right now is being bitlets, okay?”

“And the Decepticons,” Sideswipe says.

Ratchet stifles a laugh. “And the Decepticons.”

[thehollowwriter]

Summary: Finn, Floyd, and Jade celebrate Azul's birthday. I'm too tired to edit so it'll probably be full of errors

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤️)

Birthday

"Azul. It's time to get up, darling."

Azul shifted, the comforting warmth of his soft blankets enticing him to simply roll over and stay there, to just give in to the sleepiness weighing over him.

Sky blue eyes fluttered open, wincing at the unexpected light flooding the bedroom. Azul sat up and rubbed his eyes, grasping at his side table for his glasses.

To his surprise, someone else slipped them onto his face, and his blurry vision cleared to reveal the smiling face of Jade Leech peering down at him.

"Jade..?"

Jade's teeth glinted, and his smile stretched wider. In his hands was a teatray on which was a cup of steaming tea, a bowl of sugar cubes, and honey.

"Happy birthday, Azul~" The eel sang, placing the teatray on Azul's lap and trying not to laugh at the octopus' sleepy, confused face. "Tea."

Azul blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yes, I can see that. Thank you, I suppose, I'll be sure to repay you."

There was a pause, and Azul gently placed a cube of sugar into his tea. "I am noticing a mysterious lack of scaring the ink out of me this morning. What do you want?"

Jade's face twisted to form an expression of hurt, and he placed a hand on his heart. "Why, Azul, you wound me. Can I not do something nice for my darling boyfriend on his birthday?"

"...This was Finn's idea, wasn't it?"

Jade sighed. "Caught out so quickly... yes, it was. He insisted we give you a calm, peaceful day, which unfortunately means no 'birthday shenanigans', as Floyd would put it. The other two are making you breakfast."

"Hmm. I see." Azul hummed, adding a dash of honey to his tea and stirring it. For a cannibalistic shark, Finn was a saint. No, not really, but close enough. "I imagine you are quite dissatisfied, then?"

Jade shook his head. "Not at all. As much as I adore your annoyed face, it's nice to spoil you. Besides, I got to make you special tea."

Azul paused mid stor and stared down at his tea. His brows furrowed, and he glared at Jade. "What did you put in my tea, Jade?"

"Oh, relax, it's just mushroom tea." Jade said happily. "I brewed it myself. It's perfectly safe, I tested it on the prefect."

Azul briefly considered visiting Yuu in the hospital before against his better judgement, taking a sip.

It... it tasted surprisingly good. Profitable, even. Find, maybe he won't ban mushrooms and all mention of them (not that that would do anything). He'd be cruel to dismiss Jade's little sales pitch.

"It's good." Azul said, raising his eyebrows. "I'll consider it for a seasonal menh. I'm sure it could be popular if even I can enjoy it."

He would be lying if he said the way Jade's eyes lit up didn't make him smile and sip his tea to hide it.

It was nice, relaxing in bed on a Saturdsy morning with a cup of freshly brewed tea. He was up early enough not to feel rushed, free to take his time.

"You said Finn and Floyd are making breakfast?" Azul asked once he finished his cup, setting it down with a gentle clink.

Jade nodded.."Yes. We can go to the kitchen when you're ready. They're quite excited to see you."

Azul huffed. "Really now..."

He never understood that sort of thing. They see him every day. They spend a lot of time with him. Well, he wouldn't rain on their parade.

There was a comfortable silence for a moment, and then Azul handed the teatray to Jade and got out of bed.

"Alright, let me get dressed and -"

"Ah, ah, ah." Jade took Azul's hand and pulled him close. "Breakfast first. Then we can help you with your makeup and birthday suit."

Azul narrowed his eyes. "I look like I crawled out of a pit."

"You don't."

To Jade, Azul looked positively delightful. Hair rustled, eyes bleary with lingering sleepiness, no makeup, and dressed in lavender and white pyjamas.

Not NRC student Azul, not Mostro Lounge owner Azil, and not Octavinelle dorm leader Azul. Just Azul. It was his birthday, he was seventeen, and his boyfriends were celebrating with him.

Azul rolled his eyes and let Jade lead him down the halls of Octavinelle towards the kitchen. The only reason he allowed himself to leave his room in such a state was because it was too early for other students to be awake, and if they were, they knew better than to wander.

When they arrived, the unmistakable smell of food hit his nose, and he couldn't help but feel excited, and the sight of Finn and Floyd working in the kitchen in tandem only made the excitement grow.

Finn noticed them and lifted his head to smile at Azul. "Morning, Azul. Happy birthday."

Floyd waved, his eyes fixed on the airfryer. "Morning, 'Zul. How was the poison birthday tea?"

Azul chuckled. "Surprisingly good. We should slip you some, Floyd. Maybe you'll enjoy it. "

Floyd gagged. "Hell no. Don't threaten me while I'm making your birthday breakfast. It's rude."

"We're almost done!" Finn called. "You can take a seat."

Azul let Jade guide him to the kitchen island and patiently sat down to wait, excitement gnawing at him as the smells and sights only seemed to become more saliva inducing.

"Order up!"

Azul's jaw nearly dropped at the large number of dishes placed in front of him with magic.

Stuffed crab, seaweed wraps, sushi, a variety of sliced meats (similar to ham), fish sticks, stewed clams, raw mussels... so many foods from their home, all placed right in front of him. And... what's that? Deep fried chicken! Oh, he really was being spoiled today...

Maybe a bit too much.

Azul sucked in a breath. "Thank you, you two, but I can't. The... the calories..."

"Consider it a cheat day." Finn said softly. "It's your birthday, after all. Of course, if you really don't want it, we can eat it."

Azul sighed. "I'll... see how I go. I'm sure it won't hurt to eat a little more than usual, and apart from the chicken, it's quite healthy."

Things went quiet as Azul compiled a plate of food for himself. There was so doubt, no doubt the other three were taking advantage of his birthday to make a large array of delectables to devour.

He ate slowly, savouring the taste and appreciating the skills his partners had. Truly, they had a gift.

"This is amazing." He said, nodding his head at Floyd and Finn. "Thank you for your hard work, I'll be sure to make you something just as wonderful in return."

Finn smiled and kissed Azul's cheek. "Thank you, but you'll have to save your plans for payment until tomorrow. We have a whole day planned for you. I know you're going to enjoy yourself."

"But the Lounge-"

"We've taken care of that." Floyd said with a grin. "Don't worry about it. Ah, here, we got some stuff for you when you're done."

An array of gifts were placed on the table, wrapped with varying degrees of success.

"Happy birthday, Azul."

...........................................

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this spontaneous bit of fluff!

Tagging: @distant-velleity @krenenbaker @cynthinesia @theleechyskrunkly @cyanide-latte @officialdaydreamer00 @whspermy-name @kitwasnothere @oya-oya-okay @skrimpyskimpy @boopshoops

[pearlypairings]

happy birthday my photocheer queen!!! 🥰 could i get a "you remembered?" for them, please?

jonathan x chrissy || adorable fluff || 833 words

A/N: ahhh thank you for this prompt! I made it extra sickeningly sweet just for you<3 happy, super cute surprises!!

yesterday's prompt

She gripped the package in her hands, reminiscent of Ash from Evil Dead discovering the Naturom Demonto (Jonathan would appreciate her reference). It wasn’t going anywhere until he got home.

Chrissy stashed the wrapped box in her makeup drawer, confident that he would never discover it if he snooped around her vanity. This birthday gift had to remain a surprise, even though she had struggled to keep her own secret. With each passing day, the nagging sensation at the back of her mind grew, making it increasingly difficult for her to resist the urge to grab the package from the drawer and hand it over to Jonathan to open immediately.

But today was finally the day! She’d held out long enough!

She hunkered down at the kitchen table, waiting for him to return from his birthday tradition of going out on a dawn photography walk. The touch of Jonathan’s lips still warmed her forehead when he kissed her goodbye this morning in bed, and she let herself get lost in her own thoughts.

When their door swung open, she leapt up in the air, startled, bringing back memories of her time on the Tigers’ cheer team. There was a rush of the morning chill into the room that made her shiver just a little, reminding her winter would soon be here. 

Without missing a beat, Chrissy kept her tone peppy when they locked eyes. “Happy birthday, love.” 

Jonathan shook the autumn cold out of his jacket, smiling that little grin he reserved just for her. His camera bag swung at his side, kept safe under his right arm. His cheeks were stained pink from the whipping morning wind, but he looked as pleased as ever regardless.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” He glanced around the tiny kitchen before his gaze landed on her and the box in her hands. His head shook. “I thought we said no presents this year?” 

“I agreed to no presents for me,” she said smugly, thumbing her chest. “Now come on, no semantics, get over here birthday boy. I’ve been dying for you to open this up all week.” 

Jonathan hung his things at the entryway hooks and when he reached her, he  kissed her nice and slow. She could feel the lingering smile on his lips, cold soaked all the way through. He was practically a walking ice cube. Nudging the gift into his hands, he relented at last to look down at the small gift. 

“Alright, alright,” he laughed. “I’ll be a good sport. Mom would kill me if she heard you complain that I tortured you all morning.”

Chrissy buzzed. The second she’d seen the window display, she knew she had found the perfect gift to give him. Jonathan was the worst to shop for—never asking for anything and rarely giving any hints when it came time for the holidays. But this year, she had pieced together, like one of her favorite Agatha Christie’s sleuths, that he had missed this particular thing for a long while.

The ribbon fell undone with quick work, and the delicate plaid paper crinkled as he ripped the pattern in half. He paused to make sure she was watching as he lifted the lid of the plain cardboard gift box to reveal his surprise. 

His dark eyes flickered when he peered inside. “Is that—I mean, wait, did you…”

Excitement caught his voice and kept it wound tight. Jonathan pulled out the contents to examine the metal circle hanging off the blue collar. 

Chrissy bit her lip. “It’s still blank. I thought you’d waited long enough to have the honor of naming him.”

He clasped the dog collar tight within his grasp. “How did you know? I mean, I never said…”

“No, you never told me.” She smiled warmly as he trailed off again. “But you mentioned one night how you loved your family dog, that he was your best friend while your parents were—” This was supposed to be light, she didn’t need to bring up memories of his father today. “—well, you know. I just thought, maybe, you were too scared to ask me, and I saw the cutest, fluffiest mutt at Marty’s pet store and remembered you said Chester had this crazy amount of wild fur and—”

Jonathan embraced her, unable to contain his happiness any longer. “You remembered? You remembered all that and realized that I wanted a dog for us? I told you that story months ago! After the big rain storm reminded me of the time Will, Chester, and I were stranded in Castle Byers practically all night.”

“How could I not remember Jonathan Byers telling an endearing childhood story? And the fluffy guy found me! He’s on hold right now. We just have to go pick him up from Marty’s.” 

Jonathan kissed her and clasped the collar between their palms. “Have I ever told you how outrageously brilliant and beautiful you are?”

“Maybe,” she said in between kisses. “Once or twice.”

[bellshazes]

OK sorry for the handwriting but this table illustrates your time in seconds per 100x blocks in a boat on either Packed* ice or Blue ice, and the difference between those two times at each 100 block milestone. packed ice reaches full acceleration btwn 400-500 blocks and blue ice btwn 600-700.

at 100 blocks, the diff is less than half a second.

at 400 blocks, the diff is about 3 seconds

at 1000 blocks, the diff is almost 10 seconds, or 37% (25.5s vs 16.1)

honestly at under 500 blocks per segment**, I cannot recommend you use anything but normal ice (packed ice if lighting level matters) due to the exponential cost of blue ice (81x regular ice, 9x packed ice).

above 1000 blocks in a single axis, it is worth it to use blue ice if you care about the difference between 20 and 30s per trip in one direction - if it's a rare travel location, maybe not; if you do it multiple times per session, it might.

None of this controls at all for factors like spawnproofing (this is for my above the nether roof situation which is part of a multi-system nether hub) or mobs (horses need >3bl height free to not suffocate but also ghast/magma cube spawning may impact your need to place fence or glass panes along the side of the road if built on roof) or afkability (ex: rails could cost more but don't require continous button pressing/powered rails) or so on. I'd like to make a flow chart some day but ultimately i mixed my X and y axis and laid 300 blocks of packed ice path for no fucking reason as proven mathematically that I wasted my time. Hope u don't waste yours

*packed and regular ice are the same for math purposes. the main difference is regular ice can be farmed, but if you have the right biomes packed ice can be harvested without needing a farm - so use what is convenient, presuming you won't need blue ice.

**acceleration time matters especially in the first 300-600 blocks, and I refuse to fuck with diagonals rn so consider each length left-right and up-down separately for math purposes

[so-many-crushes]

The Wonder of You

Just a little gift for @frecklystars because she deserves it! (like I mentioned, sorry if something isn't lore accurate- I haven't seen the movie)

Ship: Keri/Officer K (Blade Runner 2049)

Word Count: ~900

K sighed as he walked through the door of his apartment and shrugged off his coat, it was raining… again. The third time it rained in the past week alone. Another day another Nexus-8 replicant to retire. Today had taken K all the way out to Lone Pine and back so it was an understatement to say K was tired. He kicked his shoes off and made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, K’s eyes lingered on his girlfriend’s rainbow mug for a moment. K shook the frown off his face as he grabbed the open bottle of scotch, Keri would be back soon.

The Nexus-9 poured himself a glass, plopped two ice cubes, took a long sip, and sighed with relief as the alcohol burned the back of his throat. He replenished the missing sip before capping the scotch and made his way into the living room. K placed his glass on the coffee table, making sure to put in on the coaster Keri had gotten him. She had said the water rings on the table were ‘just as disastrous as Ken’s mojo dojo casa house’… whatever that meant. K walked over to his vintage record player and flipped through his extensive vinyl collection before deciding to play ‘Jazz’s Greatest Hits Vol. 4’. He sat on the couch with his glass in hand and his eyes closed as Nat King Cole’s voice crackled to life from the record player. K was content like that for a while, just relaxing on his couch as his mind drifted elsewhere.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for as the jazz filled his empty apartment before a new sound echoed through the air. K felt like he knew that sound better than his own voice, it was a magical sound- like the sound of glass wind chimes. The sound of his Keri. K jumped to his feet as a bright pink light formed in his room, the light shifted into the form of a star and then into his girlfriend.

“Keri!” K smiled for the first time that day.

“K!” Keri beamed, shaking glitter from her hair- a little unknown side effect of dimension hopping. “I missed you!” She held out her arms.

“I missed you so much.” K wrapped his arms around her and spun her, his smile growing as the brunette laughed. K placed Keri back on the ground and pulled her in for a kiss. “Are you hungry?” He asked after pulling away, “I have some ice cream in the freezer?”

“In a bit,” Keri pulled K in for another hug, “Wanna spend time with you.” Her voice was somewhat muffled from being pressed into K’s chest.

K smiled and kissed the top of her head, “Of course, baby. Get comfy, let me grab you some water, yeah?” Keri nodded and flopped down on the couch as K came back with a glass of water, again making sure to put it on the coaster. “How have you been, love?” K asked, sitting down next to his girlfriend.

Keri launched into tales of her inter dimensional travels since she had last seen K, she fiddled with the frills of her baby blue dress as she spoke. K listened happily, a love struck expression plastered across his face. As Keri eventually finished her stories, the record began to play its last song ‘Cheek To Cheek’ by Ella Fitzgerald. K stood up from the couch and held his hand out.

“Dance with me?” He asked.

Keri stood and took his hand, “Always.”

The pair grabbed opposite sides of the coffee table and moved it off to the side to give the couple a bigger dancing space. K took Keri’s hand again and twirled her into his arms, she giggled as she spun. The song was a bit faster than what they usually danced to and Keri couldn’t help but laugh as they tried to do a fake swing routine as Ella’s honey-sweet voice filled the air.

Eventually the trumpets playing came to an abrupt end as the song finished, the vinyl finally ending. Keri continued to laugh, her cheeks flushed pink, as she made her way over to the record player to pick out the next vinyl. She didn’t have to flip through very far, K always made sure to keep Keri’s favorite records at the front. She slipped the vinyl out of the sleeve and placed it down before ever so gently resting the needle on top. The girl made her way back over to K as a familiar tune surrounded the pair.

“When no-one else can understand me…” Elvis Presley’s singing floated in the apartment, “When everything I do is wrong… You give me hope and consolation…”

Keri draped her arms up over K’s shoulders and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist. He leaned down and kissed her again, he loved how the two fit together- like he was made for her and not made for retiring replicants. The two swayed back and forth to the music.

“I love you, Keri.” K murmured, resting his chin on her head.

Keri rested her head on his chest again, listening to the sound of the rain outside hitting the window, the song, and most importantly- the beating of K’s mechanical heart. “I love you too.”