#rated teen for alcohol use

[2nd2ndalto]

Goes To My Head

Written for the @writers-choice prompt "the droid you're looking for"

Title is from Red, Red Wine by UB40

___

Nico wakes well after midnight to the sound of pounding on his cabin door. He’s on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. He’s been woken like this a few times over the year that he’s stayed at camp, and it’s never once been good news.

He approaches the door silently, barely breathing, craning his neck in an attempt to peer out the window without being seen.

There’s a thump outside, then muffled conversation, and… giggling? Frowning, Nico takes a step closer to the door.

“Hey, Nico?” a voice calls softly. “It’s Cecil. I’ve got Will with me. You in there?”

Nico pulls the door open, squinting at the two boys on his doorstep. There’s Cecil, looking a bit exasperated, propping up a wobbly-looking Will, who’s beaming brightly. His blonde hair is particularly messy, shining like a halo in the moonlight.

“Nico!” Will exclaims happily, “I missed you!” He lunges from Cecil to Nico, who suddenly finds himself supporting most of the other boy’s weight. Nico stumbles, just managing to catch the taller boy around the waist.

“Whoa there, sunshine,” he says, startled. Will smells like campfire and something else sweet and sharp… maybe rubbing alcohol? Or vodka.

“Are you drunk?” Nico asks, now fairly sure this isn’t a world-ending emergency, at least judging from the other boys’ demeanor.

“Yeah, he really, really is,” Cecil grimaces. “Sorry to wake you, man. I can’t take him back to his cabin in this state. Do you mind keeping him here?”

Will is warm against Nico’s side, all long limbs and vodka breath. He giggles and sways, and the shorter boy gives up on supporting him, doing his best to lower his friend to the floor without dropping him. He’s never seen Will quite this incapacitated before.

Nico sighs, eyeing the heap of Will at his feet. “Yeah, I guess. What happened? Thought you guys were just doing popcorn and Star Wars tonight.”

When he’d left the Big House hours ago, Cecil and Will had been in the midst of a Star Wars marathon, but there hadn’t been any booze in sight. Tired and losing interest in their endless deep dives, Nico had excused himself and gone to bed.

Cecil pulls a face. “Connor and Travis showed up. You know. We went down to the beach and one thing led to another.”

Nico nods. It’s not entirely unexpected. There’s usually someone sneaking booze into camp on any given summer weekend, and the Stolls are the most common culprits. Will doesn’t usually partake quite this much, but there’s a first time for everything.

“I don’t really have anywhere to put him,” Nico says doubtfully. Most of the Hades cabin is currently under construction, and there’s really only one usable bed. He nudges Will with his foot. Will wraps his arms around Nico’s leg and hums happily.

Cecil shrugs, grinning. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He looks comfortable.”

Will does, actually, curled up in an overlarge hoodie on the floor. He gives Cecil a sleepy thumbs-up. “I love you, Cecil,” Will mumbles.

“Love you too, dude,” Cecil says. He gives Nico an apologetic look. “You sure you don’t mind?”

Nico sighs. “It’s fine Cecil, don’t worry about it.”

Nico lowers himself to the floor beside Will as the cabin door closes, carefully extricating his ankle from Will’s grasp.

“I’m so drunk,” Will says sincerely, gazing up at Nico with wide eyes. He seems to be having trouble focusing on Nico’s face.

Nico nods. “You sure are. How come?”

“Dunno. Connor gave me this stuff that tasted like strawberries. So it was like strawberries but also vodka. But like strawberries. Like…” Will blinks, then reaches out to grasp Nico’s arm. “Whoa, how come your cabin’s spinning?”

Nico snorts. “I think that’s you, dork.”

“Oh. Right.” Will sighs, closing his eyes. There’s silence for a long moment. Nico would think the other boy had fallen asleep, except that Will keeps his fingers wrapped around Nico’s wrist, his thumb stroking softly against Nico’s skin.

“Are you feeling sick? Do you need a puke bucket?” Nico asks.

“No, ‘m okay,” Will mumbles. “Took some ambrosia. Probably won’t puke.”

At least there’s that. Nico watches the other boy, wondering what to do with him. There’s probably no harm in leaving him here on the floor. He’s not sure Will’s capable of moving much further anyway.

“I’m so drunk,” Will groans suddenly, rolling onto his back.

Nico nods. “Yeah, you said.”

“I don’t wanna be so drunk anymore. Stupid Stolls. I just wanted to watch Star Wars.”

Will suddenly fixes Nico with an intense gaze, looking far more lucid than Nico thought him capable of in this state. “Hey, how come you left?” he says.

Nico shrugs. “I don’t know. I was tired. You and Cecil seemed to be having a good time.”

Will’s brow furrows. “Were we making you feel left out? I never wanna make you feel left out, Nico,” he says earnestly.

Nico can’t help smiling at that. “No, you never make me feel that way. I swear, I was just tired. I wasn’t feeling The Force.”

“I’m always feeling The Force,” Will says gravely.

Nico smiles fondly. “Yeah, I know.”

Will’s tried, doggedly, over the last year, to share his fervor for Star Wars with Nico. And Nico appreciates that Will wants to include him, but he honestly just can’t get into it. Every time Will puts one of the movies on, Nico’s mind starts drifting. But the movies are always paired with Will’s sunny energy, and Will’s enthusiastic commentary, and just… Will. So it’s hard to mind too much.

“I’m really wiped,” Nico tells the other boy, patting his shoulder. “I’m gonna go back to bed, okay? Are you sleeping here on the floor? I can grab you a blanket…”

Will immediately shakes his head, trying and failing to sit up. “No, ‘m sleeping with you.”

“Oh really,” Nico says flatly.

“Yeah.” Will nods vigorously, then clasps his hands to his head. “Ow. But you gotta help me ‘cause I don’t think my legs work.”

“Gods,” Nico sighs. “Fine.” He crouches closer to Will, manhandling him into an almost-sitting position and grabbing one of Will’s arms to haul it over his shoulder.

They make it to standing, somehow. Will’s not that heavy, but he’s doing a phenomenally poor job of supporting his own weight, and he’s a good six inches taller than Nico. It’s not really fair, honestly. Every time Nico achieves another hard-won inch of height, the height gods seem to bestow two inches on this blonde idiot.

Thankfully, it’s not far to the bed, and Nico deposits the other boy unceremoniously onto the mattress.

One of Will’s legs is hanging off the bed, and with great difficulty he manages to shift it. He’s still precariously near the edge, though, and Nico tries in vain to shove him over another inch or two. Finally giving up, Nico climbs over the other boy to lie down against the wall. There’s a long moment of peace.

“Sorry,” Will mumbles suddenly.

Nico opens his eyes. Will’s managed to roll himself over. He’s inches away, staring at Nico in the dark.

“For what?”

“Bothering you. Waking you up.”

“It’s fine, I really don’t mind,” Nico assures him. “Just don’t puke in my bed, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Nico closes his eyes again. His mind is just starting to drift when Will’s voice jolts him back into consciousness again.

“Travis tried to kiss me.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

That’s… surprising. Nico’s never had the impression that Travis had any particular interest in Will. Or in guys at all, for that matter. But he’ll readily admit he’s not the best at reading people. He gazes at the blonde boy in his bed. Will looks… guarded. Or maybe like he’s… waiting for Nico to say something?

“Um,” Nico says blankly.

Will nods, as if that’s exactly the response he was expecting.

“I told him I didn’t want to. Because I have a crush on you,” Will says matter-of-factly. Then his eyes go wide. “Shit. You were the one that I wasn’t supposed to tell that to.”

Nico presses his lips together, suppressing a laugh. Drunk Will is kind of cute. “It’s okay,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Will lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Cool, thanks,” he says.

The thing about Travis is surprising. The drunken crush confession isn’t, really. At this point Nico had assumed that both he and Will had a crush and each knew the other had it. It’s just that neither has actually done anything about it yet. It’s kind of nice to hear Will say it, even if Nico’s not sure the other boy will remember any of this tomorrow.

“Don’t tell my mom,” Will says suddenly, his strawberry vodka breath wafting into Nico’s face.

Will suddenly looks wide awake again, his eyes boring into Nico’s. Nico’s never spoken a single word to Will’s mother.

“What - um. Don’t tell your mom you… have a crush on me?” Nico can feel his face heating. Gods, it’s really hard to put those words out into the world. At least while entirely sober.

Will rolls his eyes. “No silly, she already knows that. Don’t tell her I’m drunk.”

Nico bites his lip. “I won’t say a word.”

“Kay. You’re the best.” Will beams at him, then closes his eyes again.

Nico takes a deep breath. Okay. This isn’t so bad. They’ve slept near each other before. Never quite in the same bed. But it’s fine. They can laugh about it tomorrow. Or more accurately, Nico’s planning on teasing Will about this for the rest of his life.

And then suddenly Will’s hand is in his. Nico’s stomach flip-flops in an extremely enthusiastic manner, considering how exhausted as the rest of him is.

“Room still spinning?” he asks softly.

“Not as much,” Will whispers. “That time I just wanted to hold your hand.”

“Oh. Okay.” Nico smiles into the dark cabin. It’s nice, the feeling of Will’s hand in his. It kind of warms him from the inside out. He closes his eyes. Again.

Then - “hey, Solace.” Nico blinks into the suddenly not-so-darkness. “You’re glowing.”

“Oh!” Will opens his eyes, looking startled. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, just - I haven’t seen you do that before. Why are you glowing?”

“I um…” Will swallows, looking embarrassed.

Nico frowns. “Is it like, a drunk thing?”

“No, I think it’s just… you make me happy,” Will whispers.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do - do I make you happy too?” Will asks tremulously, and gods, really? It’s like three in the morning.

Nico squeezes his hand. “Of course you do. Idiot.”

Will beams.

“Go to sleep, nerd.” Nico kicks him gently.

Will closes his eyes, still smiling.

“Nico?”

“Mm?”

“You’re the droid I was looking for,” he mumbles earnestly.

Nico blinks. “I have no idea what that means.”

But Will doesn’t answer, finally seeming to have fallen asleep. He’s still glowing softly, Nico’s hand clasped in his.

“Sweet dreams, night light,” Nico whispers.

#my writing #nico di angelo #solangelo #will solace #percy jackson and the heroes of olympus #writer's choice #one shot #fluff #rated teen for alcohol use

[halfvalid]

nobody but you

ABOUT

alternate title: the jealous character trope is actually kinda fun to write

rating: teen+

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!vinsmoke sanji | live action!straw hats ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

description: sanji flirts endlessly with you while dining at the baratie. zoro is displeased.

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, no use of 'y/n', establishment of relationship, flirting, alcohol consumption, pda

author’s note: i got like ~5 requests to write this so here you guys go! this was a popular one lmao. the story is a vague spinoff to my other fic pretty in that, but it doesn't have to be read to understand this one.

You’d volunteered to deal with the docking fees for the Going Merry, locking up the pirate ship as the rest of the crew entered Baratie. You were just five or so minutes late entering after the restaurant the rest of the Straw Hats had gone into. You’d never seen anything like it before—an eatery right in the middle of the ocean, in the shape of a giant fish. 

You stepped into the building cautiously, glancing around the wide expanse of the main room to try and catch a glimpse of your friends. The restaurant was big, with a mezzanine that you’d entered in and stairs leading down to the first floor. The host, a fishman who was standing at the reservation desk, glanced up to take a look at you. 

“Ah, you must be with the pirates,” he said pleasantly. “Right this way, miss.” 

You nodded, wondering how Luffy was intending on paying for the bill of such a place as you scoped out the area. It was far nicer than anything you would’ve expected—but then again, he’d somehow managed to score the Going Merry from Kaya back in Syrup Village, so you figured he’d work something out. 

Finally, you caught a glimpse of the rest of your crew, tucked away in a circular side booth that the fishman led you to. Luffy brightened upon seeing you, waving you over with a hand so excitedly you feared it was about to flop around like rubber. Considering his powers, that was a more than likely situation, actually. 

“Thank you,” you told the host, then turned towards your friends. “No food yet?” 

“You didn’t miss much,” Usopp said, a little snicker in his voice. “Just the waiter getting our drink orders. He was flirting the heck outta Nami.”

“Oh?” you asked, a smile flickering up your lips. The only open space in the table was between Zoro and Nami—you gave Zoro a confused look, and he gestured down to his swords, which were caught in the ledge between the chair and the wall. You snickered. “Ro. You’re such a loser.” 

“Shut up,” Zoro muttered, hand on your waist as you climbed over him to get to the empty seat. It stayed there for a moment longer, even after you’d arranged yourself in the seat, before he finally dropped his hand. Usopp made a face that you pointedly ignored. 

“What’d you guys order?” you asked instead. If there’d been a menu available, the waiter had probably taken it away; still, there wasn’t much variety in the East Blue, so you could expect there’d be a lot of seafood and not much else. 

“One of everything,” Luffy responded brightly. “So we’ll be able to try the whole menu!” 

“You sure that’s a good idea, Cap?” you asked, brows raised. Luffy shrugged. 

“I don’t see why not.”

“Quit it with the nickname,” Zoro muttered. Neither him or Nami had gotten any more receptive to it since you’d first started calling Luffy it. Usopp didn’t seem so keen on it either—if only because he fancied himself Captain Usopp. Luffy liked it, though, and that pleased you enough to keep using it.

“I’ll get you to start saying it eventually,” you teased, nudging Zoro in the arm. He shook his head, but there was a suggestion of a smile on his lips as he glanced away. “Just you wait.” You turned to Nami, eyes sparkling. “What about the waiter, though? Was he cute?” 

Usopp laughed at that, and Nami gave you a disparaging look. “Come on,” she started. “Not you too. Zoro was all—” 

The sound of footsteps cut off her speech, and you glanced up to find a lean, blond man pausing by the lip of your table. He held a silver plate, upon which perched a variety of different drinks—beers, milk, water. “Here are your drinks,” he said, voice lifting with an accent you couldn’t quite place. “And appetizers.” 

He had just finished placing the last of the drinks balancing on his forearm on the table when the waiter glanced up and registered you sitting there. His expression instantly changed, the crease of his mouth softening into a pleasant smile, his previously-dull blue eyes bright and sparkling. “Well, hello there. An addition?” 

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” you said. The waiter flashed a grin, white ivories shining under the fluorescents.  

“Oh, absolutely no problem. They say those who are late are fashionable, and you, madam, certainly fit the bill,” the waiter said. Your eyes widened, glancing over to Nami to find her shaking her head, but the waiter didn’t stop there. “I’m Sanji. What can I get for you to drink? We’ve got a wide selection of fine wines that might suit your taste.” 

“Oh, um—” you started, glancing at the rest of your crew again. Usopp was hiding his snicker, and Nami was giving you a tired look. Assumedly this had been the man who’d tried it on her, too—to unfortunate ends, probably, considering how Nami was. Not that this would be any more effective on you. Your eye was already captured by a particular green-haired swordsman, after all. “I don’t really have anything in mind.”

Sanji looked pleased about that, clasping his hands together around his platter. “Ah, let me guess, then. A bayberry or red currant wine, perhaps? Fruity, tart, full of flavor.” he winked. “A feisty drink for a feisty girl.” 

“Can’t say I’ve tried it, but sure,” you said, the faintest smile on your lips. “I’ll let you know how I like it.” 

Sanji grinned, looking rather satisfied with that, a delighted little smile on his lips. “One red currant wine, then. I’ll have it right out. And would you also like to order a meal, or…” He glanced over at Luffy, presumably referencing your captain’s more-than-outrageous order. “Are you all set?” 

“I think we’re set, thanks,” you assured, and Sanji nodded. He flashed you another bright smile before turning on his heel back off to the kitchen. 

Usopp finally let out the laughter he’d been keeping in, choked sounds emitting from his throat as he thudded his chest with a fist. You rolled your eyes, but it was good-natured, letting Usopp laugh. 

“Well, at least I’m not being singled out,” Nami said with a sigh, and you exchanged a sympathetic glance with her. She patted your hand comfortingly, then scrutinized the water Sanji had gotten her. “At least he didn’t put it in a flute.” 

“Zoro, you’ve got competition!” Usopp called, still laughing from the entire ordeal. You glanced to your side, to where the swordsman sat. Zoro had stiffened sometime during the conversation, jaw clenched and arms wound tightly across his chest. He hadn’t even touched the beer that Sanji had set in front of him, eyes fixed carefully to a spot beside Luffy’s head and refusing to look over at you. 

“He’s a waiter,” Zoro said crisply. “He buses tables for a living.” With that, he grabbed his bottle, popping the tab and taking a swig. 

“I don’t know, man, did you see the way he took down those pirates?” Usopp turned to you, all excited again. “Oh, you missed this whole thing! Two pirates were fighting over a seat or something, and Sanji just demolished both of them! You would’ve loved it.” 

“He is a really good fighter,” Luffy agreed. Their words did nothing but seem to annoy Zoro further. 

“Can we not talk about the restaurant personnel? Surely you can think of more interesting topics of conversation.” His tone was sharp, and all icy, and you inched your hand closer to his leg to tap his thigh in question. He glanced down at your touch, but didn’t deign to say anything else. He just picked up his beer again, nursing it while the rest of the crew continued on with their conversation. 

Despite Luffy changing the subject, Zoro didn’t speak, and you kept peeking glances over at him in concern. Your feelings for him had just continued developing ever since Syrup Village, although neither of you had reasonably talked about the closet incident since it’d happened. What with the reveal of Kuro and the escape from the marines and all, there hadn’t exactly been time to. But you’d been on good terms, and the actions he made around you—pressing a hand to your waist as you moved past him, turning towards you first mid-conversation, shoving you down when the marines had fired their first cannon at the Going Merry. 

Before you could whisper to him and question what his silence was about, though, Sanji reappeared, carrying two platters filled to the brim with plates. They were laden with different types of meat and vegetables, sauces glinting under the light and hot steam still billowing. 

He set the dishes on the table, somehow managing to arrange them so they all fit on the countertop. Sanji set down the last plate then turned to you, placing a glass and a bottle of dark crimson wine on the table in front of you. He had to lean over Zoro to reach, and Zoro flinched, but still didn’t say anything as Sanji uncorked the bottle and poured you a glass. 

“Tell me what you think,” he said, all smiles again. “I’ll be embarrassed if it isn’t to your liking.”

You picked the glass up, swirling it carefully inside the glass before leaning down into the cup to take in a full sniff. You tilted your head back to take a small sip, moving the liquid around your mouth to fully savor the flavor before finally swallowing. The wine was sweet, light rather than rich with a delicate tartness that burst on your tongue. You glanced up just to see a giant grin had stretched up Sanji’s mouth, brightening his face up considerably. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Not often do I see a patron who knows how to taste wine properly,” Sanji answered with a little duck of his head. “A lady of class, I see. How do you like it?” 

“Not too strong. I like the tartness,” you answered. “A good recommendation. Thank you.” 

Sanji gave you a little bow, hand flourishing to the side as he dipped his head. “I live to serve.” 

“Yeah, well, why don’t you serve me another beer?” Zoro said abruptly. Usopp coughed, and you could see Nami elbow him out of your peripheral vision. Luffy just looked confused. 

Sanji’s face fell almost immediately after Zoro had spoken, his eyes flickering away from yours. “Of course. I’ll be right back,” he said, a tight smile at his lips. He ducked out of the booth, and Zoro let out an irritated noise, tongue flicking against from the roof of his mouth. 

Usopp snorted, fully this time, and you turned to glance over at him—he and Nami were both hiding their gazes, though you could see smiles cracked along their lips. 

Zoro glared at them. “Shut it.” 

“Not saying anything!” Usopp said, though he half-hid behind Luffy like Zoro was going to lunge over the table to get to him. That didn’t seem… entirely unlikely, actually; Zoro’s right hand rested firmly on the handle of one of his swords, fingers ready to pull the blade at any second. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, wanting to say something. But not in front of everyone else. It wouldn’t be appropriate, you decided. 

Eventually your meal wound down to an end. Zoro got less and less tense throughout it, though you were fairly certain that was due to the drinks he was having rather than any actual reassurance. Sanji, thankfully, came back with the bill in the middle of a conversation you really didn’t want to think about—Luffy and his marine grandfather was not something your mind wanted to dwell on—only for him to disappear again. 

Just moments later, a man with a braided mustache came storming out of the kitchen. Luffy did some more of his Luffy nonsense, and, honestly—you were getting too tired about all of this to pay any close attention. You spared a glance over at Zoro again. His face was as blank as ever.  

“Okay,” Usopp said slowly, a few delayed seconds after who’d undoubtedly been the head chef yanked Luffy out of his seat. “I’m ready to check out whatever’s outside. Let’s go.” 

“What about Luffy?” you asked, perplexed. 

“He’ll find his way out of that,” Nami said with a sigh. She stood up, knocking back the rest of her drink. Since she wasn’t exactly wrong, you got up, glancing over your shoulder at the last of the group that remained seated. “Zoro?” 

Zoro was staring into his now-empty bottle of beer. He still seemed off, the line of his mouth creased downwards, jaw set tight. “Yeah,” he said finally, standing to his full height and slipping out of the booth. He offered you a hand, helping you down from your seat, but said nothing more. 

The four of you headed out to the mouth of the Baratie fish, which boasted a bar decorated with neon lights. You found a place to sit by the fish’s bottom lip, and you turned in your seat, staring out at the sea. The water was dark with the night, peaceful ripples moving across the water that sent shimmering waves across the blue. 

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Usopp said. “Come, Nami?” 

“Huh?” Nami glanced up, and you turned to watch the exchange. “Oh, I’m okay, Usopp. Thanks, though.” 

“No,” Usopp insisted, a smile still pasted on his face as he jerked his head, not very discreetly, in your and Zoro’s direction. Nami seemed to realize, then, eyes going wide before she got up from her seat. 

“Actually, on second thought, I’ll join you,” she said, far smoother than Usopp had been. “God knows you don’t have any money to pay for a drink.”

She breezed past him, ignoring the offended gape Usopp left in her wake before he was scrambling to follow her. You turned your attention towards Zoro—he was lounging in the seat across from you, one hand on his swords with his legs crossed. “Hi,” you said carefully. 

He stiffened. “Hey.” 

You pursed your lips, mulling over the ways to go about the conversation before ultimately deciding to spit it out. “What’s wrong?” At his raised brow, you were prompted to continue— “During dinner. You were acting weird.”

Zoro shook his head, dropping his gaze from yours. You could see the faintest trace of freckles spattered along his cheeks, the yellow glow from the lanterns reflecting off his skin. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… the waiter.”

“The waiter,” you repeated. Zoro shifted, legs uncrossing and hand tightening around his swords again. His voice was low the next time he spoke, and you could barely hear him, having to lean forward to catch all of his words.

“He was flirting with you.” 

Your breath hitched, but you tried to keep your tone casual. “He was flirting with Nami too,” you said, glancing up to meet his eyes. Zoro still wouldn’t meet your gaze, staring out into the East Blue behind you. 

“That’s different.” Zoro’s eyes finally lifted, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks as you met eyes. You shivered, gooseflesh suddenly prickling up everywhere on your skin—the back of your neck, up your spine, down your arms and legs. “I don’t like Nami.” 

You tilted your head to the side, meeting his gaze. The words sent a little rush through you; a rush you got practically every time Zoro looked in your direction, actually, which was only a little bit annoying. The amount of influence a man you’d known for, comparatively, not that long had over you had you rolling your eyes all the time, but… you trusted Zoro at this point, as uncooperative as he and Nami had been throughout your entire journey. 

“You’re jealous of a waiter.” 

“Don’t—” Zoro sighed. “Don’t put it like that.” 

“But it’s true. You’re jealous of a waiter,” you said, unblinking. Zoro rolled his eyes, teeth resting along his lower lip in an almost-bite. You snickered, tone sloping upwards to become more teasing, almost sarcastic. “How the mighty have fallen. From me practically begging you to say I looked nice in a dress to this.” 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zoro said, uncrossing his legs to lean over and press his hand over your mouth. You laughed, surprised, as he leaned over you, eyes sparkling at the reaction. “Not another word.” 

He removed his hand, giving you a look. You betrayed his trust almost immediately. “Of a waiter.” 

“Do you want me to put the hand back?” Zoro threatened, but you were full-on laughing by now, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. The sounds escaped from your mouth, ringing out in soft, lively hiccups. He shook his head, hand falling to his side as he watched you, a ghost of a smile tugging up the side of his mouth. 

“Sorry, Ro,” you said, unable to suppress your grin even as your laughter died off. “It’s a little funny, you have to admit.” 

“I’d like to hear you talk if someone was flirting with me,” Zoro muttered, so quiet you could barely hear. You had to stifle another laugh. 

“Okay, well, unlike you, I don’t get territorial over people I haven’t even talked about my relationship with, but I appreciate it.” You nudged him. “It’s kinda cute.”

Zoro seemed lost in the first half of your sentence, and you could practically see the cogs whirring in his head. For a moment, you were worried that the closet had been a one-time thing—but no, he’d mentioned just earlier that he liked you, so clearly something else was the matter. 

Your worries were answered in just another moment. “...We’re supposed to talk about our relationship?”

“Zoro.” You gave him a look of disbelief, forced to suppress another laugh, though this time it was out of incredulity. “Yes. Have you ever dated anyone before?” 

Zoro made a face at that. “Keeping that to myself, thanks.” He dropped his chin, glancing down at where you were, still leaning over you so you were forced to crane your neck to stare up at him. He tilted his head to the side. “So what kind of talking are we supposed to be doing?” 

“You know, the establishment of being exclusive; a cementation of our feelings; what the relationship entails; where we want it to go…” You paused, watching as his eyes flickered down your face. Your words were going in one ear and out the other. “You’re not listening at all, huh.” 

“Not really,” Zoro said, not sounding very apologetic about it. His free hand came to cup the underside of your jaw, tilting your head up just so. “Is the talking really that necessary?” 

You shrugged, trying to keep your cool. “Eventually.” 

“Eventually,” he repeated, stretching out the syllables of the word as he quoted you. “So we can do it another day.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. “What were you thinking?”

Zoro was slotting his lips over yours before you could say another word, his fingers digging into the hinge of your jaw to allow him better access. You smiled into the kiss, lips curling upwards and open to let him lick into your mouth. 

It wasn’t too risqué, but Zoro took your breath away all the same, an appreciative murmur low in his throat as he kissed you. One of your hands wrapped around his wrist, tugging him insistently downwards so you could get a better angle at his mouth, sucking gently at his lower lip. He nearly stumbled, losing his center of gravity before steadying himself, one hand coming to rest on your ribcage as the kiss deepened. 

“Guys!” Usopp’s voice came somewhere from the right, high-pitched and excessively scandalized. You felt Zoro scoff into your mouth.

“You realize you’re in public, right?” Nami deadpanned, plopping down in the seat next to you. You nudged Zoro’s head away, his hand still on your jaw, half-craned over your figure. Nami looked unimpressed, eyes flickering from Zoro to you and back again. “Get a room. Go back to the Going Merry for all I care.” She extended a hand, placing a mug of beer on the table before you before handing you a matching one. “I got you drinks. You’re welcome.” 

“Thanks,” you said, leaning up to press one final kiss on Zoro’s lips before turning to take the glass Nami had outstretched. Usopp groaned, covering his eyes with one hand and lifting a giant cup of something with the other. It was so big you wondered how he’d even been able to carry it. You eyed him. “You’re going to pass out drinking that.” 

Usopp made a face at you. You just laughed. 

“Sorted out your issues with the waiter, then?” Nami asked, turning to fix a knowing look on Zoro. He rolled his eyes, effortless as ever as he settled back down into his seat. 

“Still don’t like the waiter.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, and Zoro scoffed, picking up the mug Nami had gotten him. You could see the smile behind the glass rim, though, even as he clearly tried to hide it, and matched it with one of your own. 

Zoro ducked his head to smile into his beer. Usopp made a gagging sound. “God,” Nami muttered, but their criticisms might as well have been deaf to your ears by then. 

All you could see was Zoro. 

© halfvalid 2023

#one piece live action #one piece netflix #opla #reader insert #x reader #opla roronoa zoro #opla zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #opla fanfic #opla fanfiction #opla zoro x reader #kiki writes!

[chronically-ghosted]

i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine

rating: teen

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.

tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!

one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day. 

🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Frankie Morales has a problem.

Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams. 

So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . .  he can’t classify this as a bad problem.

In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.

And right now, it’s wearing a dress.

Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden. 

Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.

He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –

He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.

There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –

Wait. 

That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass. 

That’s –

“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”

You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh. 

“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”

He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle. 

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”

“The fuck outta you is excused.”

You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own. 

Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem. 

His real fucking problem is Nick. 

Your boyfriend. 

Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair. 

“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”

He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is. 

But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.

“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.” 

Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.

See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really. 

Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.

So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.

The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.

And he’s your friend.

Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.

Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care. 

So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .

And you deserve the world.

You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.

That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.

Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line. 

Never a good idea with Benny Miller. 

I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.

“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road. 

“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”

“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks. 

You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight. 

“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.” 

“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie. 

Don’t, man, just don’t. 

Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out. 

Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers. 

“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”

Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction. 

As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you. 

“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back. 

“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”

Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier. 

Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet. 

Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.

“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.

Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.

“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”

Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet. 

The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.

“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”

He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest. 

“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.” 

That was a mistake.

This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now. 

Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,

“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”

But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world. 

C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this

C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.

C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.

Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.

His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all. 

When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.

Frankie only ever asked for one. 

He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart. 

The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar. 

“Six tequila shots, please.”

You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.

Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night. 

The sooner, the better, you mother fucker. 

You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system. 

The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you? 

And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.

You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch. 

22%

Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.

But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.

He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning. 

One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u 

You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.

Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail. 

Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play. 

First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.

But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami. 

But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language. 

“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”

There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.

“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”

“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”

“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”

In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall. 

“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”

You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding. 

There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.

“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”

His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion. 

“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”

And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:

“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”

“Benny, fuck off!”

And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.

Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?

The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy. 

You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on. 

This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.

Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart. 

Fuck. Fuck!

You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.

The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.

“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”

You stare at the phone on your floor. 

Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?

Not this time.

You open the door and either way, everything changes. 

“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”

You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”

You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.

“So you listened to it already?”

“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”

He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”

“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”

“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on. 

You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.

“We need to talk.” 

He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.

His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off. 

Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want some cereal? 

Do you want to– 

“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –

He called you baby.

You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags. 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.” 

With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail? 

“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”

“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time. 

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“We broke up.”

“When? Why?”

“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”

Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees. 

“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.

“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”

His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another. 

You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.

“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”

“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.” 

You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 

Grateful.

He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude. 

“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”

This is the right time, he supposes. 

Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.

Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover. 

“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.

You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.

“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”

He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”

“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”

Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold. 

“How do you feel about conchas?” 

Translations:

Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.

¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?

Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.

#SpaceSistersSecretValentine #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales #pedro pascal characters

[lackadaisycats]

What age rating is Lackadaisy and is it for teens/young adults? Sorry if this sounds dumb to ask.

It's not at all dumb to ask!

Lackadaisy depicts:

Violence, including gun violence.

Some bloodshed. Not especially graphic.

Characters engaging in criminal activity.

Characters consuming alcohol and smoking.

Mild language. The characters curse, but usually use colorful 1920s-isms instead of your conventional four letter words.

Mild innuendo, but no sexual content.

It falls into a teen and up, or roughly PG-13 category.

#lackadaisy #lackadaisycats #animation #q&a

[auteurdelabre]

SO MUCH TO LOSE - CHAPTER 8 - Dark!Joel x f!Reader

rating is 18+ folks! words: 6.8k pairing: dark!Joel x f!Reader tags: Mentions of past trauma (Sarah death), Dan Brown, sexual tension, mentions of alcohol, Joel has PTSD. NO use of y/n. A/N: I got some amazing comments here and on A03 where one user breaks down each chapter and highlights what they liked with hilarious commentary and I'll be honest its what has me tip tapping away so quick! Please be sure to spread the love and leave a comment! masterlist here --------------------

Chapter 8: Shoulder to Shoulder

You're halfway through your latest acquisition, The DaVinci Code, a book Jennifer lent you last week. You're so engrossed in a world so unlike your own that you're startled when Ellie slaps herself across from you at the table, barking out your name. 

"When are we baking?"

"I gave Joel the list the last time I saw him," you tell her honestly. "As soon as he has the ingredients we can do it."

Ellie sighs, slumping in irritation. 

"Who knows when that'll be," she groans. "He takes forever to do stuff."

You watch as her posture suddenly stiffens, her eyes peering over your shoulder. 

"What's wrong?"

"Dina." Ellie sneers. "She's so annoying."

Your glance over your shoulder to see Dina laughing with a group of teens. Your eyes dart back to Ellie's face to see her cheeks are flushed and she's still staring over your shoulder. 

"Ellie, have you ever heard the saying that there's a fine line between love and hate?"

"No."

"When I was your age it was the people that I pretended not to like that I actually did," you tell her sagely. Ellie wrinkles her nose.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I wonder if you might have feelings for Dina," you say softly. "Romantic feelings." 

You don't want to scare her, but you also can sense that there's something there. 

"She's a girl," Ellie laughs, but her smile is flat. 

"So?"

"So I'm a girl," Ellie tells you as if you're dim. 

"Girls can like girls."

Judging by the way Ellie stares at you, this concept is either foreign to her or she doesn't want to share this part of herself with you just yet. 

You see the way Ellie squirms in her seat, her cheeks pinking and you decide to drop the subject. You go back to your book, chewing your oatmeal slowly. You feel Ellie's eyes on you. 

"Could you come over this week anyway?" She asks, eyes wide. "We could make those paper flowers like you made for Maria?"

The thought of being in Joel's home so close to your last interaction with him makes you work hard to hold back your grimace. 

"Why don't you come to mine?" You ask, trying to sound neutral. "I have all the supplies there."

"Okay, I'll tell Joel," Ellie is smiling brightly. "And maybe-"

Before she can finish you hear your name being called. Ellie's scowl is back as she watches Jennifer round on the table, her tray filled with eggs, oatmeal and tea. Behind her is Luke is giving you both a shy smile. 

"Morning guys," Jennifer says brightly. "Mind if we join you?" 

"I'll let you know when Joel gets the stuff," Ellie mutters to you, preparing to stand. "See you later."

"You don't have to leave," Jennifer insists in a saccharine tone you just know Ellie despises. 

Ellie mutters about needing to get to school, sliding off the bench seat and moving past Jennifer who tries to throw a smile her way. 

"Bye Ellie." 

Jennifer slides her tray across from you, slumping into her seat, obviously disappointed. Luke takes the empty bench seat next to her, his eyes on his food. 

"She hates me," Jennifer says with a frown. 

"Nah she's just shy," you lie, not wanting Jennifer's feelings to be hurt. She gives you a knowing smile before looking at the novel in your hands. 

"You enjoying the book?"

"Yeah, thanks for lending it to me," you say with a smile. 

"I liked his first one Angels and Demons,” Luke offers gently when he sees what you’re reading, his voice a husky murmur. You like how he doesn't quite meet anyone's eyes when he talks. It's endearing. 

"I’ve never read his stuff before,” you offer. “Not particularly good writing, but it’s nice to read about somewhere that isn’t all raiders and clickers.”

Jennifer watches the two of you as she sips her tea, her light eyes volleying between the two of you as you talk about the book. 

"I thought Luke could shoot with us today," Jennifer says with a queer little smile. "He was saying he wanted to get better for when he and I are on patrols. Is that okay?"

Luke gives you a nervous little smile. "I understand if you just want it to be you two."

You find the thought of more time spent with Luke to be a very appealing idea.

"Of course you can join."

"Great." 

You watch Jennifer and Luke who chat quietly to one another, feeling strangely left out. You preferred it when it was just Jennifer with her soft way of talking to you. 

Luke excuses himself to get some more eggs and the second he's out of earshot Jennifer is leaning forward conspiratorially. 

"He's cute, huh?"

"I guess, yeah."

"Pretty sure he likes you," Jennifer giggles. "I mentioned we were doing shooting lessons and he was suddenly all keen." 

You feel your cheeks heat up at the suggestion. Romance has never really been something you thought about. Survival had always been your focus, even here in Jackson where you have a warm bed and a roof over your head the back of your mind is always fixed on what could come next. 

"He's nice," is all you offer.

It's a honest reply because, you really do think he's nice. He's gentle and he doesn't make you feel anxious like some of the leering men of Jackson. He’s soft and quiet and maybe that’s what makes your pulse jump a bit when he rejoins you seconds later.

///

"You close one eye completely, you lose peripheral vision and depth perception, and you need these to acquire the target and determine lead."

Jennifer speaks like she's reading from a book that everyone has already read and memorized. But none of it makes sense to you and you feel your frustration building.

You and Luke have been practicing with her all afternoon, your forehead dotted with sweat. And while yes, your shot is much better now that you’re aiming with the right eye, you feel like you’re still not good enough.

“You’re doing so well,” she encourages nonetheless, smiling at you.

“You really are,” Luke insists from behind you. Luke is a fast learner, already a decent shot. He’s been doing it a lot longer than you have, and using the correct eye.

“Not good enough,” you mutter sourly to yourself. “Missed that last can.”

Jennifer looks over to the can placed at a fair distance in one of the trees. You’ve hit most of the other ones, but that one keeps evading you.

“Honey that’s a far shot,” Jennifer says covering her eyes with her hand to block the winter sun. “Even I don’t get it most of the time.”

“I didn’t get it once.”

For some reason you can’t stop hearing Joel’s voice in the back of your head: useless. It feels like with every miss you’re just proving his point further.

“Okay sourpuss,” Jennifer says with a roll of her eyes. “We’re taking a break and getting a drink down at the Bison.”

The two of you agree, falling in line behind her. You watch her light hair dance in the breeze as she chats animatedly to the two of you. You wonder why she isn’t inviting her other friends to join you when it belatedly hits you.

She’s trying to get you and Luke together. You think of her winks and nudges and suddenly you know exactly what she’s doing. You want to be embarrassed or even irritated, but instead you find your heartbeat jumping.

The three of you leave your weapons at Jennifer’s before heading down into town. Your mood is lightened a bit by their company and the bright day. Snow has come to Jackson, just a small sprinkling but a definite harbinger of greater snowfall ahead.

The three of you push into the rowdy pub, filled with familiar faces. Some play cards, others are telling stories over pints. A woman named (Reba or Rebecca you think?) stands behind the pub, waving you in and telling you to shut the door because of the draft.

A few folks wave and call out hello’s to Jennifer who returns them with a beaming smile.

The three of you find an empty booth and pull off your jackets and scarves. You take a seat in the booth against the wall, a habit from before; you like to know what’s going on. From here you can see most everything and everyone who enters the space.  Jennifer sits opposite you, Luke following close behind. From here you can see his face, taking in the friendly way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and the slight gap in his front teeth.

The Tipsy Bison is self serve and you offer to grab the first round, thanking Reba at the bar and bringing the three gold-colored pints over to the table. Luke and Jennifer are deep in conversation about home repair.  They look up and thank you when you slide their drinks to them across the lacquered table.

“I still can’t believe they have a jukebox,” Luke breathes, his eyes lighting up when he gazes at the glowing machine. It plays a pulsing beat that you aren’t familiar with, something to keep the space feeling inviting.

“Go put on a tune,” Jennifer insists, nudging him with her elbow. “Something good.”

Luke gives a toothy grin before nodding. The two of you watch his lanky frame make his way over to the jukebox, heard only faintly over the din of the patrons. You watch him go, your eyes sliding over to Jennifer when she giggles.

“You like him.”

“No I don’t,” you answer reflexively. Your cheeks burn and Jennifer knows not to push it further right now. It’s like she can tell you’re a turtle who will retreat inside her shell if threatened. You think of how to distract her, to turn her to another topic, her favorite one.

“Seen Joel lately?”

You hate how his name sounds in your ears. You hate the syllables, hate how it feels in your mouth like a bitter candy. But you don’t tell her that.

You don’t tell Jennifer that since he came on your tits and announced your carnal times had come to an end that you’d actively avoided him. That you hadn’t come out of your house until this afternoon to practice shooting. That you were going so far as to eat tinned soup just so you wouldn’t run into Ellie at meals.

"I swear I give up," Jennifer sighs, dropping her voice to a whisper only the two of you can hear. "Joel Miller is a lost cause. I've given him every hint."

"Maybe he's just shy," you offer with a shrug. For all you know he might be.

"Or maybe he doesn't like me," Jennifer sighs. "Maybe I'll just be single forever."

You smirk at Jennifer's amusing propensity for the dramatic. As if someone that looked and acted like her could be single forever. Beautiful? Check. Good with weapons? Check. Confident? Check. You muse that if you were attracted to women you’d want her for yourself.

"Or maybe he likes someone else," Jennifer offers with a shrug but your attention is back on Luke who is approaching the table. The gentle strains of some old song play in the background. You think you recognize it from car rides with your family. Luke takes his seat next to Jennifer, his eyes scanning between the two of you.

“What did I miss?”

“Just Joel Miller talk,” Jennifer sighs, plopping her chin in her hands. “The man is an enigma.”

"That's the nicest way of saying asshole that I've ever heard,” you mutter.

Jennifer sputters a laugh at your mumbled remark, almost dribbling out some of her beer.

"Shit, you're funny." 

You smile into your mug, trying not to feel too pleased with yourself and failing miserably. You can't remember the last time someone told you that you were funny. Your sister most likely. It feels good.

Before long the three of you have been talking for almost an hour. Your pints are drained and its Luke who stands, cracking his back until you hear the pops.

"I'm going to get another drink. You ladies want anything?"

"I’m okay but she’ll have another," Jennifer says cheerfully pointing at you. When Luke is out of earshot up at the bar she leans across the table in your direction again. 

"I don’t care what you say, you like him and he likes you. I'm sure of it. Just look how attentive he’s being." 

You feel your face flush, pleased. You don't know how she came to this conclusion but you like the sound of it. The door to the Bison props open and you hear Reba sigh as she pours another whiskey for a sleepy looking woman at the bar.

“Tommy close that dang door unless you wanna rustle us up a space heater!”

You feel your eyes drawn over to the door with a small smile starting. It immediately falls from your face when you see that Tommy isn’t alone. His older, taller, sulk of an asshole brother is with him too.

"It’s him," Jennifer whispers, glancing over her shoulder

Fuck. 

Joel Miller walks into every space like he owns it and is disappointed by it. His heavy lidded eyes sail around the room, taking in the patrons, offering polite nods and tight-lipped smiles at the ones he recognizes.

Luke is retrieving the two pints of beer when the Miller brothers take a seat on the empty stools at the bar while Reba busies herself with another customer. You watch over Jennifer’s shoulder as Luke says something you can't hear to Joel. Joel is wearing a glower so menacing it almost makes you gulp. Tommy gives his brother a strange look before answering Luke. 

You turn back to Jennifer, trying to hide the smirk at her dreamy look. You almost laugh when she unbuttons her cardigan until the swell of her cleavage is showing.

“Just go over to him.”

“I can’t,” she says breathless as she looks back to you. “I don’t wanna be too obvious.”

“Never stopped you before,” you joke before freezing when Jennifer’s eyes go wide.

Was that joke too far? Have you fucked this all up? You feel your throat go dry before Jennifer gives a tinkling laugh, slapping your hand affectionately.

“Oh shuddap.”

Relief floods you, distracting you from Luke’s approach until you feel his hand trail over your shoulder lightly.

"Here you go." 

You feel your stomach clench as you take the drink from Luke, eyes skittering shyly from his face to his hand where it lingers on your shoulder a moment longer. 

“Thanks.”

"Do you think he's waiting for us to invite him over?" Jennifer mutters more to herself than anything. 

"I don't think so," Luke says with a forced laugh as he takes his seat beside her. You feel his knee brush against yours under the table and you swallow. 

"I'm gonna do it," Jennifer promises, taking a moment to build her nerve. She takes a sip of your pint, breathing out.  

As she does this you chance a glance in the direction of the stool Joel was occupying, expecting to find it vacated. Instead he sits there, eyes trained in the direction of your table, no doubt gazing at the back of Jennifer’s head.

"Joel! Tommy!" Jennifer suddenly calls over with a cheerful lilt. "Come join us!" 

No. Please no. No no no.

You try to hide your grimace. You don't mind Tommy, but thoughts of avoiding Joel's eyes make you cringe. Especially since you haven’t spoken since he kicked you out of his house last week. You turn your full attention to your pint, hoping that they’ll deny the request.

You hear shuffling and your shoulders rise to your ears. You try to think of a reason that you can leave, but anything you say would be too obvious. Plus, you really like Tommy and Maria, why should you be chased off by Joel every time you have the opportunity to hang out with one of them?

Your pint shows only your haunted reflection before another face swims into view. Joel Miller looking down at you. Even in the swimming reflection his dark eyes pierce you. You jerk your head up, trying to avoid him. You shoot a wobbly smile in his brother’s direction instead.

“Hey Tommy. How’s Maria?”

“Good,” Tommy replies and you can see the relief there in the warm brown of his eyes. He doesn’t look as tired. “She’s with Douglas and some friends right now.”

You nod, not wanting to say anything more that would draw unnecessary attention. But Jennifer seems to have observed her absence.

“I haven’t seen much of Maria lately,” she says, her face curling into a cute pout.  “Not since the baby was born.”

“She doesn’t really like the cold,” Tommy says with a falter.

“Since when?” Jennifer laughs. “Last winter she-“

“I heard in some cultures it’s normal for the mother to stay in bed for at least twenty one days,” you offer quietly. “And they do a celebration a hundred days after the baby is born with, like a big dinner.

All eyes at the table are now on you and you feel a smidgen of relief at having drawn the attention away from the Maria topic. Joel is staring at you with an unreadable look and Jennifer is looking at you with a queer little smile.

“How do you know that?”

“I had a friend who was Japanese.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Tommy breaks in, relief clear in his features, “the reason I came in was because I’m lookin’ for some volunteers for Patrol C’s slot on Friday.”

At this you hasten a glance to your Friday patrol partner who is looking to his brother patiently. Joel holds a half-full pint glass in his hand, the other shoved awkwardly into his coat pocket. He seems to be ignoring you as much as you’re ignoring him.

“There’s that repair in the old library outpost that we gotta fix quick before more snow gets here. We got that lumber in, plus some nails the other day and we need some extra hands to cart it there and build. So I’m tryin’ to scout a few folks who wouldn’t mind helping. Obviously Joel’ll be doin’ most of it.”

"I'm really good with repair," Jennifer chirps eagerly, smiling up at both the Miller brothers. "Especially windows. And Luke used to work in construction."

Luke gives a small, shy wave. You see Joel frown at that before his attention is back on his brother.

"You two sure?" Tommy looks surprised. "Was gonna offer the volunteers extra portions this week as a thanks. You okay with that?"

"Would have done it for free," Jennifer assures him. You hold in a knowing smirk. Yeah, she sure would. She'd do anything to secure more time with Joel. 

“How about you, Luke?”

“I’m game.”

"Great," Tommy says with a grateful smile. "Saves me having to find a few volunteers. You two show up on Friday and we'll put you to work. Lemme know if ya’ll change your mind." 

You figure you’d best speak up because you don’t want to disappoint Tommy but you also know that your skills with home repair are limited. You’d rather be switched that week so someone else can go in your place. You also don’t want to chance that Joel will verbally lambaste you in front of Luke and Jennifer during patrols.

“I’m not much good with repairs,” you offer quietly.

“Oh, I know,” Tommy says with a playful wink shot your way. “I remember the stables last summer.”

You feel Jennifer and Luke’s eyes on you and you even think you can feel Joel’s brows rising in surprise and intrigue.

During your first month in Jackson City you’d attempted to be a part of things by volunteering for the stable rebuild that now houses Chestnut, Glimmer and a host of other horses and livestock. You’d worked so hard in that blazing sun, but no matter what your nails always seemed to bent the wrong way or the wood was crooked. By the middle of the day Tommy was urging you to leave and get some water and that you’d worked enough for one day and should go home to relax.

But you hadn’t missed the way he started taking apart your work before you were even down the street. Hadn’t missed the soft chuckles from some of the others who were working on the project. Half the town had been there that day, maybe even Jennifer, but all you remember the humiliation of seeing your own inadequacy highlighted.

You’d assumed Tommy wouldn’t bring it up. But perhaps he’s a bit more like Joel than you give him credit for.

“Does that mean you want me to do Patrol A or something that week?” you offer, trying to swallow your shame.

"No no, it's your regular patrol day and you've got good eyes," Tommy tells you, all guile gone from his features. "Repairing the window might draw attention. Wanna make sure someone is watching out while the group works." 

You can't deny a feeling of pride that goes through you at the thought that you're important enough to be brought along for the journey. You’d assumed you’d be left behind. You wait for Joel to scoff or roll his eyes but to your delight he does neither.

"Okay." 

Tommy nods and looks like he’s going to set off for home when Jennifer shoots he and Joel a charismatic smile.

“Join us,” Jennifer all but purrs. “We’re just having another round.”

You don’t remind her that her glass is empty. Your eyes go back to your drink, trying to think of a way to extricate yourself from this awkward interaction.  

“I gotta get back to Maria,” Tommy says with a tired smile. “I just needed to get some volunteers and thanks to y’all I have.”

You hear Jennifer’s breathing hitch a moment. “Joel? How about you?”

No. Say no. No.

There’s a pause, a shuffling of boots and then you feel a warm and sturdy body slide into the booth next to you. The booth is tight and the nigh is busy so there’s not much room to spread out. You feel his thigh press into yours and hold in a groan of displeasure.

Why couldn’t Luke have sat next to you at the start? Now you’re stuck being shoulder to shoulder with a man you can barely stand. The four of you sit across from one another like two couples on an increasingly awkward double date.

You all wave Tommy off before the moment grows quiet with only the other patrons as a soundtrack to the evening. You glance out the corner of your eyes to see Joel’s large hand around the pint glass, raising it to his pouty mouth before drinking deeply.

“So you have construction experience, Joel?” Jennifer offers and you don’t miss how she presses her arms together, highlighting her cleavage. You hide an amused smirk behind your glass, thankful that at least you’ll have Jennifer’s antics to amuse you.

“Carpentry.”

“Me too,” Luke offers and you can see him swallow nervously before looking at the elder Miller in the face. “Specifically cabinetry.”

Joel grunts a reply before taking another sip of his beer. As the men sit across from one another you can't help but observe that Luke has long, tapered fingers, like an artist. Joel's fingers are also long but more blunt, more masculine looking. You don't know why you draw the comparison but you do. 

“I used to do framing with-“ Jennifer starts, but Joel has turned his attention to you.

“What was Tommy talkin’ about with you and the stables?”

Why is he talking to you? It’s not like you’re friends. Is he trying to intimidate you? Humiliate you? You don’t meet his gaze.

“Nothing,” you mutter, taking another sip of your pint. “Was nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothin’.”

You hold in a grimace. Your eyes shoot across the table and you can see Jennifer eyeing you and Joel a moment before smirking. “I’m kinda curious too.”

Luke gives you an encouraging grin as well and you swallow, licking your lips anxiously because they suddenly feel bone dry. You wish that you were anywhere else but sitting here in a crowded room feeling trapped.

You don’t want to share that humiliation with anyone else, especially Joel who already thinks you’re useless. You want the attention turning to anyone, to anything else. But all eyes at the table are on you and you feel a flush creeping up your neck.

“I have to go.”

Before anyone can interject you’ve stood up, dragging your coat over your shoulders. You’re about to leave when you feel Joel’s hand on your wrist holding you in place. You turn to face him, scowling as you rip your wrist from his embrace.

“Forgot this,” Joel rumbles.

You glance down to see him holding your red scarf in his fingers. He’s holding it in much the same way he always did before winding it around your eyes and at the sight of it in his grip you feel your throat run dry.

Your eyes flick to his, not immune to the way they darken when you swallow. You snatch it from him, offering a quiet thanks and disappearing out the door.

///

It’s Thursday before you come out of your house again.

You’ve been sequestered in your house all week eating tinned tuna and re-reading old books in your collection. You even toyed with the idea of doing something with your boring walls before deciding it was too much work.

Your humiliation at the Bison hasn’t left you. Neither has the way Jennifer threw you under the bus in front of Joel. Why did she go along with him questioning you? She must have seen how embarrassed you were!

She’s been by several times, knocking and calling your name but you never answer. You’re too embarrassed. You think you’re a little angry with her as well. But you don’t know if it’s justified or if you’re just too sensitive.

She tried leaving cookies a few days ago but they were inedible. Seems Jennifer isn’t good at everything. But you decide the next time you see her that you’ll let all of this go.

So when the door knocks that Thursday morning you slowly open the door, expecting to see Jennifer’s face. To your shock it’s Ellie who stands there in a thick blue parka giving you an incredulous look.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Huh?”

“I haven’t seen you at the dining hall,” she says, sniffling.

“Oh just been feeling a little under the weather,” you lie, fingernail absently scraping the wood frame beside your door. You notice that the end of Ellie’s nose is red from the cold. “You wanna come in for a warm drink?”

“Nah, you said we could make flowers.”

“Oh right,” you answer awkwardly glancing from your feet to hers. “Sorry Ellie. We can do it today if you want.”

“You’re not busy?”

“Nope,” you say, moving to give her space to pass. “Come in and-“

“Nah let’s do it at mine,” Ellie insists, taking you by the hand and tugging. “I got a bunch of that colored paper and wire stuff from Maria plus I wanna show you my room. Joel let me convert the whole garage.”

Everything in you screams no, but Ellie’s earnest face has you immediately caving. Plus you promised her. You sigh, pulling on your jacket and allowing her to lead you to Rancher Street.

///

“Then you wrap the wire around the base like that,” you instruct, reminding her about the extra loop. “Yeah, perfect.”

The two of you have been seated at her kitchen table for over an hour. Colorful swatches of ripped paper and wires decorate the wood. Turns out Ellie is a very quick learner when it comes to the arts. It’s not long before she’s folding tulips and peonies even better than you ever could.

Joel is mercifully nowhere to be found. Ellie mentioned he was out with Tommy doing some errand that would take him several hours. Once she’d made that announcement you’d been able to relax some.

It still feels weird to be in Joel’s house. In your head it was a dark dungeon with dishes piled high and guns on every wall.  So far you’ve seem just a bit of the house which is decorated in whites and blues and the deep brown of carved wood. A normal, boring, ordinary house. A few too many framed photos of horses on the wall but he is a man from Texas after all.

The fireplace is cozy today with the chill of the approaching winter, the kind of cold that settles into the bones. But with the fireplace and mugs of hot chocolate that Ellie insisted on making you both, you find you don’t notice it much. As with meals she likes to pepper you with questions.

"What was the last book you were reading back before everything happened?" 

"Mmm that's a good question," you tell her, squinting as you try to recall. "I think it was the latest Harry Potter." 

"Who's Harry Porter?" Ellie asks, her tongue sticking to the side as she focuses on smoothing a particularly stubborn piece of paper.

"Potter," you gently correct her. "It's about a boy wizard."

"Like Gandalf? I already read about him. Joel has those books."

This takes you aback for a moment. In your mind Joel doesn't read. You kind of just assumed that when he's not on patrol or with the horses he's sleeping or cleaning his guns. The thought of him enjoying something the same as you makes him feel more human. 

"No, a young boy goes to wizarding school," you supply. It's a bit of an undersell of the book but Ellie is already rolling her eyes.

"A wizard going to school? That's fucking stupid."

"Couldn't agree more," you say scanning the books she's brought with her. "But they were all the rage."

When the first paper bouquet is finished Ellie announces that she wants to show you her room. She doesn’t give you much option but you smile at the earnestness anyway. You follow her to the door that opens up to the garage. You expect it to be chilly but obviously it’s been insulated well because it’s warmer than the house.

It’s also massive. A large, unmade bed rests by a window on the far side. The walls are lined with mismatched desks and a rolling chair. A couch with a yellow gingham blanket is on the other side, a coffee table made out of crates holds several magazines.

An easel rests nearby, an apron hung upon it. Ellie is quite the artist you’ve come to learn. On the wall you spot a poster of an astronaut and you smile faintly to yourself. You remember your own childhood ambitions of space travel.

Aside from the unmade bed the space is rather meticulous for a teenage girl. You wonder if it’s her upbringing back in her youth or because Joel is a strict caregiver. You still don’t know how long he’s been in her life.  Ellie watches you survey her space with a grin. You think she must feel how you did when you first moved into your space; safe and proud.

You see the sketchbooks piled on one of the desks as you wander over to it.

“You draw?”

“Sometimes,” she says, opening the book and placing it on the table. She flips through a few pages before stopping on a graphite drawing of what appears to be a strange-looking horse.

“I tried drawing Glimmer but I keep fucking up her eyes,” she explains with a pout.

“I think it looks good,” you answer honestly. Ellie glances up at you, shy from the praise before giving a crooked grin. She calls you over to her bookshelf and asks you to look through the titles.

“You read any of these before?”

You crouch down to see all of the titles near the bottom; many are familiar pulpy novels you’d find in an airport. One catches your attention and you tug it from its confines, standing and holding it.

“I remember reading this to my sister,” you murmur, eyes misty. Ellie brushes the hair from her face as she invites you to takes a seat next to her on the couch. The two of you look at the book together, both cross legged, knees touching.  

 “The Giver,” Ellie reads.

“It’s a good one,” you tell her. “It’s about a boy with a job he doesn’t want but was born for. He kinda discovers what good and evil is and if you can have one without the other. I’m doing a shitty job of summarizing it, but it’s a really good book from what I remember.”

“Sounds good,” Ellie murmurs. She tilts her head to read the first page and at this distance you notice the kinks and knots at the back of her ponytail. 

"When's the last time you brushed your hair?" You chide gently. Ellie ducks her head and shrugs. 

“Dunno.”

You swivel in spot on the couch, facing the other end and pat the blanket in front of you in invitation.

"Grab a brush. You read, I'll de-tangle," you offer. She pauses, thinking about your offer before she rushes to the bathroom, returning moments later with a harried looking comb. You raise a brow at this and she laughs.

“S’all I’ve got.”

She clamors up, facing away from you with the book in her lap. She begins reading, tripping over the odd word. 

"Instantly, obediently, Jonas had dropped his bike on its side on the path behind his family’s dwelling. He had run indoors and stayed there, alone."

Her voice is steady and she plays with the edge of the pages as she reads. 

"Lily looked up, her eyes wide. “The Ceremony of Twelve,” she whispered in an awed voice. Even the smallest children Lily’s age and younger -knew that it lay in the future for each of them."

You find the sensation of being read to and brushing the girls knotted hair to be strangely soothing. 

"Your hair is such a beautiful color" you say before she begins on the next chapter, seeing the way the colors shine in the sunlight. 

Ellie doesn't answer and you wonder if she's embarrassed by the compliment. Teenagers are never known for loving extra unwanted attention. 

Brushing the dark strands of Ellie's you’re struck by how tense the girl is, like a trapped animal. Her shoulders are practically up to her ears. As if she isn't familiar with the sensation of a kindly touch. 

"Did your mom never do this for you?"

Even though she's facing away you can see the way Ellie's head tips forward, her eyes downcast. 

"Never had a mom." 

Your eyes shut momentarily as you chastise your own thoughtless stupidity. You don’t attempt to further this topic. For now you're content just to brush the girl's hair, smiling as Ellie relaxes with every stroke. 

“I wonder if Sarah ever read this,” she mutters to herself as she begins the next chapter. You smooth a section of her hair, taking in the name.  

"Who's Sarah?"

"Joel’s daughter," Ellie confides, her eyes on the paper in front of her. "She died on outbreak day."

You surmise that Ellie's so invested in the book that she doesn't even realize what she's saying or to whom.

You remember Maria telling you something of that during your visit with her. It makes your heart clench, thinking of the loss. Before you can stop yourself you’re probing for more information.

“How old was she?”

“Not old. Younger than me I think.”

A child.

You can’t imagine the pain that would create in someone. In all your experiences with Joel it was easy to forget that he had a past. Something that twisted him into the person that he is today.  Even after Maria told you he’d lost a daughter you’d overlooked it, content on hating him for his changeable moods as if he had no motivation.

But you’ve lost as well, a voice reminds you. And you haven’t resorted to cruelty.

“Maria mentioned a soldier,” you pause, trying to work the comb through a particularly tricky knot.  Ellie is quiet for a few moments as she reads the page she’s on, speaking only when she flips it over.

"Yeah, Joel was carrying Sarah. I think she broke her ankle or something. He was escaping a clicker. Soldier shot it, so Joel thought they were safe but they thought Sarah and him were infected because there were covered in blood." 

Your stomach drops as you imagine a younger Joel carrying his daughter tightly in his arms, both terrified with her clinging to him. You’re quiet, not wanting to ask anymore. Already it feels like you’ve overstepped, learned too much about him.

"Joel told the soldier they were okay, not infected. But the soldier shot anyway. Clipped Joel, got Sarah bad."

You feel a wave of nausea hitting you. The thought of losing a child that way makes you physically ill. Your loss hurts so acutely even now, you can't imagine that kind of pain compounded by losing a piece you brought into existence. 

“Joel told you all of this?”

“Nah, Maria did,” Ellie replies. “Joel talks with me a little bit about Sarah. Stuff she liked, TV shows and books and stuff. But not about how she died.”

It’s wrong of you to have pushed for more information. Especially since you and Joel are the furthest thing from friends.

"He blames himself for it," Ellie continues, fingers sliding between the pages of the book to turn to the next chapter. "Even though it was a soldier who shot at them. How can Joel blame himself for that?"

She approaches this topic almost naive. You've stopped brushing altogether; you can only stare down at the back of Ellie’s head blinking slowly.  

"He seems like the kind of guy who's built to protect people," you offer gently. 

"But he was unarmed. How's any of what happened his fault?"

"I don't know," you offer quietly. "Maybe he-"

"What the fuck are you two talkin' about?"

Neither of you heard Joel come in the garage, but he obviously heard enough of your conversation because he looks completely furious. He's a tall man with broad shoulders and the sight of him wild-eyed and fists curled makes you physically startle. 

"Joel-" Ellie starts her face blanching. 

"I said what are you two talkin' about?" His voice is icy, and takes you both by surprise

"Uh…We..." The open ire on his face makes you stumble over your words. You feel embarrassed at having been caught talking about him, you feel terrified at the vitriol in his eyes. 

Your stunned reaction is all the confirmation he needs. 

"Get out," Joel mumbles, his dark eyes sailing from you to Ellie. "And you? We need to talk." 

Ellie is never afraid of Joel, not that you've seen. But when you look to her now you see her wince at the knowledge that she's overstepped.  

Something in you forgets your own fear and you raise a hand in his direction, as if he's a wild animal you're attempting to tame. 

"Joel, it's-" you try to interject, to hold back the fury that's crackling through the room. But instead he turns his cold gaze to you, his sharp jaw ticking. 

"Get the fuck out now."

And you know that you have to leave. This isn't your place. Ellie isn't your daughter, Joel isn't your husband. This is basically a stranger's home. 

"I'm sorry."

You shoot Ellie a sympathetic look but she's just staring at with rounded eyes. You can't help but stop at her side, your voice a soft murmur. "He won't hurt you will he?"

Ellie's eyes snap to yours with a mixture of shock and horror. 

"Joel would never hurt me," Ellie explains before Joel has time to react to your question. "He's about the only one who never has."

The emphatic nature of her reply surprises you into taking a step backwards. A quick look over your shoulder at Joel tells you that his anger is dwindling at her words. You nod once more in Ellie's direction and then you slip by Joel to exit. 

You’re just turning off Rancher Street when the tears begin to slip down your cheeks. They drip onto the collar of your jacket and they don’t stop until you close the door to your home behind you.

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

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#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #smut #dad joel miller #joel miller #fanfic #fanfiction #dark!joel x reader #dark!joel miller #dark!joel #joel x reader #joel fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #joel tlou #pedro pascal #joel the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller tlou #the last of us fanfiction #dad!joel miller

[holylulusworld]

Footloose - Flufftober 4

Summary: Loki is part of the Avengers now.

Rating: Teen

Square I5 filled for @lokibingo: Feelings denial  

Square 7 filled for @puretombingo: “Dance with me.”

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Warnings: fluff, banter, idiots in love

Trope: Enemies to lovers

Words: 980+

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2023

“I got it, Tony. This party will be the most spectacular and awesome party mankind had ever the pleasure to witness,” you roll your eyes at Tony’s antics. He wants you to help him check the guest list and won't stop talking about the event. “How about you invite some male stripper for the ladies too. I bet they’ll give us a good show.”

“We want this evening to be spectacular, not vulgar,” Tony scrunches up his nose. “We will have music, the best food, the finest wine and alcohol.”

“Fine, have it your way. Now, how can I help you, Tony?” You look around the room. There is not much left to do. The party planner did a great job. “Tony?”

“You’ve got a special task this time,” he wraps one arm around your shoulders, walking around the room. “Loki is now part of our team.”

You purse your lips. Loki is still the guy attacking New York City. “The answer is no.”

“You don’t even know what I want from you.”

“If it includes being around Loki Laufeyson, the guy influencing me with his tricks to get me to strip in front of my friends, I’m out,” you grunt. Loki managed to use his mind games to make you do unspeakable things. Like eating pineapple on pizza.

“He offered redemption and promised to never use his powers to influence you again,” Tony tries to persuade you to help him with his problem, but you’re not convinced. “A lot of important people, and the press will be around. We need to show them that Loki changed.”

“How? Shall he sing a chanson?” You snort. “I don’t think he will ever not be an asshole and a Trickster. We don’t need him to cause trouble with one of his dramatic entrances again. Do you remember the last time he made an appearance in public?”

“Y/N, please do this for me. Loki refuses to attend the party. We need him to smile, and act like a gentleman.”

“You want me to convince Loki to attend the party? That’s the important task?” You huff. “You can’t be serious.”

“Please, Y/N. For me. You’re the only person besides his brother Loki talks to.”

“Yeah, to harass me. He’s always sassy and gets on my nerves,” you snap at Tony. “If you want me to do this dirty job, you will buy me the most expensive dress, shoes, and accessories for the party.”

“Deal,” Tony drops his arm from your shoulders to shake your hand.

“If there’s a catch, I’ll cut your balls off in your sleep,” you point a finger at Tony. “No tricks, Stark, or you’ll regret doing business with me.”

“Move your ass out of your room and follow me. We are going to buy a suit for you, and you’ll behave like a good boy today,” you yell outside Loki’s apartment. “Get out, or I swear I’ll not be nice any longer.”

“Darling, you look dashing,” Loki pokes his head out of the door, smirking. “I’m afraid I got no time for you. Check in later. How about you come back in a few weeks?”

“I said, get out of the room, raven-haired rat,” you purse your lips, close to breaking the door down to get Loki out of his room. “I don’t have all day. It’s only three more days until the party. We need you to make an appearance. Just say yes and let me buy the suit for you. You can come to the party, and dance. Maybe have a drink or two.”

“No.”

“Loki, this is not a request, it’s an order. Move your ass out of the room,” you grasp for his hair, harshly tugging at it. “Come on. Don’t make such a fuss.”

“I don’t want to dance,” Loki wrinkles his nose.

“Because you can’t dance?” You grin. “Did Loki Laufeyson finally admit his defeat? Is there something he cannot accomplish?”

He opens the door to step outside, a dagger in his hand. “I’m warning you. Never underestimate Loki Laufeyson, God of mischief. I’m the Master of Dance, I just don’t like dancing.”

“Well then, let’s buy a suit and you can stand in a corner and watch other people having fun…”

“I hope you know I had to cancel my date for you,” you grunt as Loki walks next to you. He insisted on not going alone. Which means you are his plus one for the time being.

While you try to find a way to get rid of Loki and keep your promise to Tony at the same time, the Avengers watch you and the raven-haired trickster with interest.

“She made it,” Tony can’t believe Loki is following you inside the ballroom. “It was worth the money.”

Thor frowns when his brother grabs your hand to guide you away from the Avengers and toward the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” You wonder as Loki guides you to the middle of the dance floor. “Loki? What are you up to?”

“I remember vividly that you suggested a dance,” he says. “So…dance with me?” He bows and offers his hand to you. “Please give me this dance.”

“I-“ you take his offered hand, hoping he doesn’t want to trick you once again. “If this is a joke, I’ll kill you.” You growl, but your cheeks heat up as he smiles at you.

He grins. “I’m counting on it, my love.” You end up in his arms, swaying to the song he requested before coming here with you. “I hope you know; I’m courting you…”

Loki twirls you around, grinning as you squeak and hold tight onto him as he gets even faster. Your feet move on their own, and you cling to him when the room starts spinning.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want the others to watch us.” You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes. “I manipulated reality a little bit for this dance. You only belong to me tonight…and forever.”

Tags in reblog.

#puretombingo #loki laufeyson #lokibingo #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #Footloose #kinktober vs flufftober 2023 #fluff #loki x reader #loki x you

[palfriendpatine66]

Your Pal’s Hayden Review: Higher Ground

What? Yes. I’m going to take a second away from my 24/7 Ewan obsession to throw a little love Hayden’s way and talk about Higher Ground. I had heard a lot about the series before I decided to check out the series and I’m so glad I did. It can be really difficult to track down but right now it’s streaming for free for a limited time on the CW website (and app) as well as tubi.

TLDR: I highly recommend a watch for a great Hayden performance in an angst ridden, emotional teen drama about kids working through their trauma in a therapeutic wilderness school. Many many content warnings for difficult topics and content warnings after my general review below the cut.

This was seriously the role Hayden was born to play. He plays a broken, sulky teen who lashes out in flashes of anger before he breaks down and cries AKA he is modern AU Anakin. It’s no wonder he was cast as Anakin after his work on this. His performance is emotional and vulnerable and shattered my heart multiple times.

The show is never quite able to make the viewer forget that they’re watching a teen drama with a cast of actual teens playing the teenage characters filmed in the year 2000, but I was able to forgive it for it’s occasionally overacted and/or not quite realistic dialogue and key moments accompanied by in your face soundtrack choices to pump up the drama and I think you will too. A very diverse collection of issues that impact real teens but are rarely talked about were depicted surprisingly realistically and sensitively. I was really impressed that the show consistently emphasized - over and over again - that the traumas the kids went through that were behind the problematic behaviors that landed them in their one stop shop rehab/intensive therapy/social and life skills group/high school program were not their fault, but only they could be responsible for how they coped and chose to go forward with the rest of their lives. The councilors on the show had healthy, caring, supportive relationships with the kids in their program, and the advice they gave was (generally) actually helpful and real life strategies. What I liked the most about this show was that it was realistic in there is no magic cure or happily ever after, but there is hope and there is healing and there are opportunities for a positive future even when everything is awful.

Content warnings below - feel free to dm if you want more details if you’re considering a watch. Also if you have watched please let me know if I missed any. For the most part these weren’t graphic depictions (they were rated TVPG in 2000) but the emotional impacts and aftermath are focused on in detail and can be very heavy.

- depictions of depression, anxiety, and panic attacks with flashbacks - drug addiction - drug use - overdose death - alcoholism - teen runaway - rape - sexual abuse of a minor - sexual abuse of a minor by a parent - sexual abuse of a minor by a step parent - emotional abuse - gaslighting - abuse allegations being dismissed, not believed - eating disorders - discussions of self harm - graphic depiction of cutting - scenes and discussions of suicide and death - death of a parent - gang involvement - domestic violence - physical abuse - infertility - drowning death - teen prostitution -

#would you like to be sad? if so this is a show for you #your pals Hayden reviews #higher ground #hayden christensen #scott barringer

[blacklegsanjiii]

•°♤°• Any Zosan Fic Recommendeds?

Here's some! (And one ZoLuSan because i'm me) Some are unfinished, some are classics. Either way these are the ones I always go back to!

Learning to Listen by three_days_late

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

For as long as Zoro's felt his soulmate echoes he's hated them. He doesn't know why Sanji, or the rest of his crew mates, care so damn much.

Broke the Yolk by 3oClockSnacc (TobiSterling)

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji has a nasty habit of denying himself little luxuries. Sleeping in, hot food, the unconditional love of his crew. He's used to it though; used to getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, used to working on an empty stomach to ensure everyone else is fed, used to serving up pieces of himself and getting nothing in return. He can't afford those luxuries. Not even on his birthday.

Digital Footprint 100 Miles Wide by yellowrubberboots

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

[Profile Picture Description: A MS Paint drawing of a cartoon skull. The skull is wearing a yellow straw hat with a red band around the base.] TheStrawhats Last live 2 days ago video games and other random shit // we stream when we stream. 6.2M followers

Unwritten Recipes by aririnas

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Ingredients 2 fat garlic cloves, crushed 2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped 150ml white wine (not optional) 175g dried spaghetti 140g mussels, washed and beards removed 140g clams, washed chilli oil or olive oil, for drizzling ½ small pack parsley, roughly chopped (..) or Sanji writes everyone's favourite food in a recipe book

You'll Whisper Lies to Me (and One of Them Will be True) by Veto_power_over_clocks

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji introduces Zoro to Two Truths and a Lie. He only ever plays with Zoro, and all his lies are shit. (Alternatively: Sanji subjects himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by Zoro. He does everything in his power to ensure Zoro doesn't realize that's what's happening.)

Green with Envy Blues by adietxt

General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Zoro thinks he’s a pretty loyal person. All things considered, he’s a faithful crewmember and swordsman of the Strawhat Pirates. Zoro looks up just in time to see Luffy launching himself at Sanji, wrapping his stretched limbs all over Sanji’s body. Sanji has just walked out of the galley carrying a plate full of fancy-looking drinks and he’s extending his arm as far away as possible from Luffy’s grasp, and Luffy leans over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed against each other’s, their lips almost touching — Zoro is seriously considering mutiny.

Switching Places by TranqilChaos

Mature

Graphic Depictions of Violence

All it takes is one desperate battle in the jungle for Zoro to finally be on the other side. For him to be the one worrying at a bedside. For him to be the one waiting hours for the slightest sign of anything. For him to be the one missing meals and skipping showers and sleeping in the infirmary chair. Or Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji fight a tough battle in the forest that leaves all, but Zoro, horribly injured.

Your Eyes are Liquor, Your Body is Gold by Astauria

Not Rated

Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

It was a stupid idea, Zoro had known it all along and now he was really wondering why he had accepted such a proposal. No amount of alcohol in the world could ever be worth the decomposition he would see in Sanji's eyes when he learned the truth. Zoro had bet on him, for one fucking drink.

Rewind (Be Kind) by donutsandcoffee

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

What should be a run-of-the-mill skirmish with a devil fruit user turned Sanji into an eight-year-old, and the Strawhats are suddenly faced with a version of Sanji they have never met before: a Sanji before the Strawhats, before the floating restaurant, but after—something. Zoro observes, learns, and relearns.

#zosan #fic recs #fic rec #answers #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #vinsmoke sanji #zoro roronoa #sanzo

[skepsiss]

(he's) a runaway foal that doesn't know where to go.

Remember! If you love a post, Reblog, don't just Like! This is the art I did for @moltenchocolatelavacake's lovely fic! Learn all the deets below, and give it a read! Full deets below the cut.

[Read it here]

Words: 17,540 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationship: Steddie, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington/Original Male Character (minor)

Summary:

Steve Harrington has always loved too much, he knows this. And yet he's never been enough for anybody. It's why relationships never work out for him. But he tried again because of course he did. Always too stupid for his own good, his feelings were bullshit. A week after having his heart broken by a man he believed he’d meant more to than flirty phone calls and occasional fucks, Steve ends up at Forest Hills Trailer Park. He’d gone looking for a reprieve, a comfort, a way out of his grief. Instead, he finds a pair of pale arms and a yearning heart eager to help him heal and, maybe, show him his love is enough.

Please do not use or repost this art without permission. In case it wasn't obvious... art by me.

Chapters: 3/3 [Finished] Words: 17,540 Fandom: Stranger Things - Fandom, Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationship: Steddie, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington/Original Male Character CWs: Angst, Heartbreak, Healing, Slow Burn (But just a little), Friends to Lovers, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Alcohol, Open Relationships

Collections: Steddie Big Bang 2023. Steddie Bigbang project #214

This is for the @steddiebang! I really loved creating this piece, and as Molten said in one of our chats, "it's like an eye-spy book of my fic!" Find all the details, I put a lot of love into it ;3

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #stranger things #steddiebang23 #steve x eddie #art n' photos by me

[redara]

Cold Bloom

Pairings: Bi-Han/Áila Havarôr Rating: Teen & Up Words: 2.169 Summary: Bi-Han helps Áila tending to her wound.

A/N: also posted on AO3. Áila is the OC of @tazahan and this fic is based on her work:

The empty infirmary still reeks of copper and steel when Áila steps in. She has lost count on how many times she ended up here in this month alone – has stopped counting, to be honest, after the second or the third visit, realizing that it’s better if she doesn’t count her wounds. She limps past empty cots, making a beeline towards the glass cabinet at the end of the room.

The cabinet door creaks when she slides it open; the numerous glass bottles inside are clinking against each other; the smells of alcohol and iodine assault her nose. Áila looks around as best as her swollen eyes can see, where is it? Where is it? Until she finds the white first aid box perching on the top shelf – who in their right mind put that up there?

Grunting, she reaches up with a calculated movement. She hisses at the pull on her side, and at the soreness of her arm. Her fingers make contact with the box, and swiftly, she pulls it down. A victorious sigh escapes her lips as she cradles the box like it is a precious treasure. As much as she wants to savor her small victory, time is of the essence, her wounds require tending.

Like the many times she has done before, she takes a seat on the cot by a mirror; her reflection greets her, and the view makes her grimaces partially in terror. The Grandmaster is truly powerful… She contemplates while tracing the swelling of her left eye where he had elbowed her in their sparring, in which – like always – he did not hold back.

Áila runs her hands around her body, checking for more injury. Her left side is particularly aching, she can only wish she doesn’t have a cracked rib. The ripped sleeves of her uniform are stained with dots of dark red, and she can guess there are more cuts and grazes on her arms. She continues inspecting herself; undoing her belt so she can open the front of her uniform. Her torso looks fine, no signs of swelling or bruising – she quietly thanks her Viking blood for her durability. When she finds no other injuries, she begins to tend to her face.

By the Fire God, what am I doing here?

The question that Áila has recently been asking herself, because she honestly doesn’t know why. She could have stayed at the Wu Shi Academy, and she’ll learn just fine, perhaps better than here with the Lin Kuei. But the decision wasn’t hers to make, or as the Fire God Liu Kang would say, it is better for her in the long run. Right now, the only thing she becomes better at is being the Grandmaster’s personal training dummy.

At the thought of the stern Grandmaster, Áila feels her cheeks becoming warmer. Gods , never has she ever seen a person so dedicated in life, so disciplined and stoic. His demeanor fits his title so well, Sub-Zero, cold and – sadly – distant. Áila wonders if it’s all attributed to his real name.

Bi-Han. Cold wall.

Well, he is definitely cold, alright.

Áila uses a warm wet rag to clean up the cuts and the grazes, lips stifling a whimper. When they seem clean enough, she dries them off with another rag, creating dots of wet blood on the fabric, drying the excess wetness from her skin. Then she opens the first aid kit box, trembling fingers reaching for the bottle of iodine and a stack of gauze. She dabs the gauze with the iodine, and then she pauses, inhaling deeply because she knows the next part is going to hurt.

The iodine stings. It always does. But she continues, as there is no way she would back down. She reminds herself that with each open wound that she rubs with the iodine, she is getting closer to her warm bed that’s waiting in the sleeping quarters; a peaceful rest where she can dream about the good times she had at the Wu Shi Academy; about the warmer places with warmer people.

Finally, almost every inch of her has been covered in a thin layer of iodine. Áila casts the gauze aside to be thrown away, and opts to take the warm compress again to dab over her swollen eye. The heat soothes her ache, making her sigh in relief, tensed shoulders slumping to a relaxed state. For the moment, this is her haven; her own space to take care of herself; where she can be herself, far from the eyes of the other Lin Kuei and the Grandmast –

The sudden drop of temperature in the room startles her; eyes shoot open; she jumps down the cot – hissing in protest from how the sudden action causes a pull at her aching side – and out of habit, she turns to the source of the cold; hands clasped together and she bows despite not seeing the person she fears it to be. “Grandmaster!”

Though she can’t see his face, she knows his shoes from the many times she has seen them in her apologetic salutes. Sub-Zero stands still far away from her, but the chill in the air makes her skin crawl nonetheless.

“Áila.” The gruff call of her name makes her jump. “It’s past curfew.”

Áila lifts her head, a mistake, as she is now face to face with the mask-less Grandmaster. His usually furrowing eyebrows look rather relaxed, though still accompanied by the thin line of his lips. He is not dressed in his uniform, but rather a loose dark blue robe with a black string keeping it tied around his waist. The attire bares his usually covered neck and the top of his chest – Áila quickly responds before her wandering eyes are noticed, “A – Apologies, Grandmaster, I didn’t – uhm – I was cleaning my wounds – I could go now –”

Their eyes meet, and she is not sure if it’s a trick of the light or the truth, but she is certain that Sub-Zero has just flicked his gaze briefly to her chest – he raises an eyebrow. “I sincerely hope that is accidental, unless you think such shameless display would earn my sympathy.”

“Huh?” Áila looks down, and – OH SHIT – she is met by the sight of her bare, iodine-layered torso. Though her not-so-humble-sized breasts are covered by a white binder, the top parts are bulging out of the hellish containment device. She gasps, hand discarding the warm compress to quickly pull her uniform to a close, holding the fabric so tightly until her knuckles turn white. “Grandmaster, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t – I didn’t do it on purpose, I – I swear!”

Sub-Zero only hums, though the frown has returned to his forehead, and there is a slight pink at the tip of his nose. He clears his throat. “You should remain vigilant even among allies.”

“I will, Grandmaster. I’m… sorry.”

“What’s this?” He notices the warm compress she has thrown, and he bends down to take it off the floor. “Really? A warm compress for swelling?”

“It… soothes the ache.” Áila tries to defend herself.

“But it won’t make the swelling go down. Truly, can you do anything right?”

There it is, the cynical tone of his that renders her looking away as if it could alleviate the damage it has done to her psyche.

Sub-Zero sighs, “Sit down.”

Áila scrambles to the cot, never has she ever sat down so quickly in her life. She watches as Sub-Zero approaches and stands in front of her, so close that she can smell the faint fresh smell of soap from him, osmanthus mixing with his natural icy smell. She is not sure on where to look, so she opts to watch him take the bowl of hot water; how easily he makes frost blooms on the water, turning the steam into snowflakes.

He dips the rag into the bowl, and Áila watches partly with anxiety as he squeezes the excess water out. She has never seen his glove-less hand before, especially not from this close; how blue his vein looks under his skin; how thick and long his fingers are; how big his palm is, decorated with the callouses and old cuts. When he slightly lifts the sleeve of his robe, Áila’s breath hitches at the sight of his forearm, bare without the vambrace he usually wears.

“Look up.” Sub-Zero commands.

Doing as ordered, Áila is now looking at his face. Stern expression still graces his feature, but this time with a hint of gentleness especially in his eyes. She only admits internally that he is a beautiful man, though that secret may have been spilled with how flushed her cheeks are right now, and they only grow hotter when he holds her chin in one hand while pressing the cold compress on her swollen eye.

The icy temperature stings, making her winces in response. Sub-Zero grunts, “Bear with it.”

Áila closes her eyes, growing hot and cold at the same time. She tries to regulate her breathing, though a hitch comes now and then, and it gets difficult when her heart is running a marathon in her rib cage. She can feel the Grandmaster’s calloused fingers against her neck, pressing, keeping her steady. Her hands are still gripping at her uniform, now tighter than before, trying to keep herself grounded in the moment.

The cold compress is removed leaving wetness over her left eye. She jumps when she feels a soft fabric is pressing against her face, drying her skin. Curiously, her eyelids flutter open, and she swears her heart just does a somersault when she finds Sub-Zero leaning closer; his lips are parted and pursed a bit; and the next thing she feels is the cold air he blows to the left side of her face.

Áila can’t help the whimper that escapes her throat. While the action soothes the swelling, her brain can only focus on how close they are right now – she can clearly see the faint lines on his face, and the texture of his skin, and –

“Isn’t that better?” He asks in such a low tone akin to growling. The corner of his lips seemingly pulls up a bit. His gaze is piercing, amusement playing behind those browns, especially when he notices her lack of reply.

Áila wants to nod, but he still has her chin in a grip, so she chooses to answer with words, shaky and whispery. “Ye – Yes, Grandmaster…”

“I hope you learn a valuable lesson today. Hot compress is for soreness. Cold compress is for swelling. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Grandmaster.”

“Good. You finally had something right for once.” He stands up straighter and sighs. His grip on her chin loosens, though she can feel his fingers linger a second longer when he pulls away. “Clean up the mess before you leave.”

Sub-Zero walks away without a warning. The sudden loss of his presence startles Áila, and she copes with a deep breath, watching him crossing the room in a long stride; the tail of his dark blue robe swaying with the action; broad shoulders and strong hips moving with such commanding presence.

He stops at the door as if he can sense her stare, and he turns to her. There is an unreadable expression on his face, nose scrunching, top lip curling up almost like a snarl. Yet his words do not convey agitation, “Don’t stay up too late.”

Áila scrambles for an answer, “Tha – Thank you, Grandmaster, good night.”

He only hums before opening the door and taking his leave.

The temperature in the room gradually returns to normal. But it’s not the same with Áila’s racing heartbeat. Shakily touching her chin where she can still feel his fingers, how cold they were, and yet she found the sensation to her liking. Mind replaying the moment where his face was so close to her, with a look so predatory and playful compared to his usual stoicism, and his voice – oh Gods –

Her body calls for another need to be sated. With shaky limbs and scattered focus, Áila tidies up the room, eager to quickly leave the infirmary and back under the warm blanket of her bed.

Meanwhile, walking purposefully in the empty hallway, Bi-Han makes his way back to his chamber. Body tensing, fist clenching, silently cursing the predicament he is facing; how come he nearly loses himself so easily with such a shameless display? The image of Áila’s voluptuous body still lingers in his mind; the pinkish tint of her breasts; how they jiggled despite the restrain of the binder; and her face –

Bi-Han blames her. Ever since her arrival, she has been nothing but a thorn at his side, and now an aching in his pants. Hardness throbbing with want, imagination feeding his thirst; how good she must have looked underneath him, pinned between the cot and his cold body; how soft and warm her body would be.

At least for now, this longing shall remain his secret.

***

A/N: ASLANDKAKSALNT THANK YOU TAZA FOR MAKING THIS ACCOMPANYING ART FOR THE FIC

#bi han #bi han x oc #bi han imagine #sub zero imagine #sub zero x oc #mk 1 #mortal kombat 1 #áila havarôr #fanfic #redarader

[surelysilly]

may 25th: blame ❀❀❀

You are young yet, my friend, but the time will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others. Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. 

-  “ The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether” by Edgar Allan Poe

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀❀❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

believe nothing you hear (and only one half that you see)

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀❀❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom:  Danny Phantom 

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences 

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply   

Characters: Sam Manson, Tucker Foley, Danny Fenton, Various Character(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Older Danny Fenton, Underage Drinking

Batman: A Death in the Family

Timeline What Timeline

Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better

Ghost King Danny Fenton

Canon-Typical Violence

Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

Implied/Referenced Drug Use

Mild Language

Mild Hurt/Comfort

Non-Graphic Violence

Heavy Angst

Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Implied/Referenced Character Death

Canonical Character Death

Episode: s02e08-09 The Ultimate Enemy

Summary:  

Despite her recently tanked GPA and impending out of school suspension — if not outright expulsion — Sam's still the smartest person she knows. She can figure this out.

She just has to be brave.

#batpoopart #Danny Phantom #danny phantom au #dp au #dannymay2023 #dp art #daisy chain au #maybe i'll expain that maybe i wont #an excuse to write nearly 7k about art through out history #what else is my degree good for smh #special thanks to my two betas you know who you are if you read this far down <3 #if someone can list all the art styles in the fic ill give u a cookie #danny phantom fanfiction #dp fic

[paperback-rascal]

This illustration is tied to an idea I came up with @kalm5, after I binge watched videos about various vending machines.

The explanation of the premise is under the cut/read more!

Enjoy!

What if clones have only a set amount of meals per rotation? no snacks, no nothing - just the basic, the most effective meals evenly spread out throughout the day. It’s the only food they have. The only unlimited food item available to them without restriction is water... just plain water.

However, there are vending machines scattered throughout every Kamino training facility that can be used by clones for additional snacks (or even more “luxurious” items such as salt/sugar/spices, better grade chocolate, authentic caff/tea, weak beer/alcohol, etc.). The vending machines also have limits of items a clone can get per rotation to limit potential abuse of the system.

The availability of such items is depended on the status quo and performance score each clone has and develops over the years (the score is stored at the forearm chip, so to use a vending machine clones have to swipe their wrists against it’s panel) - the bigger the score the broader assortment of items are available.

Cadets get their points based on their exam scores, battle simulation statistics, etc.

The score clones got in their youth are later transferred as a base score at the beginning of their military career.

The success rate, performance on the field, getting medals, etc. is later added to it - raising it. It also can be lowered due to misdemeanors, refusal to carry on orders, breaking rules, etc.

Despite all CT-[numbers] clones having the same baseline of items available, there are variations or perks for each occupation: medics get different additional assortment of items than sappers, who have different perks than gunners, pilots and so on.

Maintenance staff has the same limitations as cadets. So 99 has the same level-access to goods as kids/teens, thus he can get like... Star Wars equivalent of stale salted crackers, granola bars and juice.

A major points boost is a promotion to higher military rank - especially to commanding position or high preference variants like ARCs or spec-ops (it unlocks more options)

The biggest availability, however, have CC-[numbers] clones.

Some of the perks are just simply locked behind a status quo. So even an perfect behavior and 100% success rate wouldn’t give a “plain” CT-number access to for example... alcoholic beverages - it’s only for CC-[numbers]. CC-[numbers] also can be locked out of certain perks if their score gets low enough.

The best example would be captain Rex who despite being a commanding officer can’t get the same items as his college, commander Cody. Due to Rex being a CT-number. So it’s always a bit awkward when he tags along with other commanding officers but he can get an energy drink or black coffee at best.

---

Funnily enough, of all software at Kamino, nothing is so well guarded as vending machines - it’s unhackable while the vending machines are borderline indestructible. It’s the most frequently updated/modified equipment due to clones always finding loopholes to cheat the system.

The origin of the vending machines was that Kaminoans tried to use the idea of conditioned response to encourage clones to train harder and be more obedient in the field - they hoped it would rewire clones brains, linking high performance with luxurious goods.

However what the long necks didn’t accounted for is that clones are well... humans and turned vending machines to social interaction that has an internal structure known only to clones. one of such interaction is that many clones with high performance score would often get items to those with lowered ones - especially at 501st where thinking outside the box is preferable military tactic by their general, thus many clones from 501st would end up with low performance score at Kamino framework despite being the most decorated of soldiers.

The same goes with Clone Force 99 who have 100% success rate, but also accumulated many misdemeanors and complaints.

===

STAR WARS: The Clone Wars/The Bad Batch © George Lucas/ Dave Filoni/ LucasFilm/ Disney

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #the clone wars #clone wars #TCW #clone trooper hardcase #hardcase #echo #vending machines #clone trooper echo #CT-1409 #501st #501st legion #clone troopers #fanart #Headcanon heavy

[thosehallowedhalls]

three princes walk into a bar

Books: Crimes of Passion, The Royal Romance, Rules of Engagement

Pairing: M!Trystan Thorne, Liam Rys, Leo Rys

Rating: Teen

Word count: 1200+

Summary: Liam has been roped into fixing Trystan's public image. Leo? Leo is just along for the ride.

A/N: This is the seventh chapter of the Round Robin 2024 saga, hosted by @choicesprompts.

Over the rim of his martini glass, Trystan examined the two men watching him. 

"You two trying to get into comedy or something? Three princes walk into a bar?"

"I'm a king," Liam corrected.

"I've had to deal with a lot of bullshit this week, Drakovia," Leo shot back, hunched over his own glass. "Don't test me."

"I'm just trying to understand why the two of you sought me out here, Cordonia One and Two. Aren't you," he pointed at Leo, "one of us degenerates in need of a PR miracle? And you," turning to Liam, "a little busy ruling a country?"

Leo downed his whiskey like a shot of tequila. Appalled, Trystan shook his head. "It ought to be a crime to treat a fine blend like that."

"Believe me, if you'd had the week I had," he glared at Liam, "you'd want to gulp down a good whiskey too." 

"Which brings us to why I'm here," Liam added. "I've been assigned as your partner."

"You're fucking with me. How the hell does a king get roped into playing PR consultant in a reality show?"

"Hypothetically, a king gets a desperate call from an old friend after your original partner quit."

"I see Bertrand is not above a guilt trip. Good for him. But what makes you think I want your help?"

Liam leaned closer. "Let's be honest here, Trystan. Your public image is a mess. At this point, short of solving a murder, I'm your only option."

"I'll take the murder. Got any dead bodies handy?"

"Afraid not. And no offense, but I really don't see you as a detective. You're too scatterbrained for that."

"Ouch." Trystan sipped from his martini. "Enlighten me, then, Coach. How do you plan to make an honest man out of me?"

Liam took Trystan's wrist and pushed it down. "First of all, you put that drink down. According to a cursory Google search, there are barely any pictures of you from the past three years, minimum, where you're not holding a drink."

"You're calling me an alcoholic?"

"Considering I haven't seen you in almost eight years, I have no idea. But you certainly look like one, and that’s what matters."

"Ohh, appearance makes reality. Is that a royal saying? I always thought it was a Queen Viktoria saying." 

"It's a rational person saying. The next step is making you look like you have other thoughts besides who you're going to screw next." He made a face. "Maybe Leo could take some pointers there."

"Hey, you're not my partner, I'm just along for the ride. Besides, may I remind you, I'm happily married."

"I'm aware, and I also know you're faithful to Katie. But if you keep acting like you did before you were married, the public will think it's not a big leap from getting wasted and puking on bushes to cheating on your wife."

Trystan exchanged a commiserating look with Leo. "Was he always like this?"

"Unfortunately."

"Pity."

"Back to you," Liam continued unaffected. “You were exiled almost eight years ago, and it doesn't look like you'll be welcomed back into the fold any time soon. We both know you didn't have anything to do with Countess Juliana's death..."

Trystan drank again. "Do we?" He asked softly. 

"Right. I know you didn't have anything to do with Countess Juliana's death." He jerked a thumb in Leo's direction. "So does he."

"You're a lot of things, Drakovia," Leo agreed. "But a murderer isn't one of them."

"Too bad everyone else disagrees."

"Indeed. But you're still a prince, your actions still reflect on your country, and it's only a matter of time before King Maksim and Queen Viktoria tighten the leash."

Trystan sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. His stubble contributed to the general air of dissipation that enveloped him like a mist.

"If you want to keep your comfortable life," Liam continued. "You'll make sure to go from 'drunken waste of space'..."

"Christ, Rys. Why don't you tell me how you really feel."

"... to 'proper gentleman.'" 

"Proper gentleman? Seriously?"

"He can't help it," Leo put in. "Put a man on a throne long enough, he'll start to sound like an etiquette manual. Then again," he turned to his brother. "I'm not sure you weren't born this way."

"Carry on like this, brother dearest, and I'll make sure your partner swaps places with Olivia. She finished with Carrera early anyway, I'm sure she could fit you in."

Leo grimaced. "As I was saying, Liam makes excellent points."

"Coward." Trystan gestured to the waitress. "Bring me another one, will you, darling?"

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did anything I said in the past twenty minutes get through?"

"Maybe? I vaguely recall something about proper." He laughed when Liam dropped his head into his hands. "Relax, Your Majesty. I'll be on my best behavior all week."

"By whose standards?"

"There goes my loophole." Trystan sighed. "Look, I couldn't care less about my public image, but I'm not in any rush to face my mother's wrath. Besides, you're quite frankly pitiful right now. Saying no would make me feel like I was kicking a puppy. A sweet, annoying puppy."

Leo slapped a hand on the table. “Thank you! That's what he reminds me of! A thirty plus year old mystery, solved in a single night. Maybe you really should be a detective.”

Liam looked heavenward when Trystan and Leo laughed and clinked glasses. Praying for patience, no doubt. "Not quite what I was going for, but I'll take it."

"So what's the plan, oh wise one? We've already covered my drinking.”

“We’re going over the basics.”

“How to Be a Productive Member of Society 101?”

“Exactly. And as your partner…”

Trystan sighed. “Can we come up with a different word? I don't really do partners.”

“As your mentor…”

“Partner it is.”

“... It's my responsibility to make you look squeaky clean for the cameras.”

Leo groaned. “Liam, no. I'll grant you that he needs to improve his reputation, but squeaky clean won't do. People will start theorizing that he died and was replaced with a clone. Or a very elaborate AI video.”

“You might be right. What do you propose instead?”

“He leans into the role of loveable rogue. He works hard, he plays hard. He's aware of his privilege and doesn't take it for granted.”

Liam turned to face his brother. “That's rather good. Why the hell haven’t you been doing that?”

A shadow passed over Leo’s face, but he grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know? But you’re not my partner, thank God. So let’s focus on our exiled prince here.”

Trystan blew out a breath. “Look, I’d like to get out of this island sooner rather than later. Can we get this over with?”

“Surprisingly, Leo makes a good point. Too big a change wouldn’t feel authentic. You still need to come across as you, just…”

“An upgraded version?”

“Exactly. So.” He pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen. “We begin.”

Three hours later, Trystan had a headache, Liam was inching ever closer to a migraine, and Leo… Well, Leo had his face buried in another drink. But the sense of satisfaction permeated the air.

“There’s hope for you yet, Thorne,” Liam said delightedly. “Two more days or so and you’ll be ready for the cameras.”

“Oh joy.”

“But.” He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward. “If you screw this up, I’ll personally make sure that your next partner isn’t as nice as me.”

Trystan laughed. “Fear not, young Jedi. No offense, but I’m done with partners. Never again.”

#round robin 2024 #trystan thorne #liam rys #leo rys #crimes of passion #the royal romance #rules of engagement #playchoices #30 drabbles in 30 days

[subzerosongie]

LUCIFER SFW HEADCANNONS

Omnisexual and Demiromantic, Lucifer finds beauty in just about everyone. 

Struggles with affection, Lucifer's rank as an Angel wasn't known for being overly affectionate. Lucifer can come across as suffocating and controlling when he shows affection. 

Has deep tissue scars where his angel wings used to be, he did rip them clean off his body.

On the rare occasion he misses his old life but that's a rare feeling, usually when he's heavily intoxicated 

He's aware that he misses the memories and not the Celestial Realm himself

His feelings towards the Celestial Realm are mixed at best and negative at worst. 

He wishes he could goof off like the others, but understands his role

Struggles with emotions, both others and his own. 

Admittedly self indulgent, he makes no effort to hide his fondness for alcohol 

Knows how much he has to drink to get to the level of intoxicated he desires

Insists he's not addicted

Smokes when he's particularly stressed out.

Was a leading example of virtue while in the Celestial realm for most of his time there. 

Had a rebellious teen phase

Thinks about having kids more often than he'd even admit to

The idea of Romantic relationships with him makes him uneasy, he hasn't been in one in ages and the last one didn't end well. 

This is because despite all his good traits as a romantic partner his struggles with affection and general tendencies to be protective, even overprotective at times make him worry about chasing people away

This said, Lucifer loves simple pet names like Darling, My Sweet, Love, Babe/Baby, Honey. He does have a few special ones he's fond of using towards his lover.

Scars litter his body, most are superficial but aside from the wings one, other deep scars are on his chest, lower back, neck, face, arms and legs. 

Finds humans endlessly fascinating 

Fangs adorn his top and bottom jaws where human canines are located. 

Has a beastly demon form, he's rarely had to use it and are a mix of a demon and his symbolic animals of Peacock and Bat. He also hates this form.

Likes the harder musical genres outside cursed records. Metal and Rock are his favourites

Cat person, dogs can be too demanding for his tastes

Likes Salty foods

Winter is favourite season

Heat is actually hard for him to deal with

Devildom's natural climate is perfect for him

He regrets his fall, if he could do it again he'd make sure his brothers got to stay.

Had a decent singing voice, he doesn't sing very often though

Slightly an ambivert, heavily leaning introvert. 

He craves social interaction but it drains him pretty fast

Mammon is as much his favourite brother as Mammon is the bane of his existence 

Easily flustered when it comes to personal matters

One of his few fears are dying and being called back to the Celestial Realm and losing his family

Likes True Crime

Has PTSD the worst of his Brothers

Also has Depression, it presents through anger and bouts of despondency, he rarely cries or expresses his emotions any other way

He doesn't like this, but doesn't know any other way.

However one way to loosen him up to cry is again, make him intoxicated.

Pride, Lust, Wrath, Envy, Greed, Gluttony and Sloth are the sins ranked in order of intensity 

Workaholic

Rarely eats, when he does he eats larger portions to counteract the frequency 

Has a hard time sleeping, usually naps throughout the day or when everyone else is sleeping

Lucifer has fallen asleep at his desk more than once.

Gifted in Mathematics 

Actually doesn't like to use his powers outside of necessity 

Tries to get into or research his brother's hobbies to try and bond with them, with varying rates of success. Works out with Beel, Reads what Satan is reading, lets Asmo paint his nails, etc

More compassionate and caring than his demeanour shows 

Wishes to amend things with Satan but understands that to do that, it is on Satan's terms to do so and not a moment sooner

Lucifer's favourite holiday is Halloween

When not working, he's usually reading or corralling his brothers in someway

Takes comfort in Diavolo

Probably needs glasses 

Unhealthily relies on Coffee

One of the other brothers have to go in and give him food/drink or drag him from his desk from time to time

Bad at charging his phone

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me headcanons #obey me angst #obey me one master to rule them all #obey me nightbringer

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Home. (ALT ENDING) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 3K (this one got away from me, sorry) Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: mentions of psychological issues, mentions of self-harm, mentions of therapy Tags: you/your pronouns, hurt/comfort, ANGST, forgiveness, catharsis. a/n: not proofread. THIS IS THE HAPPY ENDING. I'M STILL NOT HAPPY WITH IT, BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS.

[FIC MASTERLIST] || [MY MASTERLIST]

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

Anyone would say that Simon Riley is good. 

Good company for going out drinking.

A good partner for duos in training.

A good shot.

A good soldier.

A good candidate.

A good recruit.

A good lad.

But Simon would say he’s a bad, bad man.

Even before he took this job.

Destined to rot from the inside out.

To become the things he’s promised himself to not ever become.

Finding a way out of home, out of the trauma, only works if some of it is not already inside of you.

Slowly eating you up.

Ever-lasting.

All-consuming.

That’s what Simon figured out in the last 15 years.

Grief.

Depression.

Rage.

Antisocial tendencies.

Psychopathy.

PTSD.

Compartmentalization of emotions and trauma.

Tendencies for self-harm and self-sabotage.

Fear of vulnerability.

Trust issues.

An inclination for isolation.

A past muddled by juvenile delinquency and early drug and alcohol use.

An avoidant attachment style in any relationships he attempts to form due to an inability to truly connect with others.

An identity crisis stemming from low self-worth and a disturbed self-image.

The list goes on.

Simon would say he’s got it all under control.

But any Army-appointed psychiatrist would disagree.

And he’s too valuable of an asset to let go of…

Just the ‘depression’ diagnosis would land the average soldier on a watchlist and the ‘tendencies to self-harm’ would get anyone a medical discharge and interned into a psych ward.

Thank God Simon’s not the average soldier.

Price has been pulling strings to keep him around, calling in favors to people for his sake and getting people to turn a blind eye to the fact Simon Riley has not gone to a single routine psych check in the better part of a decade.

In exchange, however, that forced Simon to take a deal with Price and instead see an off-site psych expert. A friend of Price’s, a retired psychiatrist who has no way of getting him discharged.

As such, every time he goes on leave he drives some 4 or so hours from Hereford to a small village in Cumbria up north to see her. He always spends the first week of his leave there, in a chalet right smack in the middle of the Lake District National Park…  It’s peaceful and nice. Over those 5 to 7 days, he talks about anything and everything. 

At first he hated it, but with time, it did bring him clarity on a lot of his issues without any sort of danger or judgement. In her words, Dr. Armstrong had been dealing with John’s shit for “far too long”, and nothing Simon would tell her would make a dent on the appalling things she’s heard… And true to her word, Simon hadn’t spotted any shock or discomfort in her, even as he spoke of some utterly vile things.

She made him feel heard, understood, welcome… alive, even if more often than not he didn’t quite feel human. He always came in the door like the ghost of his moniker, a shadow, with steps too hard, body too stiff, breathing too tense, eyes too sharp… And left with an ease and lightness uncharacteristic to someone like him… Dr. Armstrong unraveled all the damage during those 5 to 7 grueling days… Only for him return to base and begin the process of hardening himself once again.

He’s thirty-three, you’re thirty-two today.

He dragged himself out of the comfortable bed in the guest house nearby to the chalet, and threw on a hoodie and some slides before he ventured out to the main house across the stepping stone walkway and into the house through the sliding glass doors.

Dr. Armstrong was already at the breakfast nook in the kitchen when he came in. She’s not quite gone gray, but she’s getting there. Her face is steadily getting more wrinkled compared to 10 years ago when this started. She’s wearing a light blue robe and a set of warm pajamas. Her hair cut into a pixie à la Judi Dench. “Good morning, Simon.”

Simon, meanwhile, is all disheveled, hair sticking up from having just woken up, face peppered with a 5 o’clock shadow, eyes still crusty and face unwashed. “Mornin’.” He grumbled as he poured himself a cup of tea and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“How did you sleep?” She asked him as she regarded him over her green-frame reading glasses, which adorned the tip of her nose. She took a sip of a black mug with a cat’s whiskers drawn in it in white.

“Same as usual…” He replied as he stirred some milk into his tea. He grabbed the plain toasted bread and plopped it into a plate and began to turn to join her at the table when she set down her tea mug and leaned her elbows on the table, giving him a pointed look with a cocked brow.

Holding back a groan akin to a moody teenage boy’s, he set down the plate and cuppa, and grabbed some butter and a knife, spreading it over the toasted bread. He was thankful that Dr. Armstrong forced him to take care of himself, he was… But it doesn’t mean he was happy about it. “How did you sleep?” He returned.

“Slept well, thank you.” She replied and kept a stern watch over him as he reached the fridge and grabbed a yogurt and a small box of raspberries. He poured the yogurt into a bowl, topped it with the fruit and a drizzle of honey from the bowl in the corner of the counter, and then took his slightly more nutritious meal to the table. 

She watched him closely as he began to eat his buttered toast, letting him have a moment of stewing in the ‘forced’ meal. She took off her glasses, folding them shut, and set them aside, along with her tablet, and stared at him.

In a way, Simon was more of a son than a patient to her, after so many years helping undo the damage the military and his childhood wracked on his head. He looked forward to the routine, needed it, so much that if he didn’t have these moments with her as often as he had grown accustomed to, he’d start acting a bit erratic. A bit more prone to violence, a bit harder to contain, a bit harder for John to keep a handle on. “What’s on your mind this morning?” She asked him with a cocked brow.

He finished his toasted and wiped his mouth. Then he started toying with the spoon resting on the edge of his yogurt bowl. “That it’s a bad week to be here.” He told her.

“And why is it a bad week, Simon?” She asked him as she leaned her head on her palm.

“There was this girl,” He began to say before he spooned some yogurt into his mouth. He had long stopped wearing a mask while staying over at Dr. Armstrong’s house. His scars were always on display for her to see. “who I grew up with. Her birthday is this week.”

The older woman nodded her head as she watched him closely. “I see. And… this ‘girl’... Was she a friend? A girlfriend?”

“I guess.” Simon said as he ate another spoon of yogurt, brown eyes lowered and focused on the red raspberries suspended atop the fatty yogurt. “We were like…” He trailed off. “She was… erm…” He stopped again and exhaled through his nose.

“I see.” The doctor said as she kept watching him. He kept eating quietly. “And… I assume you don’t talk to her anymore?” She asked.

“No.” Simon replied. “After I joined the Army, she moved away from Manchester and we lost contact.” He said softly.

“Do you still think about it?” She asked him. “About her?”

“Sometimes.” He admitted as he stirred his spoon in his bowl before sighing again and eating another spoonful. “A few times a year… Around her birthday, and mine. And Christmas… And the anniversary of the day we met…” He listed.

“And how does it feel…? Nice? Sad? Bittersweet?” She trailed off, knowing sometimes Simon needed help verbalizing his emotions.

“Sad.” He replied bluntly and ate a couple of spoonfuls of yogurt in a row before pushing the now empty bowl aside with the spoon resting inside of it. 

“And cruel.” The woman watched as he rolled his shoulders, a bit tense, and raised his irises to look at her, eyes softened. “It’s been 15 years since she left Manc, left me and I-” He trailed off. 

Looking away, he kept talking, and talking. “I still think about her. I think I’m okay, I think I’m doing good, doing better, and then those dates come and I’m reminded that she exists, that she’s out there, that she… that she went off and found herself a place and I’m here, and have nothing to show for it, just some stupid fucking medals pinned to the breast of my suit and blood on my hands that doesn’t wash off in the fucking sink.” He hissed bitterly, his eyes unfocused as he poured it all out.

“She was like me. We did everything together, were basically attached at the hip. She was my partner in crime, like a home away from home. Sure, dad beat me and mum, and scared us all and I’m much better now and I’ve grown up, but nothing feels okay. Nothing feels normal or good. It’s all just… just bullshit!” He hissed, his breathing beginning to grow faster. “I go through the motions but I don’t feel okay, I don’t feel safe.” He turned his head away from Doctor Armstrong.

“The last time I felt safe I was in her arms, looking into her eyes and telling her that I loved her for the first time and making all these promises for a future that didn’t happen. A future I stole from the two of us.” He grumbled. “And the worst part is that I used to blame her for leaving, for seeking out a better life, a better place! Maybe I still blame her… But it’s not her fault. It’s really not.” Simon’s eyes began to water in a way they never have before. 

“It’s all my fault. There’s no one to blame but me. The last conversation we had was a stupid fucking argument where I looked her in the eyes, the girl I loved, and told her to stop relying on me… She was looking to me for help, to get her out, to get us both somewhere safe…” He stopped and pressed his lips together to contain a sob. His eyes squeezed shut as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“I was going to marry her.” He confessed and groaned. “I came back from Aghanistan and bought a ring, because while I was out there, with bullets whizzing past me and watching my brothers in arms fall like flies, all I wanted was to do was go back to her… And I was completely expecting her to be there… To be waiting for me…” He trailed off. “After I broke her heart and told her to leave… I… I somehow expected her to have been weak… to have stayed. And she was strong enough to leave.” He nodded as he pondered on it.

“And the worst part is that I want to know what happened to her. I want…” He trailed off. “I know it’s been so long and she probably doesn’t think about me and even if she did, she wouldn’t want to ever step foot anywhere near her and it’s not like I want to see her, or to meet with her or to… I don’t know, pick up where we left off?” He ranted more and more. “I just… I want to know she’s okay, I want to know she’s alive. I pray every year that she didn’t turn to hard drugs and die of an overdose on a street corner somewhere… I…” He trailed off. “I need her to be alive and healthy and safe and… happy.”

Doctor Armstrong’s eyes softened as a lightbulb went off in her head. She had finally found the genesis to most of Simon’s issues. The grief of the past, the depression, the antisocial tendencies, his propenture for isolation, his fear of vulnerability, his trust issues, his inability to truly connect with others, the avoidant attachment style to any relationships he does attempt to have…

It was because he was attached to her, whoever this girl he spoke of was. He grieved her, he missed her, he couldn’t pursue a meaningful relationship when he had lost such a deep one… A relationship, an attachment, formed through trauma, unhealthy, sure, but one that resulted in a bond. Any attempts of his to ‘move on’ felt wrong and soured quickly. And until now she couldn’t figure out why that was… thinking he just kept unhealthily self-sabotaging… until now.

That morning was a first in many ways. Simon was speaking unprompted, Simon was voicing his emotions, Simon was confronting his past, Simon was admitting to his mistakes, Simon was expressing his wants. He was not just opening up, but he was actively prioritizing his wants, his feelings… It was huge for someone whose sense of self was as skewed as Simon’s.

It only took ten years… But they were making progress.

-

‘You just have to write her a letter, Simon. Let her know you don’t mean to impose on her life, but that you simple hope she’s doing well, thank her for having been part of your life. Keep it simple, concise. You can do that.’

Dr. Armstrong severely underestimated Simon’s ability to follow her request. Granted, most of the time he follows them no problem… But when it comes to you? Yikes.

‘Simple, concise’ became 38 and a half pages. None of it proofread. He felt like he passed out and when he woke up he had 38 pages of straight up gibberish, half-baked thoughts and equally half-baked pages. He doesn’t even remember what the fuck he wrote (probably because he was drunk and high, his first time smoking in 15 years).

Trying to read it gave him a headache, so he just transfered it into a Word document, the only file in an all-black slide-out USB drive, and stuffed the USB and a note saying ‘From Simon Riley’ into an envelope. He didn’t even dare send it himself. He simply dropped it off in the mail-out box at base and and called it a day.

That was 3 months ago. 

As he lays in bed after dinner, he silently hopes to God that you’re ignoring him and tossed out the USB drive without even reading the mess of text in it… Or even that the address Laswell’s analysts found for you in Scotland was wrong. 

But he also can’t bear to imagine  someone else opening the envelope, checking the USB drive and finding that letter and-

A buzzing awakes him from his thoughts and he looks across the room to his phone which is charging on his desk in the corner. He moves across the room swiftly, finding a number he doesn’t recognize has sent him a text. 

It has to be you. He’s careful with his number, he doesn’t give it out willy-nilly. Only Price, Laswell and Nik have it. And you, since he included it in the document.

Taking a deep breath, he clicks the text on the screen, his brown eyes screwing shut as if it was about to explode. Or maybe it was just his heart racing that made him feel that.

He was afraid.

Simon Riley was afraid.

The Ghost wouldn’t protect him now.

Not from you.

Or, rather, not for the way Simon might react when it comes to you.

Deep breaths, Simon told himself. 

Deep breaths.

In…

… and out.

Throwing open his eyes, he looked at the screen, finding one tiny little paragraph in the bright green chat bubble:

hi riley… read your letter a bunch of times… truth be told i didnt know how to answer it, been trying to find what to say for weeks on weeks now and coming up short. if ur free anytime soon can we just have a call over the phone? might be easier. if not then im glad to hear ur fine and that u found success x

Simon reads and rereads your text over and over and over…

And then something in him snaps. He clicks the phone button next to your unsaved contact and then stares at the screen, eyes wide and frantic, not even considering that you might not be ready, that you might be busy, that you asked for ‘one of these days’ and not ‘right now’...

The call connects.

Simon holds his breath.

And so do you, he can hear your little gasp.

The counter at the top of the screen ticks by.

00:01

00:02

00:03

00:04

00:05

00:06

00:07

00:08

00:09

00:10

00:11

00:12

00:13

00:14

00:15

Simon’s eyes begin to well up with tears, he can hear your breath on the other side, but he’s too much of a coward to say anything.

00:16

00:17

00:18

00:19

00:20

00:21

00:22

00:23

Thank God that you’re not.

You’ve always been stronger than him.

“Riley?” You whisper his name.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth to speak… But all that escapes him is a stupid little “Hm?”

You pause again, your breath catching in your throat again… before you say it:

“I forgive you.”

His world nearly collapses at that moment and a sob escapes him, a sound so pathetic and weak that he wants to beat himself over it before Dr. Armstrong’s words ring in his head:

‘You can’t keep suppressing your emotions, it’s okay to cry.’

And so he does. He sobs, audibly so, big fat tears running down his face as he lets his back hit the wall and slide down it until he’s sat on the floor.

“Riley…” You whimper, and it sounds like you’re on the verge of crying as well.

He doesn’t want to make you cry. He really doesn’t… 

But he can’t stop…

For the first time in forever, he feels exactly the one thing Dr. Armstrong has told him he deserves to feel:

At peace.

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

[FIC MASTERLIST] || [MY MASTERLIST]

TAGGING ANYONE WHO READ/COMMENTED THE FIC (there's only like... 10 of you total, I'm so sorry)

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving , @lyralein , @heavenlyrivers , @depressed-but-make-it-cute , @myhomeworksnotdone , @captainquake42 , @waiting-so-long , @erensonly , @pieckyghost

Thank you so much for reading this fic, to the people who've read it here and on AO3! Your support mean the world to me!

#ikea writes 💚 #home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #tw psychological issues #psych diagnosis #time skip #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #masterlist #catharsis

[tobias-hankel]

❤️2023 Quan-Tea-Co Fics Recs🖤

The wonderful members of our discord server, Quan-Tea-Co, have written a lot of fanfics this year - this is the rec list!

🖤 SFW No Ship Fics

the friendship we have is a rare find by cherubcurls, Gen, In and out. “I've got this.” she affirmed to herself breathily, looking down at her hands that held two cups of coffee rather than one, still steaming, still fresh. Her heart swelled with affection. She grinned, “We've got this.” OR; Penelope and Spencer agree to meet up to have a study session before finals. A couple of things change and they end up not studying at all.

and i saw my life in photographs of faded memories by whateverislovely, Gen, Morgan reminds him just a little too much of the football players who bullied him relentlessly all through high school and even college. He’s big and imposing, with bulging muscles and a look on his face that says, Are you kidding me? when Hotch informs him that Spencer is the newest member of the BAU team. Five times Spencer misinterprets Morgan's intentions, and one time he's finally able to straighten things out.

where do we begin to get clean again by whateverislovely, Teen, Spencer often participates in toasts with the group using water or tea or potato chips instead of alcohol. This fic explores the events that may have led him to stop drinking.

silence like a cancer grows by whateverislovely, Teen, Diana doesn’t forgive Spencer for having her institutionalized… at least, not right away.

❤️Mature No Ship Fics

Surrender by @starzzyeyed, Mature, He doesn't want this, not really. He never wanted it. But he's in too deep now, and getting out seems less and less possible as the days trickle on, like sand through an hourglass. Or: An in depth look at Reid's addiction, and what it might have been like for him.

what’s this, the consequences of my actions? by cherubcurls, Mature, Because Spencer wasn’t used to safe. He needed adrenaline to pump through his veins and soften the blow for him to have a good day. His family never really liked how violent he was. OR; Spencer comes back home from a particularly horrible fight and his Dad is less than amused.

Solved Game by Boots17, Mature, Solved game: a game whose outcome can be correctly predicted from any position, assuming that the game is played perfectly. A season 12 canon divergence in which Mr. Scratch dies a little too early, Reid accepts the plea deal, and Cat Adams plays a very long game. Years later, the two finally get their rematch.

Ships are under the cut

🖤SFW Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid

A Gentle Touch Hurts So Much by ProfessorWorm, Gen, Spencer has unaddressed childhood fears dredged up by Aaron’s attempt to help him recover from his knee injury.

Day 4 - FFC - Second Love by a1_kitkat, Teen, Spencer never much cared for anniversaries, neither does Aaron… this time there’s an exception.

There Are Secrets That We Still Have Left To Find by @starzzyeyed, Not Rated, Spencer Reid is seven years old the first time he comes out to anyone. Three times Spencer comes out, across three different points in his life, all with three very different outcomes.

❤️NSFW/Mature Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid

Subscribed by AestheticTek and @goobzoop, Explicit, After stressful cases, Hotch finds that camming in lingerie helps him to decompress, while Reid happens to stumble upon the most attractive man that greatly resembles his biggest crush, his boss.

The Absence of Sound by BluePenguinLightning, Mature, The sudden onslaught of sounds startled Spencer Reid awake, not that he ever slept well anyway. He hadn’t slept well in two hundred and seventy-four days. In all honesty, he wasn’t even sure how he managed to make it that far. In which Reid somehow manages to survive a sadistic psychopath but that's only the beginning.

kill your indulgences by cherubcurls, Explicit, Hotch was his; his to keep, his to possess, his to feed on. “No,” he tried to mumble. As best as he could with his canines still firmly lodged onto his throat. “Mine.” OR; Hotch lets Spencer feed on him.

The Boy by house_of_lantis, Explicit, Lord Aaron Hotchner is one of the most ruthless rulers of the City. But despite his fearsome reputation, Lord Hotchner is respected by his people and beloved by those closest to him. He strives to bring order and justice to the City and to protect it from anyone who dared threaten it. Spencer is the newest addition to Aaron’s private harem, stolen from his previous master. Affectionately nicknamed the Boy, he is the exclusive body slave to Lord Hotchner and he learns to navigate the politics of the harem.

Hide and Seek by Highway58, Explicit, An Unsub fixates on the BAU Team, determined to make them his passion project. Spencer Reid is his ultimate target but in order to get to him, he has to go through the people he holds most dear in his life.

Heathen by Highway58, Explicit, The dreams would not stop. Ever since the unexpected case in Las Vegas when he forced himself to confront his painful past, Spencer Reid had not been able to sleep. The visions haunted him relentlessly... he couldn't resist the need to forget it all. Something was happening to him. Something he'd been suppressing for most of his life, ever since that one moment in his childhood he couldn't--wouldn't--face. Soon, very soon... he wouldn't be able to resist his own biology. Even though he had no idea it was even part of him. He was just a Beta... right? Spencer Reid approaches a crossroads he never imagined he could face.

Ain't Always Gold by Highway58, Explicit, Omega Spencer gets knocked up by his Mate Aaron Hotchner in the wake of Emily's death and he doesn't know it until it's about to kill him.

Call Me Daddy by goobzoop, Explicit, Aaron teaches Spencer how to date, but it’s not women he’s making him better for. It’s himself.

Let Me Be Your Only Choice by TobiasHankel, Explicit, After Spencer is kidnapped by Hankel, the team expects to find the omega scared and possibly beaten. They didn’t expect to find Spencer next to a dead Alpha and dying from bond rejection. With limited options and a dying Spencer, Hotch is forced to make a decision that Spencer can’t even consent to in order to save his life.

Every Version of You by goobzoop, Explicit, Hotch's whole world comes crashing down the moment he witnesses his husband get injured right in front of him. Spencer makes it through, but the road to recovery is more difficult than he could have ever imagined. Or, amnesia fic!

A Fool There Was by reasonablerodents, Explicit, Hotch is using Spencer to take out his frustrations regarding his failing marriage. Spencer is so desperately in love with him that he’ll put up with anything- just as long as he can be close to Hotch.

Touch The Leather by reasonablerodents, Explicit, “Well, the problem with shoes is- um, they’re dirty, there’s a staggering amount of bacteria even on the cleanest ones, I don’t want…” He trails off again, swallowing hard. Or: Hotch wants Spencer to prove how much he loves him.

Room on the Third Floor by Matthew1972, Explicit, One minute Aaron Hotchner is walking free, contemplating a forever with Spencer… the next he gets snatched away. Locked up in a cage to the whims of an unsub unlike any other he's ever faced. A hunter and wildcat shifter trafficker. But then, his inner panther and human self alike refuse to be tamed and collared to live out his days as the wildcat alone. To be another victim sold. Will his defiance become his downfall? Or does Aaron get to return home to Spencer and see through on his proposal?

🖤SFW Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Maybe Someday Soon by @justjasper, Teen, "Derek talks about you." The Morgan women know that he's in love with Reid. They also know that he is absolutely clueless about it.

Washed Away by TobiasHankel, Teen, It had been over a year since Spencer Reid went missing after he was kidnapped by Tobias Hankel. He was presumed to be dead, but Morgan refused to believe it and move on. After a case takes the team back to the same state Spencer went missing in, Morgan might just get the answers he has been looking for.

❤️ NSFW/Mature Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Spun Hearts by JustJasper, Explicit, After a harrowing case Morgan needs control, and Reid needs a fix, and they wind up in bed. Reid sees this as a potential evolution of their relationship, but Morgan is adament that he's not gay. The path towards what they both want isn't a simple one, and a recurring case brings some painful things to bare as they both try to navigate what they are to each other.

When We're Together, Our Bodies They Start Fires by JustJasper, Explicit, 2x06, "The Boogey Man", Reid sits in a police station practicing trying to lockpick a pair of handcuffs with a paperclip. Some short time later, he misses a hangout with Morgan, who goes to check on him.

🖤 Other Ships

Home by KatrioneSpecterRossi, Explicit, Emily Prentiss/David Rossi, Usually when there's a disturbance in the middle of the night, it involves Emily waking up from a PTSD-induced nightmare with her gun pointing at her bed partner's head. This time when she wakes up, it's for a very different reason...that turns out being a great deal more fun.

Level Pegging by Starzzy, Explicit, Elle Greenaway/Spencer Reid, “I don’t need, or frankly have the time to have sex,” he manages at last, somehow forcing his feet to move and take him forwards to the coffee maker. He almost forgoes the sugar entirely, wanting the bitter taste to wake him up from this walking nightmare he seems to be living in right now. “All I’m saying is, you wouldn’t be my first,” Elle says as she comes up to stand next to him.

❤️ Crossovers

I Used to Dread the Thought of Falling Quickly by Chaotic_Librarian, Explicit, Supernatural, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Spencer Reid/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Spencer Reid/Dean Winchester, Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester, Spencer Reid knows how to stumble into odd situations. But being kidnapped and then promptly flirted with? Seduced? by two of the FBI's Most Wanted? That has to take the cake. That, however, won't stop him from falling in love.

Entertained by Chaotic_Librarian, Explicit, Supernatural, Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester, Sam's sitting on his bar stool on the miniature stage again, his guitar in his lap.  Another stool serving as his table with a half-drunk glass of whiskey, he looks out across the mediocre crowd.  Typical Wednesday. That's his preferred crowd, anyway.  Joanne managing the bar, Pauline working the floor, and him on the stage as cheap entertainment.  Strumming his guitar and singing country songs he learned by heart years ago.  Sometimes he'll do requests.  But not often.  Not a lot of Kansans approach the stage when he's playing.  They just let him do his thing.

I Must Admit that I was Reeling by Chaotic_Librarian, Explicit, Supernatural, Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester, Aaron Hotchner/Dean Winchester, Spencer goes way too far to get closure on his fling with Sam Winchester. Because it was just a fling, right? It's not like they're meant to be, right?

To Love And To Be Loved In Return by reasonablerodents and Starzzy, Mature, Grease (1978), Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia/Derek Morgan, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner accepted a long time ago that he was never going to be able to be his true self. Not only was it illegal, it was highly unlikely that he’d ever find someone willing to be in hiding with him for the rest of their lives, unless America got a whole lot more open and accepting. That all changes when Spencer Reid transfers to Oakdale to finish his senior year.

Thank you everyone for making such great works this last year! The Quan-Tea-Co server is open to new members as long as you are over 18 years old. Invite Link.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #fic rec #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #hotchreid #moreid #emily prentiss #how are so many of these hotchreid omg guys #derek morgan #2023 fic rec #criminal minds discord #discord #supernatural #crossover