#wheeze's mailbox

[wheezethecheeze]

Woof!!

aw.... doggy computer.. petpetpetpetpetpetpet

[vangh17a]

HA! You think you can get away with filling my inbox with spam?!

LET YOUR DRAFTS BE FILLED WITH DRAFT BEER

OH NO MY CLIP STUDIO WIPS

[kithtaehyung]

Would we stay 🙄 girl be so f*cking fr rn…OF COURSE WE’D STAY

I’m still sat waiting patiently for like 100 and 10 of your wips like tf??? Where would I even go???

And the ones who wouldn’t…BYE, can’t say I’ll miss you 👋🏽

Bonus gif bc I clicked it bc I didn’t remember what it was and now I’m hypnotized:

DKSKDKDKD MIQ PLS I’ve just been a little worried ever since taking a break after Broken Pt 2😭🤍 That was a huge project that really knocked me out, but there’s been quite a few messages only asking if I’m continuing 3tan and not much else. So it feels a little different tbh but I’m glad to hear that you’ll stay!🫂

The ending to three tangerines is gonna make me sob my eyes out since it’s been my life for years LMAO but after a good break, then I’ll finally work on other things I’ve been wanting to share🥳

[phantomrose96]

Okay I have a story.

So my birthday is this Sunday (May 26th). My mom ordered some presents for me but one of them (an Etsy purchase) was seemingly stuck in transit and might not make it on time. I tell my mom all good, no worries. She gets in contact with the seller. After a long delay in response they get back with "Right we'll fix it!" It ships, tracking label and everything, good to go! ETA May 22nd (yesterday.)

During the work day I check the tracking and it says it's been delivered in/at mailbox! I double check with my mom "hey, is it mailbox size?" because if not, I don't want it sitting at the front door where anyone walking by could snag it.

She says "it's definitely NOT mailbox size." Okay. I text my neighbors in the building "Anyone seen a package delivered? It's a birthday gift from my mom and I wanna make sure it gets inside!" Success! Floor 2 David (not to be confused with Floor 1 David) had brought it inside. Inform my mom. All good!

I stop by home briefly around 4pm, because yesterday was hot-hot and I just installed my window A/C that morning in the living room, and according to my cat cam my stupid cat hasn't spent a single second in the climate controlled living room and is, instead, voluntarily baking herself elsewhere so I'm like "great" and hop on my bike to go home (10 minute ride) to check on her.

I get in the building door. Patches is crying from the top floor because she heard me. I maneuver my bike in the front hall. The ugliest fucking 6-foot-tall cat tree(?)/totem(?)/statue(?) I've seen in my entire life is just. Standing there.

My first thought is "What the fuck is that." My second thought is "Oh fuck that is for me." I look around at the floor in case there's perhaps anything else that might, in fact, be the gift.

No. Me and Cat Pole.

It's taller than me. I turn it around to face me and its face is painted and this is, in fact, uglier than it looked from the back.

Um.

Patches is crying. So I just haul it up to my level. MAYBE it was supposed to come with twine that I wrap around it (and hide its face from the world) for Patches to scratch. Maybe this is a prank. Maybe this is an inside joke, because when my mom moved into her current house the neighborhood gifted her some ugly-as-hell totem that apparently, by tradition, each newest-comer to the neighborhood is required to have and display in their window so maybe this is a very good riff on that.

Patches rubs against it. She's not afraid of this horrid facsimile of her kind.

Great.

Meanwhile SHE'S fine and the condo is a little toasty but totally liveable so I'm like "Good, cool, you're not baking. You're having a good time. Enjoy your new sister, I guess, I'll see you later."

I go back to work because this is a problem for later me.

After work, after my run, after whatever, I get home and it's like 8:00pm and Patches is so happy to see me and the totem pole is still just. There.

I text my friends like "so a bday gift is here from my mom and it's the Biggest Ugliest cat pole I've seen in my life. Is this a bit? Did my mom go 'that's so ugly haha! send!' Maybe she genuinely found it cute. How do I navigate this." My friend Sarah has the good advice to maybe text my mom neutrally like "Got the cat pole!" and feel the waters whether my mom is like "Isn't it ugly? 😂" or "Hope Patches likes it! 🥰"

My mom goes to bed early so I don't do any of that yet. Problem for tomorrow me.

This morning, Patches wakes me up for breakfast. I get her situated and I'm staring at the fucking Cat Pole again. I wonder if my Mom's been wondering all night what I thought of it.

I take a picture. I text her.

Okay.

I get on call with my mom. I ask for clarity that the ungodly horrid thing is NOT my birthday gift and is in fact a mix-up from the seller who sent me this instead of my actual gift. She's wheezing between words. She thinks I'm being too charitable for the amount of Absolute Fucking Ugly this is. I have to gently talk her out of using the word "monstrosity" while messaging the seller asking what the hell happened here.

I tell her I need to apologize for harming her dignity with Floor 2 David, who thinks this fucking thing is my mom's idea of a great birthday gift for her to-be-28-year-old daughter.

My heart goes out to the poor soul who did actually order this cat totem and is lacking it on this lovely day.

[tightjeansjavi]

Tommy

BUG 😭 I can’t believe you—

But you’re so right! Mort gives off total pornstar!tommy vibes 🤣

Which can only mean one thing…

King Julien gives off pornstar!joel vibes 😌

I have spoken

[ozzgin]

Hii I was wondering if u could do a yandere Kazuya x yn x yandere Daitou I’m not sure if u do character x yn x character tho

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader Spinoff

Two yakuza men who have fallen in love with their new foreign tenant. A what-if spinoff to the original story for that love triangle spice. Happy Valentine's Day!

Content: female reader, NSFW, organized crime, obsessive behavior, violence, BDSM themes (choking), threats

Credits: My boyfriend for giving me the Daitou smut idea

[Main Story] | [General Headcanons]

Kazuya is sitting on the sidewalk, checking his watch occasionally and tapping his foot. The cigarette seems to have been forgotten, hanging lowly from his lips.

"Sorry I'm late." Daitou speedily makes his way towards his friend, smiling awkwardly.

"Where the fuck were you, man? We don't know how much time we have before the cops arrive."

"Uh uh, leave it to me." The cheeky grin doesn't leave his face as he pulls out his gun and carefully but swiftly inspects the barrel and safety one final time. "(Y/N) needed some help with the mailbox. I couldn't just say no, ya know?"

The blonde man's eyebrows raise for a second, but he quickly recollects himself.

"I see. That's good."

"She asked me to show her the area tomorrow, so I'll be working extra hard tonight. Hehe."

"That's good."

Daitou glances at Kazuya, somewhat wary.

"You okay?"

Stupid question. What's he supposed to answer? Yeah, he loves waiting like a dumbass while his friend flirts with the new tenant, who conveniently happens to be a cute foreigner, who's been unexpectedly nice and relaxed around them despite them explicitly stating they're part of the Japanese mafia. Fucking hell. It doesn't help that this idiot is as obvious as a blaring, blinding cluster of ads smack in the middle of Kabukicho. He can tell from miles away that Daitou's completely fallen for her. Just like that, in an instant.

They've been partners and best friends for years now, so the natural reaction would be happiness, right? Daitou has always been one scary motherfucker. Even the seniors scramble when he's in the room, let alone women. For him to find someone that isn't bothered the slightest by his appearance or background should be a celebratory occasion. Kazuya should be rooting for him. Except, well, he fell for you just as hard. Tough luck.

The Bushido moral code, often used as guidance within their own lifestyle, covers matters such as loyalty and honesty quite extensively. A true warrior remains fiercely faithful to his master or companions. And yet, love interests are more of a grey area, especially if they happen to overlap. Who dictates the proper etiquette for this dilemma? To whom is loyalty directed towards? Truth be told, Kazuya couldn’t care less. He’s always been a man of vice, impulsive and greedy. If he wants something, he takes it.

The trouble starts when the other person is of the same mindset. Two ferocious predators eyeing the same victim.

***

You fiddle next to the tall, dark-haired man. Similarly, Daitou is avoiding eye contact, looking around in hopes of finding something to focus on. It’s the first time he’s come over since the incident. After his little mission with Kazuya, he was tasked to “interrogate” some of the remaining members to get even more names for the hitlist. He’d completely forgotten about his promise to show you the neighborhood. Hands sticky with blood, he was in the middle of his signature act of benevolence, putting the lad out of his misery.

It was around that time you decided to be the one picking him up instead, for your grand tour. Your knocks on the door remained unheard, however, so you decided to politely make your way in.

“Sorry, I hope I’m not-”

You froze in place. A man (you assumed at least based on the few visible traits left), tied up on the chair, canvas bag roped around his head. Daitou’s hands were secured around his throat. In the few seconds of silence, you could hear a muffled wheezing, as the stranger’s chest heaved in short convulsions.

“-intruding.” You mumbled, regaining your speech.

He messed up, didn’t he? Daitou sighs and slicks his hair back. He can’t blame you if you’re now terrified of him. He had to come over for some tenant checkups and you’ve been maintaining a safe distance from him during his entire visit. What can he possibly tell you? “Hey, I know I threatened to chop you up and you’ve now witnessed firsthand I’m a legit murderer, but, uh…I have a crush on you? Dinner at seven?”

You’re terrified alright, but not of his deeds. Rather, your newly discovered perversion as a consequence of the gory scene. It’s not that you relished in the torment of another. It’s the other details that left you reminiscing. Daitou’s imposing frame, the unbuttoned shirt revealing his traditional tattoos glistening in beads of sweat, his flexed, brawny arms, and large hands. You’re scared of your shamelessness. It can’t be normal. Yet you can’t stop thinking about it. Just a glimpse into this memory and your cheeks become burning red.

“I’ll be on my way then”, the yakuza announces politely.

Though he immediately stops in his tracks, and you realize you’ve unconsciously grabbed onto his sleeve. Uh oh. What now? You mumble an apology without releasing your hold. Being this close to him makes your heart drum inside your chest.

To hell with it.

“I might say something terribly inappropriate right now, but…”

“Sorry?” He stares at you, dumbfounded.

“Do you have anything planned after this?” You ask quietly.

“N-no?”

“Would you mind staying over?”

“Huh? Sure…w-what for?” His mouth is dry, and he searches your eyes in confusion.

“You know…” Choke me until I pass out and such, you think to yourself sarcastically.

He turns to face you, lips pursed awkwardly.

“You’ll have to be clear with me, Miss (Y/N). I’m not good with all this tiptoeing around and I might get the wrong idea.”

Your ears perk up hearing his final words, a deep blush now spreading over your flustered features.

“What wrong idea?”

Daitou fidgets with his glass prosthetic nervously.

“Well, uh, a man can only dream, ya know? Especially around a cute girl like you.” He reveals with a stutter.

“Suppose I’d be willing to go along with anything on your mind. What then?” You twirl your hair, gazing shyly at the floor. Not even you can believe the audacity leaving your lips.

The tall man steps before you, towering above with a certain gleam in his eye. It’s yearning. Your knees weaken.

“Don’t tease me, please. I can hardly control myself around you as it is.”

You release his sleeve and instead cling onto his shirt with both hands, looking up through your lashes.

“I’m dead serious.”

He ponders his next move with a click of the tongue, then cups your cheeks between his hands and lowers himself until his hot breath tickles your nose.

“Are you? There’s no going back after this. Can you handle it?” His voice is suddenly deeper, raspier.

Before you can respond, you feel yourself lifted and you yelp, surprised, instinctively wrapping your limbs around the yakuza. In between the greedy kisses that leave your lips bruised and swollen, you don’t notice the movement back towards the seating area.

As you pull away to gasp for air, he throws you onto the couch, flipping you over in the process so that you’re kneeling away from him. Your nails dig into the soft fabric of the sofa. You hear Daitou unbuckle his belt and you squeeze your legs together, heavily aroused. He presses his palm gently into your back, arching it. You sense his fingers grazing over your core and you whimper.

“G-go on, please.” You beg, swaying your hips tentatively. “I really can’t wait anymore.”

“As you wish, Miss.” He reassures you with a grin.

He adjusts himself and carefully makes his way in. You don’t have time to enjoy the feeling; following almost instantly is his belt looped around your neck, tightening under his grip as he pulls the ends towards him. Your head is forced back, and you groan. You can hear the leather stretch and creak over your assaulted skin, the constriction briefly cutting your oxygen intake. Hot drool trickles down your chin and your eyes almost roll back in pleasure.

“Look at my little Miss (Y/N), taking it like a champion.” He bends over and bites your earlobe playfully. “Does that mean I can be as rough as I want?”

You nod erratically.

The grip around your throat intensifies and your vision becomes blurry.

“Hey, don’t pass out now.” He inserts two fingers in your mouth, pulling you by the cheek and tilting your head to look him in the eye. “Not before you show me that you understand your situation. You’re mine. Is that clear?”

He drags his fingers downwards, aiding your response as you struggle to contract your muscles.

“Attagirl.” He concludes, satisfied.

In the morning you wake up with a dreadful soreness, and you can quickly see why. Your body is peppered in bruises. Daitou is smoking by the window and promptly flicks his cigarette out once he realizes you’re no longer asleep.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He begins, remorseful, and squats in front of the bed. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“I will need a day or two to recover before the next time, but otherwise I’m fine.”

He beams with delight upon registering your words: next time. You can’t help but snicker at his childish enthusiasm. It’s a mystery how Daitou can switch between ruthless killer and cute partner with such ease.

Although it’s no secret, really. It’s you.

***

“Thanks for driving me home, Kazuya.”

You smile and unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching for the door handle. Daitou has been busy with work for the past days, so Kazuya took his place in looking after your needs.

“Huh?” You rattle the grab handle one more time to make sure. “It’s still locked.”

The blonde raps the wheel impatiently with his fingers. Is he to silently accept his loss? Does it even count as a loss when he hasn’t even had the chance to present his piece? Daitou has been quiet about it, but he can read that bastard like an open book. Something definitely happened between the two of you and the mere thought drives him insane.

Ah, this is so unlike him. There are few things he cares about. His pride, his Family’s honor, his freedom. Women aren’t exactly on that list, yet somehow, you’ve snuck your way to the very top of priorities and he’s realizing it just now. It’s becoming harder to ignore his maddening urge to have you. Out of all the things…He’d give Daitou the world. But not you. He can’t. He can’t.

“Kazuya? Are you listening? You forgot to unlock the door.”

“Say, (Y/N) …ever fucked in a car before?”

“What?” You ask, baffled.

“Come here for a moment.” He swiftly slides his seat all the way back and pats his thigh.

“Are you out of your mind?”

He answers your inquiry by pulling out his handgun and lazily pointing it towards you.

“I’m only going to ask once.”

You clumsily climb over the center console, straddling the yakuza with a slight pout.

“Someone’s in a sour mood, that’s for sure”, you complain. “It’s not even loaded.”

“Even I’m not crazy enough to risk shooting my Princess.” He smiles apologetically, throwing the gun on the backseat. “I thought it’d be more threatening that way.”

He removes a strand of hair from your face, gazing at you intently. His hand lingers for a second, before sliding its way down, tracing the side of your body. You shiver.

“Can you truly blame me when there’s such a pretty girl right before my eyes?” The blonde exhales and focuses on your shirt instead. “Won’t you let me prove myself?”

From this distance, despite the dim lights, you can discern his features in agonizing detail. His long lashes, his fleshy lips, currently parted, the luscious locks of hair casually thrown back. Kazuya has always been effortlessly handsome. It’s not just his good looks, but his overflowing charisma. He always knows exactly what to say and do. A devilish power to have over people, and you’re presently his victim.

His slender fingers play with your first button and cheekily undo it. You can only observe it, entranced. Your legs are weak, and your arms are stuck in place, resting limply over his broad shoulders.

“May I?” He glances up at you with a pleading expression. “I won’t be able to hold back afterwards.”

You bite your lower lip, distracted. Whether or not this is a wise choice, you can’t currently tell. You squirm in his lap and suddenly feel the pressure coming from below.

“Go ahead.” You finally confess.

He doesn’t hesitate and slithers his hand underneath your shirt, popping the rest of the buttons open. Like a hungry animal that has stumbled upon a feast, he sinks his teeth into your neck, leaving mean, wet kisses on his way down.

One hand is greedily kneading your curves, encouraged by your soft whimpers, while the other strokes your thigh in anticipation. With a bit of readjustment, he finds the right spot between your trembling legs. You jolt at the sensation of his cold fingers.

“My, you’re already dripping. How lewd.” He whispers between breaths. “Do you want it now?”

He nonchalantly slips out and undoes his own pants. You lift yourself expectantly and let a moan escape your lips upon feeling the erection throbbing right below.

“Well then, can’t forget our manners, can we?” He announces, visibly excited. “What should I do?”

You glare at him, feverish.

“Stop teasing me.”

“Come on, be a good girl. Tell me what to do and I will do it, Love.”

Why, this…You lower yourself to his ear and answer in a lulled whine.

“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to fuck me.”

Words enough to send the blonde man over the edge. He abruptly clutches your thighs for support, easing himself in before continuing with increasingly aggressive thrusts. Husky whimpers roll out of his mouth, desperate and starved.

“Oh, I’ve waited so long for this. My darling, perfect little (Y/N).” He presses his forehead into your chest, indulging in the moment. “Now say that you’re mine. Please. Please say it.”

“I’m…ah…I’m all yours, Kazuya.” You manage to blurt out, growing dizzy.

“That’s my girl. Such a good girl.”

Once the deed is finished, you flop your head over his chest, trying to catch your breath. Kazuya smoothens your clothes meticulously, holding you with one arm for support. Can’t leave a lady all disheveled, after all.

“Won’t Daitou be upset?” You point out, somewhat anxiously.

His muscles are tense for a second and he furrows his brows.

“That’s one strange way to thank me for making you come at least twice. Mentioning another man’s name.”

“I’m just…” your words trail off.

“What? Worried? You think I can’t handle it or something?”

Far from the truth. Both Kazuya and Daitou are violent, dangerous men. Given their stubbornness, you’re rather certain they’d end up killing each other. Not your favorite outcome.

“I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

He sighs loudly.

“I’ll tell you what. Under normal circumstances, I’d probably dismember whoever had the guts to even entertain the idea of meddling with you. But…just because it’s Daitou, I might be willing to share. Nothing more than that.”

Kazuya ruffles your hair and chuckles.

“Aren’t you glad I’m such a diplomat, Love?”

“More like batshit crazy, both of you.” You retort, stretching.

[cameronsbabydoll]

creepy!reader who's confused when Kiera and JJ make a joke and when everyone looks at her to see if she'll laugh she just stares blankly at them and then literally screams like she's try to laugh and they're all like "wtf.." and pope thinks it's the cutest thing ever she's trying to fit in w them 🥹

you don’t get the joke.

you never get the joke.

jj says something about kiara crashing into a mailbox and dying gloriously mid-laugh, and everyone starts wheezing like it’s the funniest thing ever said. shoulders shaking, heads thrown back, loud and messy and alive. and for a second, you just sit there, still as stone, trying to figure out what part was supposed to be funny.

they’re all laughing.

and then they’re not.

because they’re all looking at you.

you blink once. twice. smile stiff and unnatural, lips barely twitching.

and then—

“HAAAH!”

it bursts out of you too hard, too sharp, like you slammed your hand on the wrong social button.

and now it’s dead quiet.

kiara physically turns in her seat. “what… was that.”

jj just makes a horrified face like he just saw something crawl out of a drain.

“was that your laugh?”

your smile drops instantly. “i… thought it was time to laugh.”

you fidget with the sleeves of your hoodie. “i was trying.”

you don’t mean to sound sad.

but you must. because pope is already moving before you can retreat back into yourself.

he bumps his shoulder against yours gently, fingers brushing your elbow. “hey. you did laugh.”

you glance at him, wide-eyed.

“and honestly?” he shrugs, grinning. “yours was better than jj’s.”

your heart swells like something sick and strange and tender.

“really?”

“mmhm. ten out of ten. absolutely terrifying. i loved it.”

you sit there stunned, heart thudding, and then slowly—awkwardly—you lean your head against his shoulder. he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t even flinch.

his arm curls around you, warm and easy.

and for the first time all day, you feel like maybe—maybe—you’re not doing everything wrong.

[reallyromealone]

Title: accidentally kidnapping the mafia boss

Fandom: haikyuu

Characters: kuroo, bokoto

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: kuroo x reader, akaashi x bokoto

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, slow burn, readers oblivious, choking, threats, bleeding

Notes: want bam

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

(Name) Hummed as he dragged a cool vintage luggage chest home on his dolly-- an amazing investment he will always treasure-- having seen it on his way home and running to grab his dolly to get it "damn this things heavy..." (Name) Grumbled as he pulled it carefully up the stairs as to not damage the stairs or break the chest though it seemed sturdy.

"Ok... And into my apartment..." (Name) Mumbled unlocking the door and bringing it in excitedly before moving it to the ground "easy..." He whispered to himself and marvelled at the amazing chest "let's see what's inside" grabbing his trusty chain cutters he kept after neighbor put a lock on (name)s mailbox-- he was still mad at that old fart.

Cracking it open he carefully lifted it to see... "Holy fuck that's a person" (name) noticed the stab marks in the side for air as the man was sweating and exhausted "sir?!" He panicked as he noticed bruises "fuck..." The black haired man was disoriented before looking at the man before him and immediately (name) was on the ground with a hand around his throat "who fuck are you?"

"I... Can... Ask the same..." (Name) Wheezed as he gripped the man's tattooed arm desperately to get it off and the man glared but loosened his grip and (name) gasped "where am I?" The man seethed, looking around the room at the tiny apartment "my apartment, I thought this was a cool trunk and took it home... Wasn't expecting you"

"Shit..." The black haired man stood up slowly and hissed in pain, (name) looked alarmed "dude you're bleeding! Let me get my med kit!" (Name) Immediately scurried off to grab said item as kuroo stumbled to the couch, brief thoughts about its comfort as he rested a bit and tried to sort his thoughts. "ok, so I have hello kitty and pokemon gauze, which one you want" (name) asked and kuroo looked confused "what? Regular gauze is lame"

(Name) Helped him remove his sweaty and tattered shirt before beginning to clean his wound "thankfully they missed any important bits, I can stitch you but you may need a shot of vodka or something" (name) teased as he began patching him up the best he could with the finite skills he had, humming softly as he worked. Kuroo was staring at him intently, why was he so calm? He just found a dude in a chest he brought home! "Aaand there!" (Name) Seemed pleased with himself as he patched up the other, a grin on his face "you should rest for a bit, do you have anyone to call?" (Name) Asked while getting up to walk to the kitchen only a few feet away "uh, yeah..." Kuroo was awkward to say the least.

(Name) Put a few rice balls on a plate and a cup before walking back, setting them infront of him. Pulling out his phone he pulled the call screen up and handed it to kuroo "here, to get your strength up"

Kuroo quickly dialed his right hands number, tapping his foot as it rang a few times "speak"

"Bokoto, it's kuroo" the mob boss said simply and bokotos tone changed "where are you?! I have been looking for you for two days!" The owl like man yelled worried and kuroo looked to (name) "what's your address " (name) perked up at the question"(address)!"

"Who was that?"

"My accidental captor, don't worry the kittens as harmful as a daisy"

"That's good, we will be there in 30"

"Excellent, bring me a new shirt"

"On it!"

Hanging up kuroo signed and (name) let out a small laugh "what's so funny?"

"This is such a weird day!"

"Yeah... It is pretty weird" Kuroo chuckled lowly as he looked at the other "you're weirdly calm for finding someone choking you out" (name) shrugged "I would have been pretty hostile if I was stuck in a trunk for god knows how long and in an unknown place" kuroo looked at the bruising around (name)s neck and frowned, he was too cute to have bruises like that... Well at least in the context they existed in.

Kuroo leaned and gently touched (name)s Adams apple, the reddish bruise forming on his neck in the shape of kuroos hand "sorry about this" he whispered and looked into (name)s eyes as the other man looked back at him. The two were close, very close and kuroo decided he wanted to kiss his little kidnapper.

BAM BAM BAM

"YO KUROO, ITS ME!" Bokoto called from the apartment door, and kuroo grumbled and pulled away "One minute!" The buff man got up and walked to the door, swinging it open to reveal another buff man. "Whose this?" Bokoto asked seriously as he nodded to the cutie on the couch "oh this is... Fuck I forgot to ask your name" kuroo said to the other who just smiled "I'm (name)! Sorry for accidentally kidnapping you!" Bokoto now understood why kuroo called him a kitten, sweet smile and no regards for the dangerous men in the room that could kill him.

"Would you like something to drink?" (Name) Offered and kuroo wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this all as bokoto shrugged and sat on a chair.

"Accidentally got kidnapped by a twink with a nice ass" bokoto teased as he looked at the man preparing drinks and snacks "better grab him before Akaashi spots him" his husband loved cuties like this, kuroo glaring at the concept of his best friend and right hands husband touching (name).

Wait what.

Why did he care?

And that grin on bokotos face said it all, kuroo was into the dumb pretty boy who came in with snacks and drinks.

Kuroo took a bite from his rice ball with a sigh, this was gonna be troublesome.

[staratinia]

The 2nd Debate: Can men tell?

Synopsis: You and the task force debate another topic: Can men tell if a woman is faking an orgasm?

Warning: suggestive topic

wc: 1.5k

_________________________________________

It starts the way most tragedies start: Misa’s legs across your lap, a spoon of parfait hanging mid-air, and too many men in one room.

"So anyway," Misa chirps between bites, "I faked it. Obviously."

The room suspends in time. Matt slowly lowers his goggles. Mello freezes mid-chocolate-chomp. Matsuda makes a sound like a car hitting a mailbox. Light—Light simply sets his pen down and exhales like someone just broke a vase in his soul.

"I’m sorry," Mello says slowly, turning to her like she’s a crime scene. "What the hell did you just say?"

"I faked it," Misa repeats, all sunshine and murder. "He was all, 'yeah, baby, take it,' and I was mentally checking my Amazon wishlist."

You burst out laughing.

Light cuts in, adjusting his collar like he’s trying not to strangle himself with it. "This is already spiraling. But…it is a good question."

You raise an eyebrow. "You interested in the academic pursuit of fake orgasms, Yagami?"

"I’m open to discussion," he says calmly, but his voice has that dangerous let’s-solve-this-with-math edge. "We’re clearly in uncharted territory here. So let’s clarify: can men reliably tell when a woman fakes it?"

"Absolutely not," you say.

"I can," Mello declares confidently, which is how you know he absolutely can’t.

"No," Misa says. "There’s a difference between being attentive and narrating your own p*rn script while we do all the acting."

"They can’t tell," you say, tone firm. "And if they say they can, they’re lying, delusional, or both."

"That’s bullshit," Mello snaps. "I always know."

"You always think you know," Misa corrects. "Very different."

"You think moaning means it's real?" you snort. "Sweetheart, sometimes I moan to match rhythm. Like a metronome."

"Okay, then explain what you’re doing. Lying there, giving Oscar-worthy fake moans?"

"Sometimes, yeah," you say sweetly. "Sometimes we even toss in a twitch or a leg shake to sell the performance."

Mello looks genuinely betrayed. "*You guys have moves?"

"We have full choreography."

"But why?!" Matsuda says, devastated. "Why would you fake it?"

"To get it over with," you and Misa say together, flatly.

"Sometimes," Misa adds, "it's either that or crush your ego like a wet paper cup."

Matt wheezes, slouching deeper into his chair. "So I’ve been out here doing my best and getting simulated applause?"

"You’ve been getting politely excused from the stage," You smirk.

"I hate this," Mello growls. "So what do we do? Just ask?"

"Yes," you and Misa say in unison.

"What vibe, Mello?" you say, deadpan. "The vibe where she’s faking it to your rhythm and wondering if she left the stove on?"

"Ask? In the moment? That’s insane. That ruins the vibe."

Matt holds up a hand. "Can we get a definition of a real orgasm vs a fake one, for… scientific clarity?"

"Real orgasm?" you say. "You forget your last name, your credit score drops 20 points, and you speak in tongues."

"Fake orgasm?" Misa chimes in. "You make the same sound you do when you’re stretching. ‘Oooh yes.’”

Light sighs. "Okay, so if we remove the performative aspect—sighing, moaning, tremors—what are the involuntary markers?"

And that’s when L looks up. No warning. No sound. Just death incarnate, perched on his rolling chair, eyes dark and glittering like an abyss with a Wi-Fi signal.

"There are seven."

The room screeches to a halt.

"Seven what?" Matt says slowly.

"Seven orgasmic indicators that cannot be faked consistently unless the performer is a trained actress with an unusually detailed grasp of pelvic floor biology," L says, sipping tea like he’s saying "pass the salt."

Mello blinks. "Okay. Fuck. What are they?"

L holds up his hand and counts off with his fingers:

"Spasmodic contractions in the pelvic floor—typically rhythmic and between 0.8–1.2 second intervals."

"Clitoral retraction, followed by increased sensitivity, often to the point of pain."

"Gluteal tension release. This one’s subtle- most overlook it."

"Pulse spike exceeding 140 BPM."

"Pupillary dilation. Irregular breathing."

"Immediate shift in verbal capacity—loss of coherent speech or substitution of language with unintelligible vocalizations."

"Post-orgasmic awareness lag. A woman who came will take 7–23 seconds longer to respond to nonsexual stimuli."

Everyone stares.

"You just know that?" Misa breathes.

"I wrote my thesis on it," L replies. "It was titled 'The Climax Conundrum: Detecting Deception in Post-Coital Behavior.'"

Light looks over slowly. "I want to read that."

"You can’t," L says. "I submitted it anonymously to avoid social consequences."

"Too late," you say. "The social consequences are here."

"Jesus," Matt breathes. "You’ve been researching."

"He’s been collecting data," you say, squinting. "L, do you have a spreadsheet for this?"

"I do," L replies. "It’s color-coded and anonymous. Except Mello's entry. His was emotional."

"I never filled that out," Mello snaps.

"You screamed it aloud in the kitchen," Near says. "That counts as consent."

"I’m surrounded by freaks," Mello mutters. "I just want to be able to tell when a girl’s not into it. That’s it. Why is that so hard?"

"Because you think ‘being into it’ looks like a bad adult video" Misa says. "Meanwhile, real orgasms are messy. Unsexy. She probably says your name like it hurt."

Matt leans over to Light. "Yo, are you okay with all this?"

"Actually," Light says calmly, scribbling something down, "I find it enlightening. Women deserve to finish. If I have to alter my own technique, so be it."

Misa fans herself. "Oh my god. Say that again, but slowly."

"Women. Deserve. To finish."

"He's becoming too powerful," Matt whispers. "He’s hot and informed."

"I feel spiritually attacked," Mello mutters. "I hate that I’m the one yelling and he’s the one getting laid for it."

"Mello," Light cuts in, adjusting his tie with that exact face he makes before he says something awful but infuriatingly correct, "you’re projecting a lot of emotional distress for someone who claims to be getting women off consistently."

"EXCUSE ME?"

"If you were confident, you wouldn’t be yelling."

"I’M YELLING BECAUSE EVERYONE IS LYING."

Near finally speaks without looking up: "Statistically, women fake orgasms more often with men who lack emotional attunement or self-awareness."

"WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?"

"It means you're loud, sweaty, and ignoring their clit," Matt translates.

Mello grabs a throw pillow and screams into it.

L, quietly, sets his teacup down "In empirical studies, roughly 48% of women admitted to faking an orgasm at least once. Of those, over 85% stated their partner did not notice. When asked how they performed it, most cited vocal performance, timing cues, and mimicking muscular contractions."

Matt raises a brow. "So… fake moaning, squirming, some heavy breathing?"

"Yes," L replies. "Though many also described using repetition of phrases such as ‘right there,’ or ‘don’t stop,’ to hasten the process."

Light’s mouth twitches. "So encouraging sounds can mean you’re doing it right or doing it very wrong."

"Yes," L says calmly. "The average male is not trained in reading involuntary physiological responses under arousal. This, combined with ego, creates the illusion of skill."

Mello looks like he's about to combust. "You think I’m an illusion?!"

"You are statistically at high risk of misidentifying performative pleasure," L says. "Your confidence is excessive. That correlates negatively with accuracy."

"I’m going to start waterboarding people for the truth," Mello mutters. "I swear to god."

Near chimes in, softly placing another domino: "Just ask if she came, make honesty feel safe. Revolutionary idea, I know."

Light hums. "Actually, I agree. Consent culture includes post-sex check-ins."

"I want a refund on every sexual encounter I’ve ever had," Matsuda says quietly.

"Honestly?" you grin. "Probably fair."

L sips his tea again. "In summary: no, men cannot reliably detect a faked orgasm unless their partner is spectacularly bad at lying or has a seizure mid-coitus."

L begins typing furiously. "I am now creating a shared spreadsheet titled 'Task Force Climax Self-Awareness Survey.' There will be anonymous entries, follow-up questions, and an optional open mic feedback box."

"NO ONE WANTS TO DO THAT," Mello snaps.

"Already received two entries," L says, eyes flicking up. "Thank you, Matt."

"You’re welcome," Matt grins. "Typed 'pretty sure she finished once.'"

"I wrote a poem," Near says. "It’s called 'Echo in the Thrust Chamber.'"

You stand up dramatically. "In conclusion: you don’t know shit. But the good news is, you can learn. A woman body is not a Rubik’s cube. It’s not about solving it fast. It’s about turning it with intention."

There is a beat of stunned, reverent silence.

Then Light mutters: "...‘Turning it with intention’... That’s going in the spreadsheet."

And L nods solemnly. "Quoted. Highlighted. Immortalized."

Consequences:

Three of the task force members never looked each other in the eye again.

Mello threw his back out trying to prove something later that week.

Matt got a thank-you text from an ex.

Near’s poem was published online and banned in seven countries.

L laminated the spreadsheet Light from that day onward started asking, listening and ruining lives.

[darknight3904]

All Too Well

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joel deal with the aftermath of Adam's appearance.

Warnings: Violence, torture with a knife, guns, mentions of SA (not depicted in detail) Language, death, animal death

Word Count: 2k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

There is a trail of blood staining the grass in front of you. Joel has dragged Adam off somewhere while you sit on your rock, awaiting his return. A long line of ants march along on the ground, they redirect when they come across the blood. 

“We should get back.” 

Joel’s deep voice pulls your gaze off the ants and their new path. Joel runs a wet rag across the skin of his hands and Adam’s blood disappears. 

“Okay.” 

The gates of Jackson groan in protest as they open for you. Brett and Louis sit atop the wall and give a nod to Joel as you enter. 

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” 

“Fine.” You huff, and you feel your brow fur as you struggle to remove Pepper’s saddle. It was as if all your strength had been zapped from your body. 

About 3 hours earlier, in the clearing:

“You can run off, spread your legs like a whore for this one here-” 

Whatever was coming next never left his lips as Joel’s hand pulled back and shoved his knife into Adam’s thigh. 

It’s a good one, deep but not enough that he’ll bleed out. Joel twists a bit before yanking it from the flesh. Satisfaction fills his body as Adam’s gasps and whines of pain fill the forest.

“Not another fucking word.” 

Joel’s voice is so deep, that he doesn’t even recognize it. All he knows is that he wants this man to suffer for what he’s done to you. Joel knows that he wants to see him burn for his sins. Adam doesn’t fucking deserve to even be breathing the same air you do. He glances back to where you now sit on a couple of rocks, your eyes glued to the new wound on Adam’s thigh. Your eyes flick to Joel and then to the knife. 

Joel takes this as the green light and moves again, Adam is never leaving this clearing, not alive anyway. 

The knife cuts like butter as Joel runs it along Adam’s pale skin. Blood pours onto the grass, staining the ground below him. It runs down his hands, staining his skin as he cuts. Joel yanks at the collar of Adam’s shirt, tearing it a bit, and exposing his collarbone. A dove tattoo sits just below his collarbone, the ink has faded over the years but Joel can tell what it's supposed to be. 

Joel taps the dirty tip of his knife twice against the ink. He leans in close, ignoring the way this monster reeks of body odor and the metallic stink of blood.

“Doves, they represent peace, hope, freedom.” 

Adam’s head lolls about like he can’t focus on Joel’s words right now and Joel lets out a small grunt. 

“Stop it.” Adam wheezes 

Joel slowly runs his knife through the tattoo. A shallow trickle of red follows his blade as Adam begins to cry, 

“Please, Please, let me go! I’ll never come back! Please!” 

What a fucking joke. Joel shakes his head and tells Adam the truth, it’s not his call to make. You’re calling the shots here. 

Adam begs, cries, even pisses himself as he begs you for his life. Joel listens as Adam finally owns up to what he’d done to you. His hand tightens on the hilt of his knife as you push yourself to your feet. 

“Say the word, sweetheart.” His knife rests on the delicate skin of Adam’s neck 

Joel steps back when he sees the silver Colt Python in your hands. Your eyes are distant, trapped in a memory of the past as Adam���s voice fades from Joel’s ears. The caw of a bird registers in Joel’s mind as he focuses on what’s always been the most important, you. 

“No!” 

Joel doesn’t even blink as you pull the trigger. How could he? He’s heard so much gunfire in the past twenty years. 

“You don’t get to say no to me.” 

Present time: 

Joel watches as you walk beside him. You’re silent and the only noise between the two of you is the sound of your shoes scrapping along the ground. When you reach your house, Joel watches from the mailbox as you walk up the porch. He nearly turns around to go back to his own place, in need of a hot shower before you’re finally speaking to him. 

“Can I stay with you?” 

A hot shower is just what he needed. Joel scrubs the blood from his body and lets the water soothe the ache in his back. Horseback riding was getting more difficult every time he went out. By the time he’s out again, he’s thinking of what he might make you for lunch. He’s got ingredients for sandwiches along with a few servings of chili from an older woman named Janet who lives four houses down. 

Joel pushes the door to his room open and walks over to his dresser. He lets his fall towel to the floor in a messy heap, but the sound of a loud sniffle has him yanking it back up with a curse, 

“Fuck!” 

You nearly give him a heart attack from your position under his covers. You’re wrapped up in them, laying on your side, staring at him. 

“Sorry, I thought you were lying down in Ellie’s room.” He says apologetically 

You shake your head the best you can from your spot. Joel opens his mouth to speak again but fat tears begin to stream down your face. 

“Woah, hey.” His hands tighten the towel around his waist before sitting down next to you, “What’s wrong?” 

He knows that he sounds stupid asking. You’d just killed your abuser and he was asking what was wrong, what an idiot he was. The blankets fall away and Joel feels his heart rate speed up as you climb into his lap and rest your face in the crook of his neck. He needed to get himself under control. 

He gently rests his hand on your back and slowly rubs his hand up and down. Gradually, your sobs die off and he listens to the sound of your breathing. 

“Thank you.” You softly say 

“It’s nothin’” Joel waves you off, comforting someone sad is something anyone deserved.

“I mean about Adam.” You sigh 

Joel is quiet as you reach for his hand. You draw it into your lap and fiddle with his fingers, your skin is oh-so soft against his. 

“I should’ve shot him the moment he walked into Jackson. Shouldn't have even let him lay eyes on you again.”

You shake your head and wrap his hand in yours, “M’ glad you didn’t.” 

“You are?” 

“Yeah…I always wanted to be the one to put a bullet in his head. Used to have dreams about it.” 

Joel nods, he knows the feeling. How many nights had he dreamed of killing the soldier who had gunned down Sarah? Even now, Joel would do it. Revenge was a mighty powerful drug once it took hold in a person’s heart. 

Joel nearly faints when you press a warm kiss on his cheek. The soft scent of you wraps him up as he feels a blush creep across his face. Another kiss presses against his skin, this time to his neck, and then one more, on his collarbone. 

You shift against him, moving so you straddle his lap. Horrifyingly, his cock twitches against his thigh, god he was pathetic. Your hips roll down into his and he quickly pulls away from you. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask softly

“Nothin’...we just can’t do that right now.” He says 

Your face drops into a scowl and your hands drop from their spots on his shoulders, “What the fucks wrong with you?” 

“Sweetheart, it’s not a no forever. It’s just for now. You’re hurtin’ and I’d be taking advantage.” Joel says honestly. As much as his body wants this, he can’t let it happen. You deserve better. 

Your hard stare meets his softer one as your hands wring nervously in your lap, “You should just say it.” 

“Say what?” Joel asks softly 

“That you don’t want me.” You spit, “You don’t want me anymore. Just like when I was in college, you don’t want me. First, it was because I was too young, too naive.” 

“I shouldn’t have done that to ya.” Joel starts but you cut him off, 

“And now you’re hanging me out to dry again. You must think I’m some used-up whore, just like Adam said.” 

“No, I-” 

“You think I wanted it, Joel? You think I wanted to be fed my pet and then used as a fucking sex slave?” 

Your voice is full of venom and self-hatred as your hands come up, nails digging into Joel's soft chest. He winces when one of them digs a bit too deep.

“It’s all my fucking fault. I should’ve just died on outbreak day.” 

Joel catches your hands in his, squeezes them, and meets your eyes. A thousand words dance in his mind. He wants to tell you so much, that he loves you too damn much to hurt you right now. Yet, none of it leaves his lips as he speaks, 

“Stop it.” He commands, “Just stop.” 

You scoff and pull your hands from his, “Then stop being a coward and fucking kiss me.” 

“No.” 

You let out a groan and shuffle off his lap, back under the covers, this time facing the wall so he has privacy to dress. 

“Listen, I’ll get dressed, make us some lunch.” 

“Whatever.” 

Ellie pushes the front door open. School was such a fucking bitch. Why did she need to know about fractions? She knew how to shoot a gun and had literally walked across the country. What was a faction going to do for her? 

The first thing she sees is you and Joel, seated at the table together, big bowls of chili in front of both of you. 

“What happened with the new people?” She asks, thinking of how wild you’d been last night 

“Nothin’ that concerns you right now.” Joel dismisses 

Ellie huffs and looks over at you. You’re silent as you slurp up your food, avoiding her gaze. 

“Slower.” Joel coaches, his voice is gentle. 

“Fuck off.” You seethe, your spoon slams down on the table, “I don’t want to hear your voice right now.” 

Tommy watches as Maria sleeps. He smiles a bit as she begins to snore softly, beside her in a bassinet a perfect baby girl lays, her own snores matching her mother's. Dark brown hair sits atop her head, hidden by a little hat that had been knitted by one of the old ladies who lived in Jackson. Tommy takes Maria’s hand in his and runs his thumb along her palm. 

The soft knock at the door has his eyes tearing away from the perfect sight before him. Dr. Hill is standing in the doorway, beckoning him into the hallway. 

“Maria just fed er’ twenty minutes ago. Can’t we let the vitals check wait for a bit, they’re sleepin’.” He says as he pushes the door shut 

“This isn’t about them.” The doc says, “Can you come with me? It won’t take long.” 

Tommy sighs but follows the doctor anyway. Who is he to deny the person who made sure his kid got into the world safely? Dr Hill leads him to the other side of the clinic to where the smaller exam rooms are, the ones they use to just treat people with basic illnesses like colds or stomach bugs. 

“Last night, there was an issue…Patrol let in people.” Dr. Hill starts 

“What?” Tommy stops dead in his tracks, his hand grabs the doctor's upper arm 

“Joel handled it.” Dr. Hill says, dismissing Tommy’s initial fear.

Tommy nods slowly. Joel had good judgment about people, surely there wasn’t anything to worry about then. 

“This morning, Matt carried an unconscious woman into the clinic. I didn’t want to bother you with her since Maria had just given birth, but…” Dr. Hill’s gaze darts over to the closed door of an exam room and then back to meet Tommy’s eyes, 

“I think you should talk to her.” 

Next Part

Ugh, the fanfic writer curse is so real guys. Right after I published the last chap, I got horribly sick and finally got better like a day ago…Anyway hope you enjoyed this part. 

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter, I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@lunaticgurly  @orcasoul  @snowlycanroc  @freythecrazyfae

@person-005 @greenwitchfromthewoods

@elli3williams @yawnzzzzzzzz @am-3-thyst  @concrete-jungleeee

@cherrypieyourface  @kanyewestest @bambisweethearts

@sarahhxx03 @loveisacowboyyy @amyispxnk

[merlyn-bane]

y'all, i am in fucking tears (laughing)

so i pre-ordered a todd from mario plush from drawfee, as one does. he's hilarious and adorable and i love him

and guys

THEY VACUUM SEALED HIM

THEY FLAT STANLEY'D MY BOY. IMPRISONED HIM IN THE SECOND DIMENSION

i am falling to PIECES

NOTHING could have prepared me for this. i was pretty ??? when i got the package out of the mailbox because it did NOT look like it cold hold a plushie, but i was absolutely still not prepared for this OPPOSSUM PANCAKE

there are literally tears in my eyes as i type this. i am WHEEZING.

[vangh17a]

Could you share "favorite"?

I won't share the whole thing because it's long and wow the style kind of hurts, but!

It may have been mildly based off of some real life shenanigans :D

Will I finish it? Maybe at one point. Hm. Not sure.

I'll put it under a cut since it's def still gonna be long! (I'll also put the text and ID in alt text for those who struggle to read my messy handwriting lol)

The concept is April is getting ready to leave, and instead of the typical "Love you guys!" she decides to add some fuel to the fire and mess with the boys.

He knows exactly what he's doing...

Will I finish this one day? Maybe. There's a lot of filler panels in here too that I don't feel like adding onto this because they're redundant WHEEZE

[kithtaehyung]

My 3tan Roman Empire is everything that reader does. That’s it. Send ask.

BRO you wanna fight me for this reader bc🧍‍♀️I will throw down🧍‍♀️

[soupfic]

Solecism

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/M

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel

Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov

Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Near Death Experiences, Blood and Injury, Secret Marriage, Budapest, POV Steve Rogers, Medical, Blood Loss

Summary:

Natasha and Steve are on a mission together in Budapest. Things quickly go south and Steve doesn't know what to do when Natasha is gravely injured. She tells him to call her husband. What husband?

Written for @iriel3000 for the Be_Compromised Secret Santa 2024

Read on AO3

When the bullet pierces Nat’s stomach, Steve feels his heart clench. She goes down hard with a thud. That’s it; these fuckers are done.

Rage is a powerful motivating factor. It isn’t that he wasn’t using his full force before, but now that Nat is hurt, he feels himself kick into high gear—taking the bullets as they sprayed at him. The simpletons didn’t know who they were dealing with. They started to cower back when none of the ammo was doing any damage, instead simply fueling his anger.

When he finally reached them, he made extremely quick work of the goons—smashing their heads into each other, knocking them unconscious, and bending the barrels of their guns into neat little pretzels. He didn’t have time to dispatch them entirely. Nat was more important.

At the safehouse, he gently lays Natasha down on the bed, unconcerned about the crimson blood pooling on the mattress beneath her and smearing on sheets. The gaping wound is defiantly visible through her clothes, spilling over and over anytime he pulls away the T-shirt he is using to try and staunch it.

“Get me my husband,” she wheezes out as Steve gingerly touches around the offending wound.

He freezes. “Husband?”

“I need him here,” she pants.

“Who…?” Steve starts to ask, but is cut short when Nat starts to try and dig her fingers into the wound as if she would find the bullet herself.

Her hands are slick with blood and her grasp is weak. She’s losing too much blood.

Steve has never seen her this bad. Nat is always so careful, always okay. But he suddenly realizes, maybe for the first time since they became teammates…friends…that Natasha Romanov, despite everything, is all-too human. This is fucking bad.

“Who am I supposed to call?”

“Phone,” Nat’s hand flops off the side of the bed, pale and limp, but gesturing to her duffle bag at the foot of the bed.

Ignoring the blood flaking and crusting on his own hands, Steve digs around in the duffle until he finds a flip phone.

“Bingo!” he yells, standing and opening it.

The benefit of flip phones is that they don’t have passcodes on them. The downside is that Steve wasn’t around when flip phones came out so he’s not entirely sure how to navigate it. Eventually, he finds the contacts and scrolls down until he finds a contact listed as “Husband.” Easy enough. Just dial this and talk to whoever’s on the other line. He presses the center button and it starts to ring.

What is he supposed to say to this man? Tell him that his wife could be dying. And they’re so far away from the US that if…well, he won’t have time to get here.

The phone rings and rings and rings.

“We’re sorry. The mailbox you are trying to reach is full. Goodbye.” A woman’s mechanical voice says.

“Shit!” Steve hangs up by slamming the phone closed. Then, he tries again.

The phone rings three times. This time, someone picks up.

“Natasha?”

“Clint?” Steve is dumbfounded.

“Steve?” Clint asks, voice shifting into worry. “Where’s…”

Steve cuts him off. “She’s hurt, Clint. Bad.”

“Where are you?”

“Budapest.”

“Okay, I know a guy.” Clint tells him. “Take her there. Now.”

“Where?”

“I’m texting you the address and his name. And I’m getting Tony to get me a flight. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

Then Clint hangs up.

When Steve feels the phone buzz in his hand, he sees the text with an address and the name Samu.

“Natasha, I’m so sorry. We’re going to have to move.”

“Did you call him?” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I did. He’s coming.”

“Good.”

She goes limp, but Steve is strong. It’s fine. He carries her down to the street, bustling with pedestrians and taxis and sound. He knows what it looks like but he raises a hand to hail a cab just the same.

It takes being ignored by several before one finally pulls over.

“You need a hospital?” The middle aged man driving asks.

“No,” Steve pulls out the flip phone to show the address.

“This is a hotel. Are you sure?”

“I know what I’m doing. Please.”

It must be the tone in Steve’s voice, but the man says “all right.”

As he climbs into the back with Nat’s prone form, the driver warns him. “Do not get blood on my seats. Costs extra.”

“I understand,” Steve says, resting her on top of him, laying her onto his chest.

He didn’t care if he got blood on himself.

The taxi races through the city along the Danube River, bobbing and weaving through traffic. Nat’s breathing is shallow against him and his stomach is in knots.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispers to her, resting a hand on her upper back like she’s a child.

She feels so small in his arms like this. He never considered her diminutive size before this. 

When the cab driver slams on his breaks in front of a small, dingy hotel far from the river, Steve empties his wallet, giving him over 20,000 forints. The driver seems a bit surprised, but also like he was relieved to get the two of them out of the car.

Steve carries Natasha up the steps and into the foyer of the hotel. There are men sitting around, playing cards and having beers.

“I need Samu,” Steve says, showing the blood on his hands.

One of them men closest to the front looks up, startled, but immediately rushes into action, running behind the reception desk and into a back room.

When he comes back, a young man probably about Natasha’s age with dark hair and eyes, Samu he assumes, approaches quickly.

“Follow me,” he says, urgently, no questions asked.

Steve follows Samu behind the counter, into the back room, through a dim hallway, and into another room. The room looks sterile, stainless steel.

“Where are we?” Steve asks.

“No time,” Samu says, gesturing to a gurney in the center of the room. “Put her there.”

Steve didn’t want to trust this stranger, but Clint had told him to go there and Natasha had asked her to call Clint, so here he is. He does as he is told, gingerly setting his unconscious teammate and friend on the cold metal.

“Where is Clint?” Samu asks as he begins to scrub his hands vigorously in an empty sink at the far wall.

“He’s coming as soon as he can.”

“He was not with her?”

“No, he was…on a separate mission.” This feels so weird to say. How did Steve not know Natasha and Clint were married? Yet, this man did?

“Okay,” Samu says, and then he gestures with his head to a man standing at the doorway Steve hadn’t noticed in his haste. “Lazlo will take you to a room to wait.”

“But…” Steve starts to protest, but he is interrupted.

“No, you can’t be here.”

He reminds himself that Clint trusts this man. That’s the best he can do as Lazlo takes him to a cramped elevator and up to the fourth floor. They wind around a few corners and finally get to room 417. Lazlo unlocks the door with a key at his belt.

“There is tv,” Lazlo tells him before shutting the door behind him.

Without thinking, Steve walks over to the old CRT television and presses a button to turn it on. It’s on some sort of commercial so he has no idea what channel it’s on. Not that it matters. He can’t pay attention to anything anyway. All he can think about is the blood gushing out of Natasha’s body, how pale she’d looked, her shallow unconscious breathing. He’s glad Clint is coming, but what if he didn’t make it in time? He pushes that thought away, telling himself over and over that Nat is in good hands. Clint trusts this man.

He’s not sure how long he sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, and muscles screaming at him, his legs numb.  Finally, he thinks he should wash his hands. Natasha’s blood is caked and cracked on his skin, itching and irritating. He convinces himself to get up from his uncomfortable perch on the bed, sticking his hands under the cold faucet water and watching it turn pink as he washes it away. He’s put to mind the religion of his childhood, of Pontius Pilate washing the blood of Jesus from his hands. Is he innocent of the blood of his friend? Or was this all his fault?

He doesn’t dry his hands, just moves himself to sit on the closed toilet in the bathroom. It is from this position he finally hears a voice he has longed to hear.

“Steve?” The voice is tentative but warm and familiar.

He feels his muscles relaxing and his body straightening up at the sound.

“Are you in here?”

“Bathroom,” Steve croaks out, his throat and mouth dry like sandpaper.

Clint materializes in the bathroom threshold, his face a salve on Steve’s frayed nerves.

“Have you seen her?” Steve asks, standing.

Clint nods. “She’s stable.”

Steve releases the tension he’s been carrying since it happened. “I spoke to her a little bit but she’s mostly sleepy. They moved her to a room that I can stay in with her.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

Clint nods. “I know.” He reaches out and claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Have you eaten anything?”

Steve hadn’t thought about food at all for hours, preoccupied with the thought of Natasha dying.

“No, I guess I haven’t.”

“You look like a guy who could go for some goulash?”

“I’m realizing how hungry I am just now. I’ll take anything.”

“Samu’s guy put some on earlier. I could eat too.”

Steve nods and starts to follow Clint out of the room.

“I would say you probably need a change of shirt with all those holes in that one, but honestly, I don’t think anyone here even cares.”

“Good.”

…

Steve sleeps better than he expected to. After a couple of bowls of hearty goulash, he returned to the room, turned off all the lights, and passed out into a dreamless sleep.

He’s awoken in the morning to a gentle but firm knock on the door. When he slumps off the bed to answer it, Clint is standing there with Steve’s bag that he’d left in the safehouse the previous day.

“Thanks,” Steve smiles a watery smile, taking the item and placing it on the ground near the door inside the room.

“Why don’t you come to our room for some breakfast and you can talk to Nat?” Clint offers with a small head gesture.

“Will there be coffee?” Steve teases.

“And fresh squeezed orange juice. And some sausages.”

“Sounds like a decent little spread.”

“The food is good here,” Clint agrees, as they reach a door just a few down the hall from Steve’s own.

Clint unlocks it and Steve is given visual confirmation that Natasha is, in fact, alive.

“Got a little hairy out there, huh, Rogers?” she says with such a typical smirk that Steve can’t help but laugh despite himself, despite the unmitigated guilt he sat with for untold hours the day before.

“You might say that, Romanov. Or should I say Barton?”

“No, it’s still Romanov,” she corrects him quickly but with a shit-eating grin. “Come have breakfast. We’ll go home tomorrow.”

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hey !

Hope ure doing good

I like AU and I wondered if u could please do a leo valdez x reader fic

Like...They live in the same apartment at the same floor and they see each other frequently in the corridors, and with the time they create an affinity

I have emerged from my cave. hello world. <3.

Leo Valdez x Reader--- Mortal/Apartment AU

»»————-　★　————-««

“...Hi?” You said, hitching your tote bag, the Kiki’s delivery service-patterned one, back onto your shoulder. It always fell down when you were walking down the front steps, past the skinny stray cat who slept underneath the mailboxes. Everyone in the building had named her Stick Insect. 

It was in a loving way. You hoped. 

Leo made an odd wheezing sound that sounded a lot like a beached whale taking its last breath as he dragged one of those old-fashioned red waggons behind him. He wiped his hands on his green army jacket, the one with all the jangly badges you could hear coming from a mile off. 

Your favourite was the Minecraft TNT one, underneath the trans flag pin, and one that just simply said ‘BBS’. You didn’t quite know what that meant. 

He grinned at you brightly, despite his shaky arms, and lugged the wagon of cardboard boxes and what seemed to be an entire chunk of golden sheet metal along the pavement.

»»————-　★　————-««

“Hi,” you said, holding the door open a second longer than necessary so that Leo could lug his giant cardboard box through. You still hadn’t figured out what he kept in all those boxes and bags.

“Hey!” he said, and bumped straight into a doorway with a red face. Then he scurried up the stairs and left you in the liminal space that was the empty apartment complex hallway after ten p.m. 

You stood there for a moment, and then realised you were still smiling.

»»————-　★　————-««

Shit. Shit. 

You were running so late. I mean, technically, it wasn’t your fault you were going to miss the start of your favourite classes ever. Your alarm clock, one of those old-fashioned red ones [it was also missing one of the bubble things on top and only rang on one side until it vibrated itself off your bedside table], hadn’t gone off in time this morning and began ringing loudly at nine thirty instead of seven thirty. 

You tossed your apple core into the little waste paper basket by the big hallway windows, and searched your pockets for your keys. Shit. 

“Hey,” Leo said, from where he was unlocking his door. He was room 7. He also had massive bags under his eyes, you noticed. You also noticed that his eyes were the prettiest glowing brown when the morning sun shone through the windows.

You blinked, forgetting why your hands were in your pockets. You probably looked like an idiot. “Uh, hi.”

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry… if your power went out at some point last night…? That might’ve been me.”

“Can you, like, control electricity or something?” You asked with a laugh. 

This was the first time you’d exchanged more than a few words since you’d asked for his name when you watched a very loud girl dressed solely in Olivia Rodrigo merch yell at a confused white guy to ‘pivot’, as he carried a complicated looking egg chair up the stairs. 

Leo shook his head. “Nah, I wish. ‘Was just... working on a project... And I may have blown up my power sockets. And the street lamp.”

“What are you building in there?” You asked, “A moving castle?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Your friend burped in your ear—in quite a disgusting way, may you add—and stumbled forward, arm slung over your shoulders. You roll your eyes at their inability to walk like a normal person after only three shots and pull your phone out of your pocket. After a few tries at putting your password in, 1989, you manage to unlock it. You’ve got charms hanging off the clear case—little soot sprites that swirl in your vision as you blink forcefully. 

The Uber’s on the street now, so you heaved your door shut behind you, room 4, and began to trudge down the staircase. There’s a new scorch mark on the third from the bottom step, and you picture a dragon stomping up after his 9-5. 

You tried to hold in a laugh, only to fail. Your friend giggled loudly, the laughter contagious, and faceplanted. 

“Fuck, dude,” you heard, and then turned to see Leo standing by his door, three raspberry slushies in his arms. It was the first time he hadn’t been lugging canvas bags or wooden crates in a while. 

He nodded. “Metal.” 

“Shut up!” you chuckle, wiping your brow. You reach down and pick up your friends floppy arms as they begin to snooze diagonally. The taste of vodka and pineapples rose in your throat. “Come on, get up!”

Leo peeked over the stair bannister. 

Nosy little bugger. Cute, nosy little bugger, you corrected yourself. Then you frowned, watching him blink owlishly and blush from the roots. You didn’t say that out loud, right?

“Uh, yes,” Leo squeaked, “you did.” 

»»————-　★　————-««

You carried the coffee cups as you walked up the stairs, eyes on your phone while you texted your friend to stop watching reruns of Brooklyn Nine Nine and get onto the word doc. 

The group project was due tonight, and the lazy bugger was stress-obsessing over Gina Lenetti, the human form of the one hundred emoji.

You slid your phone into the back pocket of your jeans, soot sprites catching on the denim, and fished out your keys once you reached your door. Another one banged shut further down the hall. You stuck your keys into the lock. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Leo panted, still in his pyjamas, and raced out of the building.

You rolled your eyes and grinned.

»»————-　★　————-««

“You’re gonna have to tell me what you’re doing with all of this junk,” you said cheerfully, moving your eyes in sync with the black and white cat clock hanging on the wall. 

You turned away when you got dizzy, taking in the piles of things balanced precariously around you like a steampunk library. Vintage machines like typewriters, telephones with the spinning number circles, and record players—the ones that have that big tuba shape sticking out the top—.

Drills and hammers were scattered on the layers of cute little rugs, posters from animes you hadn’t seen yet stuck to the walls, and a lot of Polaroid pictures. You picked one up. 

The two people you’d seen helping Leo move in a few months ago were grinning at the camera with Mickey Mouse hats on. 

“It’s not junk!” Leo looked up from the pile of jackets—black and white chequered ones, a giant purple hoodie, and one with flames up the sleeves—that he was hastily shoving off a mustard-coloured armchair. 

“Sorry,” you apologised with a laugh. “You’ll have to tell me what you’re doing with all those bits and bobs.”

He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. “Okay, okay, but you can’t dob me into the landlord.”

“I would never,” you said, completely serious. Leo stared at you for a moment, his eyes all weird-looking. They made your chest feel like Ponyo, floating around and grinning. 

Then he looked away nervously. You smile and look away too. Leo’s kitchen, in the same spot as yours, with the same apartment layout, could not look any more different from yours. 

There were coloured magnets moved into swear words on the fridge and golden, oily instant coffee machines in parts on the bench. 

Your kitchen had jam jars of little flowers and chocolate-covered almonds scattered around the collection of salt and pepper shakers you’d inherited from some badass old aunt. You had matching sets of penguins, mushrooms, and creepy baby dolls, all filled with salt and pepper. 

“Sure…” Leo shoved some empty take-out boxes into his bin.

He looked at you with a wide smirk. He led you through to what you’d made into a spare room for your friends, and opened the door triumphantly. “Come on through... to Leo Land!”

You stepped around the door, even though you could’ve looked through the wide hole in it if you really wanted to. A hulking metal form was hanging from a wooden stand in the centre of the room, with wires and coils hanging out of it. 

More collections of scrap metal folded up into shapes that could be claws or grabber machines, maybe, were sitting on benches between spray cans of gold paint. 

Welding material, or at least that’s what they looked like, took up a corner, sparks flying. 

You narrowed your eyes at Leo, finally realising why he had so many tears in his cargo pants and paper clips in his jacket sleeves. “Leo…”

“Yah?”

“Are you perhaps building a bomb?”

“No!” Leo scoffed, literally hugging a giant metal boot to his chest like it was his baby. Except the boot had green eyes. “This is Festus!”

“A foetus?” you asked, wondering how deranged this pretty boy was, despite his cool old-fashioned toys, big jackets, and need for multiple slushies at a time. “Are you feeling okay?”

Leo rolled his brown eyes at you. “Festus is a dragon! Well, he's not a dragon yet; he’s just a torso, a half-done head, and a bunch of feet. He’s got nine feet right now, cause I haven’t been able to replicate a working one more than once.”

“You’re building a giant metal dragon in your spare room?”

“Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

“You’re so cool.”

»»————-　★　————-««

“Hey querida,” Leo said, kissing you on the cheek before you grabbed your mail from the boxes outside the building, waved to Stick Insect the skinny cat, and ran to your car. 

Stupid broken alarm clock.

“...Heyyy.” 

»»————-　★　————-««

“Mi amor!”

You turned around on the couch, putting down your takeout box of noodles [from the good place near the park where the old dude who plays chess against anyone who walks past lives]. “Yah?”

Leo came trudging into the lounge, slash kitchen, with your bright red alarm clock in his arms, all parts attached. “Fixed!”

He plopped down on the couch next to you, squashing the lion squishmellow that had been ripped open in the back, and showed you the now shiny metal and matching bits on the top, with that stupid little grin of his. 

You kissed the top of his nose and took the clock from his greasy, scarred [incredibly nice-looking] hands. “Thank you.”

The TV crackled in front of you both, balancing on the stack of old record players Leo was repairing for the second-hand store full of goths and old ladies down the street. You put the little alarm clock down near your feet and pulled out the strawberry-patterned blanket Piper’s girlfriend crocheted you both for Christmas. 

Leo leant over and curled his arm around your waist, laying half across you like a cat in the sun. You sat up a little, as he fiddled with the remote he’d added far too many buttons to for no reason at all. "Here, stick insect, kitty! Stick insect, here, kitty!”

Little padding sounds came from the hallway, and then the chubby, spotted cat launched herself over the back of the couch and onto Leo’s shoulder. 

He shreiked and headbutted you as Stick Insect hopped over and sat between you both, plopped down in loaf position, fluffy feet hidden. Leo sniffed haughtily and sank into the hug you gave him. Stick Insect began chewing on the necklace around your neck, the blue teardrop one Leo had made you a while ago. You kissed his forehead, stroking the cat's soft forehead gently.

He turned the TV on, looking up at you with sparkling eyes. “Howl, or Kiki?”

»»————-　★　————-««

I HAVE A PJO EVENT GOING ON RIGHT PLEASE GO INTERACT YOU CAN REQUEST ANYTHING JUST CHECK THE POST <3 <3

[holylulusworld]

Puppy

Summary: You meet a clingy but sweet guy.

Pairing: Cole Turner x fem!Reader

Warnings: clingy Cole, meet cute, fluff

“Wait, miss. You lost this,” a cute guy chases after you. He pants as he finally catches up with you. “You forgot—” he wheezes. “Phew…I ran faster than I thought.”

“Oh, my wallet,” you smile sweetly at the guy selling you a plant moments ago. “I would forget my head if it wasn't screwed on.” He laughs and hands you your wallet.

“You’re very welcome, miss. Uh-I’m Cole by the way. I sold you the plant.” He nervously babbles. “Do you want me to carry the plant to your car?”

You chuckle. It’s a small plant, and he seems a little too eager for your taste. But you hold out your hand and tell him your name. “Y/N, thank you again. No, the plant isn’t heavy, I’ve got this.”

His face falls, and his eyes sadden. Cole wrings his hands, and he struggles to find a way to invite you. “Maybe next time.”

“How can I thank you?” you try to be polite. Cole seems to be nervous around women, and a little shy. “Do you want to go for coffee? You’re invited.”

“Coffee? Now? I mean,” he flashes you a sweet smile. “Oh…okay…wait. I’ll tell Edna to watch my stall.” He runs off but stops in his tracks to look over his shoulder. “You’ll be here when I come back, right?”

“Sure. I invited you for coffee,” you playfully say. “Remember? It was like ten seconds ago.”

“I’ll be right back.” This time he runs off to talk with one of the other stall owners.

“So…uh are you single?” He walks next to you. Cole holds the coffee you bought him in a tight grip, almost crushing the cup in his hand. “Crap. I didn’t want to overstep. Sorry. I sometimes babble when I’m around a pretty woman.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you for coffee if I was taken,” you stop walking to wrap your hand around his wrist. He’s the right amount of cute and confused. Like a lost puppy and you kinda of like being the confident one for once. “How about you?”

“Free as a bird,” he rolls his eyes at his words and internally curses himself. If he messes this spontaneous date up, he will kick his own ass. “I’m single.” Cole hastily adds. “What brings you here, Y/N?”

“I wanted to buy a plant,” you joke, “and honey.”

Cole smiles widely. His heart flutters a little when you look up at him.

“Shoot, look at the time. I got to go. I need to check on a few e-mails and call my boss.”

He sighs and nods. Somewhere between walking to the coffee shop and going for a walk, he messed things up again. 

“That was nice, though,” you lick your lips. “We should do this again. Maybe next time we can have lunch together, or brunch. I don’t know what the kids these days do on their second date.”

Cole furrows his brows. His eyes light up and he grins. “I could invite you for dinner or cook for you. Maybe we can have lunch and coffee… or a walk in the park. I know a perfect spot.”

“Cole,” you place your hand on his chest and look up at him, “relax. You’ve got ten out of ten. I want to see you again, so…relax.” You stand on tiptoes to peck his lips. “Just you know, I don’t kiss a guy on a first date.”

He nods and swallows thickly when you grab his phone to save your number. “I can bring a new plant to our next date.”

“Just bring you,” you cup the back of his neck to bring Cole down for a kiss. “That will be enough…”

“Hey it’s me…uh Cole. I called to ask if we wanted to meet at six or seven. Call me if you have time.” 

You checked on your mailbox only to find you missed ten calls from Cole.

You sigh deeply.

Cole is a sweet guy, and you liked him from the beginning, but this is a little much.

It’s been barely two days since you met and he won't stop calling and sending messages.

“Hey, it’s me again…Cole.” 

The last message almost sounds desperate. 

“I didn’t want to scare you off. I’m sorry. Fuck…I always mess things up. I understand if you don’t want to see me again.”

You are about to delete all of his messages and forget about Cole. He’s a little too clingy for your taste.

Your finger hovers over the button, ready to block Cole but your eyes land on the plant, and you change your mind.

Instead of deleting his number, you call him back. He deserves a second chance.

Cole immediately answers the phone, making you chuckle. 

“Hi, sorry. I couldn’t take your calls. I thought about cooking tonight. I have the rest of the week off and wanted to ask if you have time to join me for dinner tonight.”

He tells you that he'll be there. Of course, he does. Cole waited two days for you to answer his calls or messages.

Cole may be a lost puppy, but he’s your puppy and you won’t let him slip through your fingers. 

You always had a thing for sweet guys…

Part 2

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