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lostfracturess · 3 months

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【 ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇꜱ 】 ch. 04

x pairing professor!gojo x med student f!reader (medical au)

x summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

x wc 7.9 k

x warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood / abuse, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

x author's note has anyone asked for a bit of angst? dive in and let me know what you think—i love hearing your thoughts! & pls like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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It had been a week since you had your unconventional date with Gojo. You were back in practical class, relieved that it didn't involve drawing blood like the last time.

Yuta surely was thankful for that.

Doctor Kento was demonstrating how to perform various types of stitches. You paid close attention, even though you knew most of the stitches by heart. When it was time for the students to try, you picked up the needle and thread, grabbed an orange and began to stitch.

You never learned to suture on fruit before, but it must be easier than working on actual human skin, right?

"Bet I can finish my stitches before all of you," Yuta chimed in, a grin spreading across his face as he expertly threaded his needle.

Maki glanced at him. "You're on, Okkotsu. But don't come crying to me when I beat you."

The two worked with newfound speed, their needles weaving through the orange peel. Yuta finished his line first. "See, what did I tell you?" he said with a smile.

Maki leaned closer to inspect his stitching. "Not bad," she admitted. "But check out your spacing here, Yuta. It's a bit off."

Yuta squinted at his work. "Ah, you're right. Gotta work on that."

"And... done!" you said, holding up your perfectly sutured orange.

Yuta turned to look at your work. "Wow, that's some neat stitching. Makes mine look like child's play."

"Impressive," Toge said.

Maki paused her stitching to glance at your handiwork. "Seriously impressive," she commented. "How'd you get so good?"

You smiled. "I had to learn a few things on my own before university," you explained. "And I guess some practice outside of class helped too."

As you finished your set of stitches, doctor Kento came over to inspect your work. His eyebrows raised as he examined the neat line of sutures. "Excellent work," he said. "And I thought you were a failure in practical class, after the mess you made with the blood withdrawal."

Ouch.

Why was he always so direct.

You and your friends were fully engaged in the session, focused on perfecting your suturing techniques. Suddenly, the door opened and professor Gojo entered. He moved towards Kento's desk, as if to retrieve something.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gojo's gaze found you across the room. His eyes met yours, and a small smile appeared on his lips. You watched him as he walked over to Kento.

Maki leaned closer to you. "Oh, look, Dr. Handsome graces us with his presence," she said. "Isn't it strange how often he shows up around you?"

"Only strange coincidences," you replied, but Maki's raised eyebrow told you she wasn't entirely convinced.

Gojo finished his brief conversation with Kento and made his way over to your group. The others paused, needles in mid-air, as he approached.

"Hello there." His gaze swept over the group and then rested on you. "I see you're all making good progress with your suturing."

Yuta leaned back in his chair. "We're doing our best, professor. But she over here is putting us all to shame," he said, nodding towards you.

Gojo's smile broadened. "Is that so?"

He walked over to you, a bit too close for the classroom setting. He picked up one of your stitched oranges, turning it over in his hands. "Impressive precision."

"But perhaps a bit basic for your skill level," he added, his eyes meeting yours briefly before he picked up another orange from the table. He pulled a chair up to your table, sitting down close enough that his knee brushed against yours under the table.

"Have you ever tried a subcuticular suture?"

"No, I haven't."

Gojo grabbed an unused needle and thread. "Let me show you."

Your friends gathered around, watching as Gojo skillfully maneuvered the needle through the orange peel. "Subcuticular suturing is an intradermal suture that minimizes scarring. You need a steady hand and some patience to do it."

The needle dipped in and out of the orange peel, leaving a nearly invisible line on the surface. "The key is consistent tension," he explained. "Imagine you're weaving, each pass of the needle equidistant to the last, and the thread tension must be just enough to approximate the edges without puckering the tissue."

Once finished, he held up the orange for everyone to see. "See?"

He tossed another orange towards you. Your caught it just in time. "Your turn," he said.

Gojo leaned further towards you, his leg touching yours under the table. Then you felt a hand resting on your thigh. You jumped slightly and immediately kicked him with your foot under the table.

God, Gojo, keep it professional, at least in class.

He received the message and gave you a quick, sly smile that you hoped would go unnoticed by your friends.

With Gojo still watching closely, you began to work on the orange, trying to mirror the technique he had just demonstrated. The stitch was more complex than you were used to. And it didn't help that Gojo was so close.

"Angle the needle a bit more... that's it. Now, even tension as you pull through," he said. You were acutely aware of every comment, every slight touch as he pointed out adjustments.

When you finished, Gojo examined your work, his fingers brushing lightly against your hands as he reached for the orange. "Well done," he said. "You're a quick learner. Or perhaps I'm just a good teacher?"

Sure.

At that moment, Kento approached your table, his gaze lingering on the two of you for a brief second. "Taking over my class, Gojo?"

Gojo straightened, turning to face Kento with a relaxed posture. "Not in the slightest, Kento," he replied. "Only sharing a new technique with the students."

"Well, ensure it doesn't become a regular occurrence," he said. "Managing these students is challenging enough. I don't need any additional burdens."

"Understood, Kento," Gojo said, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I'll leave the teaching to the experts, then."

He turned his attention back to you and your friends. "Keep practicing, students," he said, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. As Gojo moved to leave the classroom, he cast one last glance in your direction, his smile lingering.

After he left, Maki leaned closer to you, a suspicious look in her eyes. "You know, he looks at you a bit too long to be just your research partner," she observed in a low voice.

Your stomach fluttered. "Does he?"

Maki leaned back, her eyes studying you closely. "Yeah, It's pretty obvious."

You hesitated, searching for the right words. "We've just gotten to know each other better recently. That's all."

"Uh huh," Maki replied. "Just be careful, okay? He's your professor, after all."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as Kento redirected the class's attention to the front.

─── ·✧· ───

Later that day, the campus was bathed in warm sunlight, the air filled with the chatter and laughter of students enjoying a break between classes. You were sprawled out on a blanket in the grass with your friends, Toge, Maki, and Yuta, basking in the pleasant warmth of the early afternoon sun.

The breeze, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, rustled through the leaves of the trees. Birds high above scurried and chirped. The world seemed to slow down for a moment, allowing you all to enjoy this brief respite from the university's hustle.

As you lay there, soaking up the sun, your phone buzzed with a new message. Glancing at the screen, you saw Gojo's name. Your stomach fluttered. You sat up, shielding your phone from the sunlight to read the message.

[3:12 PM] Gojo: Why aren't you here?

[3:12 PM] You: Where?

[3:12 PM] Gojo: With me.

[3:13 PM] You: Just done with class.

[3:13 PM] Gojo: Done with class, but not with me. How about we change that?

[3:14 PM] You: Is that an invitation or a challenge?

[3:14 PM] Gojo: Consider it both. I'm at the cafe, and it's missing your presence.

[3:15 PM] You: How tragic. Perhaps, I could be persuaded to change scenery.

[3:15 PM] Gojo: I'm sure I can provide a few persuasive arguments.

[3:16 PM] You: Such as?

[3:16 PM] Gojo: The best coffee on campus, for starters. And, of course, the pleasure of my company.

[3:17 PM] You: Tempting, professor.

[3:17 PM] Gojo: I aim to convince. Join me, and let's see if I can sway your decision further.

[3:18 PM] You: Give me 5 minutes.

[3:18 PM] Gojo: I'll be waiting, first-year.

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Slipping your phone into your pocket, you turned to your friends. "I've got to step out for a bit."

Maki raised an eyebrow. "Mysterious meeting with a certain professor?"

You laughed it off, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your cheeks. "Just a coffee break. Nothing to gossip about," you replied, gathering your things.

As you stood up, Maki gave you a knowing look, but she didn't press further. "See you later then," she said with a smile.

You made your way to the campus cafe. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the trees that lined the path, casting dappled shadows on the ground. As you approached, you spotted Gojo waiting outside, casually leaning against a wall. His eyes scanned the crowd until they settled on you.

A smile played on his lips as he pushed off the wall and strolled over to you. "I was starting to think you'd ditched me," he teased, his snow-white hair falling loosely across his forehead.

"Ditching my favorite professor? Never," you quipped back, falling into step beside him. Entering the campus cafe, you both queued up to grab coffees.

"So I'm your favorite, huh?" he said. "I'm flattered."

"Well, you do make things more interesting."

"Is that so?" He leaned in slightly closer. "I'm not just an interesting professor, you know."

"Oh?" you responded, your tone feigning innocence. "Pray, enlighten me, professor Gojo."

His lips curved into a sly smile. "Well, that's a conversation for a different setting."

"Such a tease, professor."

The barista called out for the next order. "An americano for me, and whatever she's having," he said to the woman behind the counter, already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"You know I can pay for myself."

He glanced at you. "I know, but I don't want you to."

After picking up your coffees, Gojo guided you through the campus towards its back garden. "Thought we could use a bit of privacy," he said. "Less chance of running into nosy students or colleagues."

As you followed him, the firm pavement turned into a lush, vibrant green carpet of grass and flowers. The garden was in full bloom, with knee-high blossoms exuding a sweet scent that wafted through the air.

Suddenly, he strayed off the path and into the grass. Without a word, he lay down, almost disappearing among the colorful blossoms. He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, gazing up at the cerulean sky.

"You're really just going to lie down there?"

He looked up at you with a relaxed smile. "Why not? It's a beautiful day. Come, join me."

Hesitantly, you sat down beside him, tucking your legs to the side. The grass was soft and cool beneath you, and the floral scent enveloped you. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the nearby trees, casting playful, dappled shadows across the two of you.

Your gaze flicked around the area, half-expecting someone to appear. "Aren't you worried about someone seeing us?"

He chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the sky. "There's no one around. And even if there was, we're just two people enjoying a beautiful day. Nothing wrong with that."

Yeah, nothing wrong with a young, stupidly attractive professor and one of his students lying on the grass together.

You watched him for a moment.

Gojo wore his usual white button-down shirt, which accentuated his well-built physique, the top few buttons casually undone. Dark designer sunglasses adorned the bridge of his nose. His sleek white hair was tousled by the gentle breeze that caressed the garden.

As he reclined amid the flourishing garden, the shifting patterns of light and shadow played a mesmerizing dance upon his skin. He seemed to savour every ray of sunlight that touched his skin. The corners of his lips curled upward.

"We have a potential case," he began, shifting to a more serious tone. "There's a patient who might be a perfect candidate for the neurotransplant procedure."

You glanced at his bandaged hand. "Are you sure you're ready for that? With your hand still healing?"

He lifted his hand, testing its movement as he flexed his fingers. "It's healing better than expected. It has to be okay," he said. "Besides, Principal Yaga is really breathing down both mine and Geto's necks about it. He wants to see results."

"And you're okay with that?"

"There's no other way."

You pondered for a second.

"The patient's young, only sixteen," he revealed.

"Sixteen? That's so young," you murmured.

"I know, but he's a perfect fit for this surgery. He wants this chance, and we owe it to him to give our best."

Your brows furrowed.

"I know you're worried," he began. "But trust me, we'll take every necessary precaution. And this time, we have the advantage of everything we've learned so far. We're in this together, and I'll be right there by your side every step of the way."

You smiled faintly.

Gojo propped himself up on one elbow to face you. "What happened to your fearless spirit? When we first met, you suggested an approach in surgery that even I hadn't considered. It was bold, a bit crazy even."

"It was a different situation. That patient was dead either way. So it didn't really matter".

He lay back down, gazing up at the sky. "Wow, how pragmatic of you."

"Aren't you scared? That we mess this up?"

"No, not really. I trust you."

You huffed. Yeah, if only you could have his confidence.

"Why does it always seem like you're so carefree?" you asked him.

He let out a soft chuckle. "Me, carefree? Not exactly. It's more that I've stopped giving a fuck about the small stuff. Stick around in research long enough, and you'll learn to do the same."

"Stopped giving a fuck, huh?" you mused, raising an eyebrow. "That's one way to live a careless life, I suppose."

"It's not about being careless. It's about choosing what deserves your energy and what doesn't."

"And what deserves the energy of one of the most famous neurosurgeons?"

His smile deepened. "Challenging surgeries, medical mysteries and, of course," he paused, " intriguing students who keep me on my toes."

Before you could react, Gojo grasped your shoulders in a swift, unexpected move and pushed you back down onto the grass. Suddenly, you were looking up at him, his face inches from yours, his eyes holding yours in a captivating gaze. Your heart raced.

"Are you insane? What if someone sees us like this?" Panic tinged your voice as you instinctively tried to push him away, but he remained steadfast.

Gojo's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Would it really be that bad?"

He was surely insane.

Yet, your breath caught in your throat as Gojo's eyes burned into yours. You could see the raw desire in his eyes, mirroring your own.

"You're always so tense, first-year," he teased. "Need someone to help you relax?"

"Gojo, we really shouldn't—," you tried to protest. But your body betrayed you, responding to his closeness. You felt your core heating up.

His lips grazed your earlobe, sending delightful shivers cascading down your spine. "Shouldn't what?" he whispered. "Have a little fun?"

Your heart raced as his lips traced a tantalizing path along your jawline, leaving a trail of heated anticipation in their wake. "Gojo," you breathed out, torn between desire and restraint.

Suddenly, Gojo's hand reached out, grasping your wrists that were still pushing against his chest. He pinned your hands above your head, pressing them into the lush grass.

He paused for a moment, his lips hovering just above yours. "Tell me to stop," he challenged softly.

You swallowed hard, acutely aware of his presence, his warm breath, and his other hand that found its way between your legs. "Gojo, seriously," you whispered. "We're in public."

Yet you couldn't stop yourself from letting your head fall back. Your back arched into him as his fingers traced a slow path along the inside of your leg. "Thrilling isn't it?" His lips moved ever so slightly against the curve of your neck. "Didn't hear the word 'stop' yet."

Yes.

Fuck.

Please stop.

Please be the reasonable one of you two.

Because you surely were not able to.

"Gojo, this is crazy." You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to still the rapid beating of your heart. "We can't... not here."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked with yours. "Then tell me to stop."

You knew you should push him away, end this dangerous game before it went any further. But the desire to give in was overwhelming. His fingers continued their slow, deliberate path, now dangerously close to your core. "I'm waiting, first-year."

His touch ventured higher, feather-light yet electrifying, teasing over your most sensitive spot between your legs. A soft moan broke from your lips. Instantly, his hand clamped over your mouth.

"Shh, sweetheart," he cautioned, his breath hot against your lips. "What if someone hears us? We wouldn't want to get caught, now would we?"

With a sly smirk, Gojo pulled back, granting you a moment to catch your breath. He sat upright. "Seems I can't trust you to keep quiet."

Your heart raced as you watched him, unable to form a coherent response. Gojo had a way of leaving you breathless and wanting more, and you couldn't deny that you were drawn to the dangerous game he was playing.

Eventually, Gojo stood up, casually brushing off grass from his clothes. "Break's over," he said, glancing at his watch. "I've got a lecture in 15 minutes."

He extended a hand toward you, offering to help you up. You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Standing close, your eyes locked once more, though your gaze briefly dropped, noticing something.

"You can't go lecture like that."

Looking down, Gojo sighed. "Yeah, it always happens with you. Don't worry, I'll just remember your clumsy attempt to draw blood from Okkotsu's arm. That should take care of it."

Oh, how funny.

"By the way, we're starting the surgical practice again tomorrow, right after your last class," he added. "Wear something nice and easy to get rid of."

─── ·✧· ───

You pulled on your surgical gloves, positioning yourself in front of today's human brain test subject. The sun was beginning to set, casting a crimson glow through the windows and onto the sterile surfaces of the lab.

You went straight into action. You stabilized the tissue as Gojo proceeded to implant the neurotransplant into the cerebral cortex. You breathed slowly, trying to keep your hands as still as possible.

You and Gojo worked together in silence. Every muscle tensed. Gojo successfully placed the neuroimplant in the intended location in the brain. However, when it came time to test the connection between the implant and the biometric arm that the patient would eventually use, something went wrong.

The neural signals fluctuated, failing to align with the anticipated patterns. After double-checking the connections and recalibrating the equipment, you traced the issue back to the placement of the implant.

"Looks like the placement is slightly off," you said, examining the data on the screen. "The implant is a bit too far to the right. That's why we're not getting a proper signal."

Gojo sighed. "A fraction of a millimeter off, and it makes all the difference," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the brain before him. "Let's redo this part. We need to make sure we get this right."

You retrieved a fresh brain from the lab's refrigerator. You sure were spending these brains like you get them at the supermarket.

But Gojo wanted perfection. And so did you.

You made the first incision, exposing the underlying area of the brain where the neuroimplant would be placed. Gojo followed with another incision, providing access to the targeted cortical area as you stabilized the tissue. Gojo then carefully placed the neuroimplant in place.

You watched Gojo closely. It was then that you noticed a subtle tremble in his hand.

"Gojo, your hand..."

He glanced at his hand briefly. "It's nothing to worry about," he said. "Just a slight tremor. It'll pass."

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. You watched him, noticing the small beads of sweat that formed on his forehead.

"Gojo, if your hand isn't ready, we should—"

"I know. Just give me a second," he cut you off.

Despite his words, Gojo's hand continued to tremble more noticeably as the procedure carried on. The strain on his face became more evident.

At a crucial point in the procedure, when precision was essential, Gojo's hand shook erratically. He tried to steady it, but the tremor proved too severe. After a moment's hesitation, he abruptly withdrew his hand. He muttered a curse under his breath.

He tore off his surgical gloves, tossing them into the trash with unnecessary force. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the otherwise quiet lab.

You watched him, the room enveloped in stillness.

Gojo leaned heavily against the lab counter, his head hanging low. After a minute, he ran his hands through his hair and met your gaze. "Let's switch roles. I'll take care of the parts I can do with one hand, and you'll handle the critical aspects."

What?

"You mean I should try the implant placement?"

"Yeah," Gojo confirmed. "You've got steady hands, and we just need to ensure it's placed correctly. My hand will heal by the time of the actual surgery."

"I'm not sure, Gojo."

He walked over to you. "We'll need to practice," he continued. "I want to make sure we have every step down perfectly."

"Okay, then let's try it."

So, you prepared again, this time with you in the lead and Gojo at your side, standing close. You glanced at his hand. "Are you sure you can manage with just one hand?"

He smirked. "One hand is all I need to get the job done."

You didn't give him the satisfaction on answering to that.

You began the procedure.

"You're doing well," he said as you carefully maneuvered the tools. His voice close and calm. Every so often, you caught Gojo flexing his injured hand, working through the discomfort. Yet, he remained focused on guiding you through the process. "A steeper angle gives you better access... yes, perfect."

The session progressed more smoothly than you had anticipated. As you completed the practice run, a sense of accomplishment washed over you. You had successfully completed the implant placement.

"We make a good team," Gojo remarked. "I knew you could do it."

You found yourself smiling. "Thanks to your guidance, professor."

"Let's try again just to make sure."

You both prepared for another round of practice. As you repeated the procedure, you became acutely aware of Gojo inching closer. His focus seemed to shift away from the procedure to something other.

"Gojo what are you doing?"

Suddenly, you felt him lean in closer from behind. His breath was warm on the back of your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You could feel him subtly inhaling, as if taking in your scent.

"Did you change your shampoo?"

His question caught you off guard, causing a momentary lapse in your focus. "Ehm, yeah."

"Hm. Change it back. I liked the other one better."

You cleared your throat, trying to ease the flutter in your stomach. "We should really focus on—"

Without warning, he reached out and took the surgical tools from your hands. "We've practiced enough for today."

You turned around to face him. "We could still use some more time to—"

Before you could finish your sentence, he leaned in, closing the space between you. "I think there are other things we should be focusing on right now, wouldn't you agree?" he said, his voice a husky whisper.

He set the surgical tools down on the table behind you. Gojo inched even closer, his lips hovering over yours. "Sometimes, first-year," he whispered, his breath mingling with yours, "—it's important to know when to take a break and enjoy the moment."

In a fluid motion, he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the lab table. His hands were planted firmly on either side of you. Your pulse quickened as you looked up into his crystal blue eyes, unable to tear your eyes away from his.

"Hard work should be rewarded," he went on. "Don't you think so?"

You couldn't find the words to respond, your breaths growing shallow. He reached up, his fingers grasping your hair at the nape of your neck. His tilted your head back, exposing the delicate skin of your neck to his gaze.

"Tell me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck, "where should I start?" His mouth met your skin, planting deliberate, slow kisses along your neck. Your breath hitched.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. His fingers began to explore the skin underneath your shirt. The sensation of his touch was like fire, sparking a heat within you that you hadn't known before.

He trailed his lips down to your collarbone, each kiss a question. "Should I start here?"

Your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him even closer. The realization that you were crossing a line was there, in the back of your mind, but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming need to be close to him.

Breathless, hearts racing, you both surrendered to the moment. He pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. In an instant, his lips found your collarbone once more, trailing down to your chest. "Or here?" His warm, wet breath brushed against your skin. His fingers dug into your hips.

"Gojo," you breathed out, unable to say anything other than his name.

"What is it, sweetheart? Tell me, where do you need it?" He placed soft, lingering kisses down your chest until he reached your breasts. The sensation sent a wave of warmth through you as he kissed the skin right above the hem of your bra.

Then, in one fluid motion, Gojo knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours. He lifted one of your legs, placing it over his shoulder. With his hand, he pushed the other away, spreading your legs apart. Unable to support yourself on the table any longer, you leaned back.

He continued, placing kisses over the fabric of your jeans, from your knee up to your thighs. "How do you like it here?"

He persisted in his journey up to your sensitive spot, mere inches away from it, his face nestled between your legs. "Tell me, should I start here, sweetheart?"

Overwhelmed, you leaned back further on the table, resting on your elbows for support. Then, accidentally, you pushed the glass container holding the brain, causing it to tip over. The preservative liquid spilled across the table, drenching both of you. You sat up abruptly.

Gojo pulled back. "Did you just spill brain fluid on us?"

"I guess I did," you admitted, still trying to process what had just happened. Here you were, in the middle of a lab, drenched in preservation fluid from a human brain, right before... well, you'd rather not think about it.

Gojo stood up, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Well, that's one way to cool down." He offered you a hand to help you stand up properly. "We should call it quits for today."

You stood, glancing down at your drenched jeans, still feeling the remnants of his kisses and touches on your heated skin.

He leaned in. "You know, if you wanted to get me wet, there are far more enjoyable ways to do it." Then he backed away with a playful smirk.

Back home, you tossed your shampoo bottle into the trash.

─── ·✧· ───

The day of the surgery had finally arrived.

You methodically scrubbed your hands and arms, the sterile scent of the hospital soap filling the room. Through the window, you could see the young patient being prepared in the operating room. He smiled nervously as the nurse inserted the anesthesia needle into his arm.

Is he more nervous or are you? Perhaps you.

The observation gallery was filling up with hospital staff and the usual press, setting up cameras to document the high-stakes surgery. The weight of their gazes, even from a distance, was palpable, intensifying the pressure.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Gojo hadn't arrived yet. Your heart rate quickened slightly. You reminded yourself that Gojo's hand had been functioning perfectly in the days leading up to the surgery. There was nothing to worry about, right?

Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm yourself. As you continued your preparations, the door to the washing room opened, and Geto stepped in.

"Geto," you greeted him, trying to mask your surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to wish you luck," he replied with an easy smile. "But I guess you're so prepared you won't need any."

"Thank you."

"I'll be cheering on you from the observation gallery."

You nodded. After a moment of silence, you said, "Do you know where Gojo is? He should have been here by now."

Geto's brow furrowed. "Hm? I'm not sure, actually. He didn't mention anything to me about being late."

Your stomach turned. It was unlike Gojo to be late, especially on a day like this. "I need to find him," you said, removing your gloves.

"Should I come with you?"

"No, I'll be fine."

You hurried out of the washing room, your mind racing. Where could Gojo be? Was it because of his hand? Or something else? You quickened your pace, moving through the corridors of the hospital, checking every possible place where Gojo could be.

Pulling out your phone, you called Gojo's number. But he didn't answer. You tried calling again, each ring echoing your growing anxiety. Still, silence.

You reached his office. The door was shut and no one answered when you knocked. Taking a deep breath, you cautiously opened it and peered into the dimly lit room.

The blinds were drawn, casting the office in near darkness. Your eyes adjusted, and that's when you saw him—Gojo, slumped against the wall, his legs sprawled on the floor, head tilted back.

Your heart sank as you saw him.

No.

This can't be real.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. You knelt in front of him. Gently, you cupped his pale face in your hands, urging him to look at you. His usually sharp eyes were unfocused as they struggled to fix on you.

No doubt.

"Satoru," you whispered, his first name escaping your lips. There was no need to address him by his last name anymore, was there?

Not anymore.

His slightly glassy eyes flickered, showing a glimmer of recognition, but he seemed distant, lost in a world of his own—clouded by whatever substance he had taken.

The realization hit you hard.

"Satoru," you called his name again, more urgently this time.

His lips parted, an attempt at speech, but only a slurred, indistinct sound emerged. It was painful to see him like this, to witness the downfall of a person you respected and cared so deeply for. Your skin run cold with fear.

"Fuck, Satoru what are you doing?" you asked, your fingers tenderly stroking his cheek. You needed answers, but more than that, you needed to understand why.

Why?

Why today?

Why Satoru?

You shook him slightly, trying to get any response from him. "Satoru, answer me!"

His focus sharpened slightly, and he murmured, "God, you look so beautiful today."

You shook your head. "What are you saying?"

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm you. Right now, you needed to be strong—for him, for the patient waiting in the OR, and for the team depending on you both.

"We need to call this surgery off," you said as you tried to stand up but his grip on your wrist halted you.

"No, wait!" he said. "We can't call it off."

"What?"

"There's too much at stake. If we don't go through with it today, the project will be dead. The funding, everything we've worked for, will be lost."

"Are you insane? You're fucking high, you can't operate!"

He tilted his head up to meet your gaze. "You can."

Gojo's words hit you like a ton of bricks. "You are insane." You stared at him. "I can't do that."

"You're prepared for this," he countered, gaining a semblance of clarity in his speech. "You know the procedure inside and out. You've practically done it already."

"Don't ask this of me, Satoru," you pleaded, feeling the weight of the responsibility he was trying to place on your shoulders.

Shakily, he stood up, his hands gripping your shoulders. "You can do it," he insisted. "I know you can and I'll be there to assist you."

"Geto is also here, he should do it. "

"Suguru hasn't trained for this specific approach. He won't be able to do it without harming the patient. But you can."

"Then we call it off!" you raised your voice, feeling trapped.

"No, you should do it. You need to do this."

You stared at him, lost for words. The intensity in Gojo's eyes was undeniable, his grip on your shoulders firm yet pleading. "You are the only one who can do this now. And I'll be there to guide you. You have the skills, the knowledge. You've done it before, you can do it again."

"This is insane. You can't assist in your condition," you whispered, holding back tears.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll be ready. I swear."

You studied his face, the redness in his eyes betraying his current state. "Fuck, Satoru. Why are you making me do this?"

"You can do it, I know you can."

Silence.

You nodded.

Stepping into the OR your heart raced. Sweat broke out on your forehead. You moved as if in a trance, the reality of the situation numbing your senses. You and Gojo scrubbed up, then walked into the OR where the patient lay prepped and waiting.

You took your position at the operating table where Satoru was supposed to stand. You could feel the weight of numerous eyes on you; could hear them whispering, but no one dared to say anything. Not with Satoru Gojo beside you. No one dared to question him.

Your eyes darted to the gallery. You saw Geto rise from his seat, his brows furrowed as he stepped closer to the glass in front of him.

"Ignore him," Gojo whispered beside you. "Focus on what's in front of you."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you turned your attention back to the patient, the ridiculous young patient lying open skull in front of you.

Then you held out your hand to Satoru. "Scalpel, please."

─── ·✧· ───

The clapping around you was a distant sound, barely reaching your ears as you stepped back from the operating table. The surgery was a success. Stress and adrenaline abruptly left your body, leaving you feeling suddenly empty and nauseous.

You run over to the corner of the OR, barely making it to the trash bin before succumbing to the overwhelming urge to vomit. Your body shook with each heave.

The whole room suddenly fell silent.

After vomiting into the trash bin, your body shaking from the sudden release of tension, you pushed your way out of the OR. You heard Satoru call your name, but chose to ignore it. You needed space; you needed to get away from him.

You rushed through the sterile corridors of the hospital. Finally reaching a bathroom, you locked yourself in, pressing your back against the door as you fought to steady your breathing.

The clinical smell of the bathroom was sickening.

The sterile exterior felt sickening.

Everything felt sickening in that moment.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the remnants of nausea and regain your composure.

Fuck, you whispered.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Your hands clenched tightly around the edge of the sink, knuckles white with tension. Tears brimmed in your eyes, threatening to spill over, but you willed them back.

Why did it feel like your heart was being torn to shreds?

Your breaths came in rapid succession, shallow and uneven, as panic threatened to take over. But you couldn't let it. Not now. Falling apart was not an option. You forced yourself to take slow, deliberate breaths.

Inhale. Exhale.

With one final, deep breath, you pushed open the bathroom door. Pulling out your phone, you called Geto without hesitation. "Where are you?" you demanded, cutting through any pleasantries.

"In my office."

You hung up and marched straight to his office, pushing the door open without bothering to knock.

"When did you want to tell me he's a fucking addict?" You yelled at him.

Geto stood up, his hands planted firmly on his desk. "When did you want to tell me you're fucking him?" he shot back, his voice equally furious.

You didn't even spend the breath to correct him.

You approached him. "I didn't know my love life concerns you that much."

"Don't you get it? He's your professor, he's lecturing you, you're working on this project together that could shape your whole career. What was that even about just now? Why did you do the surgery?"

"Because Gojo was high, damn it! He was fucking high!" Your frustration boiled over, your hands tugging at your hair as you paced the room.

"You should have called off the surgery! What were you thinking?"

"Huh?" You turned to him. "What I was thinking? What were you thinking? Why didn't you tell me? You knew, didn't you?"

He sank back into his chair, tilting his head back as he let out a heavy sigh. "I thought he had it under control."

Was he for real?

"Under control?" you hissed. "Since when do addicts have their addiction under control?"

The room fell silent.

"You should have told me, Geto," you said as you sat down on the chair in from of his desk.

Geto leaned forward, rummaging through his coat pocket. He retrieved a cigarette and lighter. As he lit it, the flame briefly illuminated his face in a warm, orange glow. The cigarette's tip crackled softly, the smoke curling upwards in lazy spirals.

"Smoking in the office now?"

As he took a slow drag, the cigarette's cherry end burned brighter, and he inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. A sense of calm seemed to wash over him, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke into the room.

"Does it matter anymore?" he said as he took another drag from his cigarette. He leaned back, the creak of the leather chair punctuating the silence. His dark eyes were fixed on you. Wisps of smoke curled around him.

"When did it start? With Gojo?" you asked him.

His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he continued to study you. Then his eyes drifted away for a moment.

"It started back in our university days," he finally said. "Satoru was always the charismatic one, the life of every gathering. Back then, it was just for fun, a way to let off steam, to unwind after exam periods."

The ember of his cigarette glowed brighter with each drag, casting a faint light on his face. "But over time it got worse. The occasional use became more frequent, and he lost control. He started needing the drugs just to get through the day. On good days, he could mask it, but on the bad ones..."

He trailed off.

"He tried to quit, to get clean, but it's... he developed such a high tolerance for it that he could easily take drugs and still function. Eventually, he became an expert at hiding his addiction."

Your stomach tightened. The truth felt like a heavy stone on your chest, and it refused to go away. Then your phone rang with a message. Startled, you reached for it. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw the name.

[5:43 PM] Gojo: Where are you?

"Message from your lover?" Geto asked dryly, rising from his seat to get something out of a cupboard.

You tucked your phone back into your pocket. "He wants to know where I am."

"Of course he wants to know." Geto remarked, returning to his desk with a bottle and two glasses. He poured a rich, dark liquid into the glasses, sliding one towards you.

"I don't really drink," you said, observing him take a sip of his whiskey.

"What a shame."

"What happens to the project now?"

Geto laughed. "The project? It was a full success, wasn't it? The neurotranplant worked. The surgery worked. The media will love the story of a young, brilliant surgeon performing such a groundbreaking procedure. They'll be even more fascinated when they find out you're still a student."

"You find this amusing?"

"Not really. It's my project, after all," he replied, taking another sip. He set his glass down, his gaze meeting yours. "They'll want you to lead more surgeries like this one, to further validate the technique."

"I don't think I can do that again. Just the thought of it makes me sick."

Your phone vibrated again.

[5:48 PM] Gojo: Where the hell are you?

[5:48 PM] Gojo: Talk to me.

You stared at the screen.

"You want to go to him?"

"No." Without hesitation, you reached for the glass of liquor, tilted your head back, and swallowed the drink in one fluid motion. The alcohol burned in your throat. "I want to leave."

"Should I drive you home?"

"No, I'm fine," you said, setting the empty glass back on the desk with a slight clink.

─── ·✧· ───

After leaving Geto's office, you made your way to the elevator, lost in thought. The doors slid open, and you were jolted back to reality by the sight of Satoru leaning against the wall inside the elevator. His eyes looked up at you.

No way.

Before you could react or step aside, the people behind you, caught up in their own hurry, pushed forward, shoving you into the elevator. The confined space forced you to stand close to Satoru, your back to him.

The elevator began its descent. The people around you chattered, but you felt that the silence between you and Satoru was louder. You could feel his presence only centimeters away. The close quarters left no room for avoidance, and you were acutely aware of every breath Satoru took.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity, each second stretching out as you struggled to maintain your composure.

"You smell like smoke," Satoru observed quietly.

"Are you still high?" you retorted under your breath, not turning to face him.

"I'm good."

"You're good?" you echoed. "How can you even say that after what happened today?"

"You're angry."

"Angry is an understatement," you replied, turning slightly.

He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose. "Did you drink?" he asked, a bit too loudly. "Are you drunk?"

"It's none of your business, Satoru."

As the elevator stopped and its doors slid open, you saw your chance to escape and quickly maneuvered through the crowd. You wanted to put as much distance between you and him as possible.

The lobby of the hospital was a blur as you rushed through it, Satoru's voice calling after you, but you ignored him. You wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

You pushed through the exit doors and stepped outside, only to be greeted by a heavy downpour. The rain drenched you almost instantly, but you hardly noticed.

His footsteps splashed behind you. "Talk to me!" he called out, his voice barely audible over the sound of the pouring rain.

You quickened your pace, the rain streaming down your face. Your heart ached as you tried to distance yourself from the situation, from Satoru, from everything.

"Enough of this crap already! Talk to me!"

"Leave me alone, Satoru!"

"Then just tell me!" he implored, his tone desperate. "Tell me, will it ever stop?"

You halted, but didn't turn to face him. The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair against your face. "What do you mean?" you called over the downpour.

"Wanting you—every damn second of every fucking day. I don't think I can take it anymore."

His words cut through the sound of the rain, raw and unguarded. For a moment, you were speechless, his confession hanging heavily in the air between you. You slowly turned to face him, seeing in his eyes a tumult of emotions that mirrored your own.

"Satoru—," your voice barely rose above the rain.

"I can't ignore it," he said, taking a step towards you, closing the gap. "I've tried, believe me, I've tried. But it's always there—you are always there."

Your heart pounded against your chest as he stopped mere inches away from you. Raindrops trickled down his face, cascaded down his striking white hair, which clung to his forehead and temples.

"So tell me," he urged. "Will it ever stop? Because I don't know if I can take it much longer."

You were both soaked to the skin, standing in the middle of the downpour, the world around you blurring into insignificance.

"It's killing me, pretending not to want you is killing me," he said quietly.

He stepped closer. His hands reached out, gently cupping your face.

Then, he kissed you.

Without warning, without permission.

Without even deciding to do it, simply because he couldn't not do it.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, molding to their contours as if they had been crafted to fit together. The world around you faded away, leaving only the sensation of his warm breath mingling with yours, the electrifying touch of his fingers on your cheek, and the intoxicating taste of his mouth.

Your hands found their way to his rain-soaked shirt, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, and you responded in kind, as if trying to convey all the unspoken words and feelings that had lingered between you for far too long.

As the rain poured down, you tasted rainwater mixed with his unique flavor, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. You finally gave in to the undeniable pull that had drawn you together, allowing it to consume you completely.

Because that's how it felt. Satoru Gojo consumed you.

His tongue grazed your lower lip, seeking permission to explore further, and you willingly granted access. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth, caressing and teasing, his urgency and intensity increasing with each passing second.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. Your bodies pressed closer together. His hands roamed your body with a newfound boldness, tracing the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and the nape of your neck. Each touch sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but respond in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair.

But as you kissed, the reality of what had just happened crashed over you like the waves of the rainstorm around you. In that fleeting moment, you hesitated, and Satoru pulled back.

Separated now, both of you stood there, breathless and drenched by the rain. He lowered his forehead to rest against yours. His arms remained loosely around you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, it's... don't speak."

You both stood there under the relentless downpour, the rain streaming down your face, mirroring the tears that had started to well up in your eyes. Satoru reached up to tenderly brush away the tears that slipped down your cheeks.

The silence stretched between you, filled with words you were too afraid to say.

Then you pushed away and turned.

You walked away.

He didn't follow you.

─── ·✧· ───

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

x a/n: let the angsty and hurtful part of the story begin haha. as always thank you for reading ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved

#gojo saturo #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #professor satoru gojo #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo #jjk x you #jjk

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freyito · 7 months

Note

Can you write HDC where Smoke, Kaui Liang and Bihan take care of their girlfriend who's sick? :)

of course! i'm gonna make this for a gender neutral reader tho, since i have a lot of female asks! this might be one of my favorite tropes

cw: fluff!!!, Bi-Han's just a little bit distant, proofread

ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴ ᴋᴜᴇɪ ᴛʀɪᴏ + ᴀ ꜱɪᴄᴋ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ

Tomas...

worries over you. He's by your side, 24/7, even if you insist he'll get sick too. He doesn't care, he wants to make sure your okay. Tomas is at your beck and call, making sure your comfortable. Feeling cold? He's got three blankets picked out for you, take one, take all. Want a warm bath? Already drawn, he's even got some florals, candles, and soaks picked out. Thirsty? He's got some green tea already brewed. Or, if you don't like tea, he has some orange juice, or water if you so choose. Tomas has some soup for you, too. Česnečka, a Czech garlic soup. Something he says will cure anything. He'll even sing you a Czech lullaby every night, if you ask nicely. Eventually, when you recover from your cold, and Tomas inevitably ends up falling ill, you'll be there to give him the same treatment.

Bi-Han...

doesn't quite know what to do. Yes, he's worried, but amongst being the grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, and his cold demeanor, he believes he doesn't have much time to worry over you. It is only when Liu Kang- of all people- pushes him in the right direction. With his trust over the Lin Kuei in his brothers hand, he never leaves your bedside. Unless you ask, of course. Bi-Han is very soft with you, and really, all he wants to do is hold you. He knows he can't, but it's kind of hard to hold himself back! While he doesn't know what to do, he will do anything you ask of him, short of kissing you. Bi-Han, unlike Tomas, has some restraint, and he'd rather have you save your strength, and not have to worry about him after your sick. Ask, and ye shall receive. Down to the very specifics. As many blankets as you want, as many pillows as you want, the exact temperature of your bath, what herbs could make you feel better, how to carry you, etc. And, as much as Bi-Han wants you to rest, ultimately, he'll end up giving into those pretty eyes of yours, and go on a walk with you. It's okay, though, the fresh air will do you some good.

Kuai Liang...

dotes over you. He's afraid of you being sick, even if it is just a common cold. Somehow, seeing you weak and bedridden makes his stomach churn. He's worried sick. It's only when Bi-Han tells Kuai Liang to be with you that he fully devotes himself to your care. He is very physically present, he has to be touching you somewhere. Mainly, he keeps your pinkies linked, even in the slightest. The minute he was freed of his duties he had gotten you everything you could possibly need. He has so many teas chosen for you, and even more spicy foods. He wants to make sure you eat well, but Kuai Liang can't say no to you, so when you ask for a cookie, a slice of cake, something sweet that you maybe should avoid, he's still going to get it for you. He will always carry you to your bath, too. And wash your hair. As long as whatever he's doing helps you feel better in any way, he doesn't mind. And afterwards, he'll put new, clean sheets on your bed. Kuai Liang doesn't give himself much room to fail, much less to fail you. So, when you finally regain your strength, it is almost as if Kuai Liang is a new man, more focused and lethal than ever.

#⁺◟freyito #mortal kombat 1 x reader #bi han x reader #sub zero x reader #smoke x reader #tomas vrbada x reader #scorpion x reader #kuai liang x reader

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pupcuck · 5 months

Text

ROTTEN LUCK !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. smut, kidnapping, leon is like mentally gone icl, references to past assault and trauma, non-con, manipulation, suicidal thoughts/reference to an attempt, general leon self destructive behaviour, physical abuse, power dynamics, throatfucking, choking, breath play, somno, 1 instance of drugging, unmentioned age gap, anal, he puts duct tape on your pussy ok just once promise it’s not bad, religious references, 1 mention of vomit and piss not in a sexual way, slight misogyny, panic attack

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

anyway, please ignore typos :3 rbs and feedback is very appreciated :3 my medical knowledge sucks, so keep in mind that all of this is off LMFAO crossposted to ao3 (user clitkiss)

two

Lucky. Leon hates that word. He wasn’t lucky to get out of Raccoon City, he was just barely capable, you have to be unlucky to get into that situation in the first place. You’re a lucky guy, Redfield had told him once, Chris not Claire. Claire isn’t daft. And Leon wonders what is so lucky about him. He’s forty-six and all he’s got is his trusty Matilda, his mother’s old Bible, and a failing liver. His luck is preordained by God and it’s a total sham.

Leon Kennedy’s the one who showed up to drill sessions smelling like sweat and cock. Kennedy’s the one that rolls over onto his front and takes it like a good doggy. Kennedy’s green behind the ears, pretty in the face, and that don’t fare well in a boot camp full of men twice his size. Kennedy’s the one brushing shoulders with the President, got the USA’s most prized dick in his mouth and everyone knows that he wouldn’t dare bite down. Golden boy Leon fucking Scott Kennedy would just go ahead and use his tongue to clean up Graham’s ballsack. And you’re calling that lucky? Bullshit.

The DSO’s modus operandi is strikingly similar to that of the BSAA. He is but a cog in a well oiled machine. There’s one difference, not a dog tag to his name. If he dies, then he’ll die nameless, and he’ll be cremated by something nuclear, and it’ll all be for nothing. Ain’t that just the luckiest thing you’ve ever heard?

He has tried to kill himself once or twice or thrice. He lost count after the fifth. The gun jammed once, a bad joke. Left Matilda rendered useless. Was meant to be him, not her. And if Leon’s being honest, every day is an avid attempt, as in the drinking and praying his liver gives out. Once he managed to get halfway there. Doesn’t remember a lot. Just blood. Lots of blood. Why couldn’t you be quiet about your grief, Leon? Claire’s expression had asked, how I am, how Chris is, how Jill is.

‘Cause he couldn’t. He had to go ahead and splatter his grief all over the linoleum floor. Maybe then someone would find him, and they’d mourn him, and they’d feel sorry for him ‘cause he’d pitied himself enough. Leon told her a joke, yapping away like one of those butterscotch lapdogs. Claire said that in South Korea you’re allowed to snip a dog's vocal cords to stop them from barking. Lucky I’m not in South Korea then. She handed him an orange prescription bottle with his name scrawled on it, and that was that. They didn’t speak for a few months.

Once upon a time Sherry needed him, now he needs her more. Needs her to laugh at his jokes, she’s the only one that does. And he needs her to tell him, I love you, Leon. She’s the only one that says that. No one puts up with him like Sherry does. She puts up with him in the way most women do their fathers. Love their dads unconditionally and nothing can ever fix that. Terrible illness that is. So, yeah, Leon Scott Kennedy is far from lucky. Lonely? Oh, for sure. God. He’s so lonely he feels sorry for himself. That’s one thing Leon has always been good at though. Lending himself a shoulder ‘cause no one else will.

His fingers brush yours in the record store. The hairs on the back of his neck stand. Jesus. Is it getting that bad? Leon’s been without a fuck for a few months and he’s already itching. That’s a new low. When Leon looks up to catch sight of who made his dick swell with their fingertips, he catches your eye briefly. A mousy little thing. Easily spooked it seems by the nervous smile you give him.

You’re on the phone, I don’t know what he likes anymore, dad, yeah—I’m trying to find it—Yes, I know who sang Sex and Candy, dad, Kurt Cobain right? Is that the one he likes? Dumbass. No, I’m not wrong, could you put mom on the phone—Hi mom, yes, I know he’s my brother, mom—Ever since he turned fifteen he stopped talking to me properly—I don’t know what she thinks, mom—

A mommy, daddy, a brother, a sister too he assumes. You’re what they call lucky. Nasty undertone you’re using with your parents. If Leon’s mom was still around he’d talk to her so sweet. She’d tell him to pray and Leon wouldn’t resist. Alright, Ma, Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus Tecum— then his voice would trail off, and he’d pretend to mouth the rest of the hymn ‘cause he remembers fuck all.

He wants to knock you around. Shake you till your brains scramble. Wants you to flinch even when he’s being nice. Leon’s nostrils flare when you raise your voice in the slightest, even if it’s playful, it’s plain rude. How dare you? He can’t even begin to fathom how incredibly lucky you are. The thought crosses Leon’s mind once, twice, thrice. Just how suicide did that day back in September. If you can kidnap the President’s daughter from her bustling college campus, throw her over your shoulder like salt, why can’t you kidnap Miss Nobody from a street corner in D.C?

Your figure is distinguished by a single, flickering street lamp. He sees your shadow. Recognises the silhouette by the shapely legs and how your belted coat flares out to create a dramatic hourglass, Leon’s got a good eye for detail. Oh, it’s kinda sexy watching you in the spotlight, like a makeshift cabaret show, go on babe, bust out the flapper dress, he knows his stuff, he read Gatsby back in high school. He listens out for the tap of your heeled boots, click-clack, click-clack, there you are, you don’t even know what’s about to happen, do you? And it really is that easy. Just like throwin’ salt over your shoulder.

Temazepam, loprazolam, lormetazepam, diazepam, nitrazepam. Some melatonin too. Magnesium’s supposed to help with insomnia. How’s he supposed to know what your body reacts to best? Leon’s not your fuckin’ GP. Chloroform does the trick for everyone. Should’ve invited you out for drinks and roofied you instead.

Leon had gone for an old-fashioned method, listen, he was desperate. He doesn’t usually resort to such bruteish tactics unlike the older Redfield, not that Chris would use a morsel of his strength to harm a lady, but it had to be done. Yes, he choked you out. No, he’s not proud of it. He’s actually pretty disappointed in his lack of preparation. Oh, cut yourself some slack, Kennedy, it’s your first time kidnapping someone, and it was a heat of the moment type thing. To Leon’s dismay, that doesn’t last long, duh, he should know better.

While you regain sluggish consciousness on his couch, Leon’s tearing through his kitchen cabinets for anything to settle you down. Ah. That’s right. Ketamine. Ain’t it horse tranquilliser? What’s that doing here? Honestly, he’s got to stop raiding the infirmary for all they’ve got. A high enough dosage will knock you out for sure. If it kills you, then so be it. Beer for guys, wine for the ladies, and Ketamine for random sluts he picks up on street corners.

You’re blinking to clear your hazy vision, feeling around your crushed windpipe to assess the damage, he leans over you like a nurse from hell. The needle breaks your skin easily, so tender, before you have the chance to kick up a fuss, your eyelids turn to lead and close like a toy babydoll’s do when you lean them back.

Fifteen to twenty minutes, google says. Leon gets down to business, strips you of your clothing, takes you to his room, throws you on the king-sized bed that’s warmed only by him. He kept your panties on. They’re light blue and sensible briefs. A buzzer rings out in his head, bzzzt, boring. A million bitches in D.C. and he picked out the most vanilla one. Just his Kennedy luck ain’t it.

One minute. Leon presses his nose to the fabric of your panties, sniffs like a pig does in its trough, isn’t that just the sweetest smell? Fresh cunt. He licks up the print of your pussy, tongue landing on the hardness of your clit.

Five minutes. With your panties soaked with Leon’s spit, he decides to move ‘em to the side, and he groans in delight when he parts your cushioned lips to find that you’re stickier than toffee pudding, drooly cunt reactive to the pads of his fingers, to the tip of his tongue. He pushes back the hood of your bud, gives it a kiss, then another.

Ten minutes. He’s opened you up, gaped you around three thick fingers, Jesus, you’re so tight. It’s like your cunt’s vacuum sealed. Leon’s fingers prod at the squishy opening of your cervix, his thumb circles your clit, presses down like a button and he’s rewarded with another gush of slick. Beer on tap.

You rouse from your forced slumber at fourteen minutes. Huh. He’ll have to up the dosage next time. “Hi there, sleepin’ beauty.” Leon says in a rather cloying voice, amping up the sweetness when in reality he is less than fond of you. The lucky girl. He strokes your head soothingly, hovers over you to keep you in place. The panic sets in almost immediately, flailing limbs, asinine attempts at sentences that crawl up your throat and spill over. Who are you, get off me, get off me, please. What did I do? I’m sorry, please, let me go, let me go, please, I’ll do anything. Albeit your words are slurred, Leon chooses not to hear you.

“Aintcha just the sweetest thing?” He cups your cheeks, gaze so gentle it’s disarming. “I opened you up, didn’t wanna break ya, just wanted you to wake up before we got it on, I’m a real gentleman, you see.” Before he rapes you, he makes sure to ask: you got a rubber by any chance, sweetheart? Oh, and you don’t like that, you really don’t. ‘Cause your face falls fast like a drop tower ride.

The chance to scream is lost on you when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, pushes them down your burning throat till you choke and drool in an unflattering manner. Your jaw is too lax to clamp down on him. Leon takes this opportunity to smear his leaky, fat tip over your folds, pushes past the barriers of resistance and slides into your pre-gaped cunt. Lucky bitch. Lucky fucking bitch. Getting yourself a piece of Leon S. Kennedy’s dick. He reserves that for only the finest ladies, aka any girl that has a nice set of tits and dark hair, greying roots are a new preference.

He’s fully sheathed inside of you, head rubbing painfully against your cervix. Bruising it from the look of discomfort on your face as you make stupid-sounding noises around his fingers. “Fuck, yeah, that hits the spot.” When’s the last time Leon had his way with a girl, wanton fucking, pulling hair, slapping— they all want it soft and sappy these days. And so did he up until a certain point. Up until he tried to kill himself maybe. Something must’ve flipped in his brain, now he’s overcome with the need to mess your pretty face up.

Leon’s forehead presses to your clammy one, your sweat is salty on his tongue when he kisses your cheek. Slightly sour scent, ugh, what’s he saying? Acting like he’s a fear-smelling B.O.W or some shit. Fuck off, Kennedy. His hips aim upwards when your body shifts due to the thrashing you’re doing, with each thrust he bottoms out with a wet squelch, rolls his hips into you at a force that knocks any chance of breath out of you.

“If you were a good girl,” Leon smiles, all teeth. They glint in the muddy darkness of his room, black-out curtains drawn so not even the moon gets to see what he’s doing to you, “then I’d be fuckin’ you real slow, real nice, rub that little clit till you came.” Your wrists are both cuffed within his grip, pinned over your head as he drives into you, as if his intention is to tear straight through you.

The heat in his gut uncoils, but he’s timed himself well enough, pulls out ‘cause god forbid he knocked you up. Knowing Leon’s luck he’d manage it. Then he puts his cock in your mouth, “I got some pliers out back.” He says in warning as he jerks the shaft and your lips hesitantly close around the tip when he gives you a mean look. Total lie by the way, no matter how abnormal Leon is he does not own a pair of tooth-pulling pliers. Shoots his load down your throat, you splutter and push at his abdomen to get him off.

He pulls out in his own time, lays beside you. All of his chakras are aligned. Apparently there’s seven, but Leon’s only got two. And they’re entirely dependent on whether he’s sucked and fucked till he’s thoroughly satisfied. By god he is. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. That’s the rest of it right. He remembers now. You might just be his saving grace, Lucky Girl. His very own Sancta Maria, Mater dei. Damn, you hear that, ma? Leon’s got it down to a T. Maybe some more pussy will get him singing out the rest of the prayer. He can get rid of that statuette on the mantle, swap it out with you.

He doesn't get a word out by the time you’re vomiting a vile mixture of acidic yellow and his seed down the front of your chest. Retching as you choke on the gift he’d given you.

Leon takes you to the bathroom, forces you into the shower cubicle as he sprays you down, not even waiting for the water to go warm. “Dry yourself off,” he gestures mildly to where there’s a few towels stored.

You don’t come back out of the bathroom for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Don’t even answer when he knocks. Goddammit, Leon. Leave your kidnap victim alone in the room with all the razors, why don’t you? Fucking idiot. When he opens the door, you’re huddled in the corner by the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl and sitting in a puddle of your own piss. Stupid fucking baby. Is this what kids are like these days? When he was your age he made it out of Raccoon City alive, and no one made it out of there. No one lived to tell that story. And you’re here pissing your pants ‘cause he’s given you a nice, hard fucking? He pimp slaps you so hard your teeth clatter.

It takes two weeks for his Lucky Girl to be broken in. Not as long as he expected, so he’s pleased. And when Leon’s pleased, he’s nice. So today you get some screen time. You’re curled into his side, the way a baby bird does under its mother’s wing, squinting at his sixty-five inch TV, egregious really, who needs a screen that big? He’s flipping periodically through the channels whenever an ad break comes on. The 7.45PM news is on. He settles on that and you watch mindlessly, no objections.

The speech blurs like white noise to him, Leon’s not focused until your picture pops up on screen, and he just turns to you with this shit-eating grin. Graduation cap and robe on, all dolled up as you make eyes at him through the screen.

“Baby,” he grins wolfishly, ruffles your hair in a teasing manner, “you look so damn cute there!” Leon watches bright-eyed, suddenly enthralled, they list your name, your height, your weight, all stuff he actually didn’t know ‘bout you. Never bothered to ask. You don’t need a name, you’re just his Lucky Girl. “Don’t like the red lip on you,” he comments flippantly, “A red lip is for whores, don’t you think, baby?”

He was right. You got a daddy, a mommy, a brother and a sister. You’ve got it all. Lucky fucking Girl. A broken sob is torn from your throat, jagged and scratchy as you fling yourself halfway across the room, on your knees as you put your grubby fingers all over his shiny screen. Leon lets you. He finds it hilarious actually. Who’d you think you are? Carol Anne from Poltergeist? Like you’re gonna get sucked into the screen, crawling out the other end like Sadako, back into your daddy’s arms.

Our daughter—My girl, she had her whole life ahead of her—My sister wouldn’t do this—She was so excited to move on after graduation—She’s not the type to run away—My daughter—My sister—Our sister—

Your mother is a mess, barely able to get words out with the way she’s blubbering. “She’s layin’ it on a bit thick, don’t you think, babe?” Leon picks up his beer from the side table, slightly heated under the burn of the lamp. “You look like your daddy, cry pretty like your mama though.”

You stare at him horrified. Jaw hanging open as if it’s unhinged, not in the way a snake does when ready to swallow its prey whole. More in the way of a screaming corpse. When the rigor mortis has worn off, secondary flaccidity sets in, and the mandible drops open. Jeez, tough crowd tonight it seems. Don’t make him sew your mouth up, Lucky Girl. Leon wouldn’t dare, that mouth, that throat is precious to him.

CCTV footage plays on the screen, another sob racks your brittle frame, you didn’t know it was him that day, Leon realises. “Oh, baby, that’s where we met, ain’t that funny?” A blurry image of you on the phone, prattling away to your family like the Lucky Girl you are, he’s just out of shot.

We miss her—Please, if you know anything, if you find anything—Please—

“God, let me get my phone, darling, they look so upset I can’t stand it. I might have to call them up and turn myself in. Give ‘em an early Christmas gift, don’t you think?” If Leon went missing, who would look for him? Hunnigan with all her sharp edges, or Claire with her unwilling loyalty to him? Lucky Bitch. It’s making his temper flare, that’s enough TV time for today.

The screen fades out, goes black when he switches it off. “No, no, no,” you chant, “no, no, no, no, please, please—“

“I’m disappointed in you, baby.” Leon says honestly, sips his beer and laughs mirthlessly. “I thought you’d started to like me.”

You’re not listening, too busy fitting on the rug, grasping at the screen as if you can pluck your family out of it and reunite with them on his living room floor. Leon did think you were getting used to him though. Family’s family, blood is thicker than water. Cum is also thicker than water. And that’s what he’s pumped down your throat nightly in hopes of it clogging up your brain, so you think of nothing but him. Those dogs in South Korea, the ones Claire told him about, he’s got his own special method to take care of your vocal cords. No snipping, no surgery needed. Just the throat training method.

“C’mere, lucky girl.” He clicks his tongue as if he’s calling out for a dog. You lay unmoving, rocking back and forth, whispering to yourself like a crazy person. Bit creepy. Leon stands, he grabs you by the hair and drags you to sit at his feet near the couch. Simple and effective. Backhands you for good luck. He needs it. “Stop your cryin’ I’m getting sick of it.” Leon says, brows wrinkled as he lowers his sweats, brings your head down to rest on his thigh. Your tear-stained cheeks turn him on, the doleful eyes, runny nose. It’s hot. His sad little girl.

“Suck it.” Leon taps the tip against your pouty lips, swollen from his earlier kisses, coats them in his pearly pre, “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.” You open your mouth, take him like clockwork. He don’t like that attitude. So he pushes your head down on his cock, watches your throat bob, uncomfortably full. Leon pinches your nose, listens to how you panic so nice around a mouthful of dick, gagging in a way you never have before. Not a gag that indicates inexperience, but one that is full of sheer terror, nails leaving red marks on his thighs as you drag them down his skin. Ouch. He’s gotta trim those down.

“You get it now, babe?” Leon hums, he lets you off this time, “Do what I say and it’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Leon,” you nod furiously through gulps of air, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” Fuck. Another one of your panic attacks. He’s not got the patience to deal with this. “I won’t—“ A wheeze, “ I won’t do it—“ A croak, “I won’t do it again.” You’ve learned to handle yourself. Rub your chest with your right hand, stare at the ceiling till you calm down. Leon’s dick is still rock hard. Ready to crack open a walnut.

“Good girl,” he nods, “then get on with it.”

There is nothing you’ve done in particular to set Leon off. He’s just had a bad day. Hunnigan’s senses are much too acute, she thought something was off with him. That put him on edge. So he’s like a ticking time bomb. Just waiting for you to make one wrong move. And you do. You say no to him, pleadingly so, shaking your head as you look at him with your fairytale fawn eyes. Meekly admit that you’re sore and achy and it hurts.

“That’s not your decision to make, sweetheart.” Leon informs you, he grabs a roll of duct tape from the kitchen, nicks at the edge with his teeth and tears a strip off. You bristle, completely still, a thousand thoughts running through that pea-sized brain of yours. “But I’ll be nice today, been waitin’ to fuck your ass anyway.” He puts the strip on your cunt, over your chubby lips to hold them together, it feels strange and icky. The last thing Leon wants to see is blood. He sees enough of that daily. So he’s generous when it comes to prep, busts out the cherry-flavoured lube today, squirts a decent amount on his fingers, cock, and your tighter hole.

You squirm, he watches the unreadable expression on your face carefully, the rise and fall of your chest. You’re nervous, but you’re wet, and that makes his chest swell in pride. Lucky Girl finally gets it. One finger slips past the ring of tight muscle, Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, there’s one last line he’s missing. It’ll come to him. Two fingers in, he scissors you open, spits on it just ‘cause it turns him on to see it run down your crack.

That’s enough, Leon thinks when he fits the third. He wants to make it hurt a little. Wants to feel like a big, strong man. He sits back on his knees, flips you over onto your front, he likes you this way. Just takes you in, how your tits hang low, brushing against the mattress when Leon presses a hand down on your back to keep you from arching. He takes his dick in hand and in he goes, easier than he thought. He wonders if you can cum just like this, with his dick pounding your ass.

He fucks like an animal, you gasp and yelp below him, unable to handle it as his hips smack against yours. The duct tape is starting to peel ‘cause your pussy is fucking soaked. That alone makes his balls tighten as he turns you back over to do damage control, and ‘cause he wants to see your face while he fucks. You look like you’re lovin’ it. Alright. So you’re an anal slut. Got it. He pushes back into your ass, groans when you clench around him, the duct tape peeling at the corners, he can’t handle it. Et in hora mortis nostrae. Leon’s mind blanks when he cums, fills your ass and his limp cock slips out. Shit. A-fucking-men. That’s right, he remembers. That’s how you end a prayer.

You don’t cum. He tears the duct tape off clean. You let out a loud ‘Ow, Leon!’ and frown at him. Beads of arousal stick to the piece of tape, your pussy is pulsing, walls fluttering around nothing. Leon kisses your swollen clit, rubs it steadily till you cream on his tongue, sweeter than molasses his Lucky Girl is.

“Leon?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you.” You tell him shyly, gaze at him with this dumb fucking smile on your dollface that makes his heart squeeze. God, he’s gotta keep you around, his lucky charm.

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil smut #leon s kennedy x you #resident evil x reader

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runningfrom2am · 21 days

Text

cold nights // part twenty-nine

summary: you were back in the capitol, and you would be damned if you didn't try your hardest to make it worthwhile.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 4.2k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: ahh shit really hits the fan in this one oops

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

"Coryo." You hum, knocking on your boyfriend's doorframe.

He looks up from his desk, smiling as he sees you standing in the door. You were still wearing what you had worn to class that day, a button up shirt he had bought for you with the orange skirt Tigris made, short and simple as if it was made by your own mother. It matched perfectly with his own mother's scarf that you always wore out, that was left draped over your shoulders. You were looking at him like you needed something, and it just made him light up.

"Love," He closes his book and stands up. "What do you need?" He asks, quickly pushing up his unstyled hair out of his face- the curls were beginning to come back, but they weren't quite as long as they once were. When he's with you, which is almost always, he makes a very conscious effort to keep it up and away from his face.

Your hands are tucked behind your back, nervously twisting your fingers. "Why must you assume that I need something?" You giggle.

"Because I know that look." He pokes your nose as he gets close enough to do so, now standing a foot away and looking at you expectantly.

"Okay, fine." You sigh. "I was wondering if you had any plans for Halloween."

"Hallo-what?" He asks, tilting his head at you. Your jaw drops.

"Halloween." You say again, wondering if it was possible he just misheard you.

He laughs, eyebrows raised in clear confusion.

"You don't know what Halloween is? You don't celebrate here?" You gasp.

"No, sorry."

"Oh my god, okay. Well, we must do something." You clap excitedly.

"Slow down, darling. You're gonna have to tell me what it is before I can agree." He chuckles, holding a hand out you to stop you before you got too excited.

"Okay, okay." You agree. "So, it's a holiday, similar to Christmas if you have that."

"Of course we have Christmas."

"How was I supposed to know?" You laugh. "Anyway, it's mostly for little kids, but still. Basically, on the last day of the month everyone dresses up in costumes of monsters or animals or different jobs- whatever you want, and the kids go knocking door to door and adults will give them treats."

"Treats." He states, but it comes out more like a question.

"Yes. Like cookies, or candy if you have it, really anything." You grin, nodding at him excitedly. "My Ma usually makes fudge."

"Okay..." Coryo laughs. "So... sorry, I'm confused. What do we do? Hand out candy to kids who won't come because no one's heard of it here?"

"That's the best part!" You clap. "We aren't parents; old enough to be stuck handing out candy, and we aren't young enough to go trick or treating, so we get to have the most fun."

"Okay..." He urges you on.

"We get to have a party!"

"A party." He eyes you a little bit skeptically.

"Yes!"

"Since when do you like to party?" He seems wholly unconvinced.

"I don't, but it's tradition! I always have fun, I just don't drink much anymore. It'll be good to make friends, Coryo. Please?"

"Anymore?" He laughs, but quickly shakes his head to stay focussed on what you were asking of him. "Love, I wish we could but I don't know where we'd have a party, we can't have it here."

You frown, thinking for a moment. "Oh! I'll call Sej." You grin, already bounding off down the hall toward the phone.

That was that, he couldn't change your mind even if he desired to- but really, if a party would make you happy, then you would get a party. He would make sure of it.

You had spent weeks handing out invitations to the other people in your classes, most of which, as you noticed, ended up in the trash cans or littering the halls. You didn't let it bother you, Coryo insisted that people just didn't tend to hold on to those kinds of things and it didn't mean they wouldn't come. (What you didn't know, was his near-constant cleanup efforts of asking anyone he knew or had classes with to come to his "costume party"- and people didn't like to say no to Coriolanus Snow.)

You had come up with a plan. Coryo would say it was his party, and he would be hosting it at the Plinth's estate. You couldn't run the risk of putting your name on the idea, especially after your interview assuring parents that you were just there to learn- not fraternize. You didn't mind, you knew more people would want to come if it was his party, and that it wasn't a "Halloween" party. Just a costume party that happened to land on the district holiday that none of these kids nor their parents knew about. Hopefully.

You were incredibly excited. You spent the days after Sejanus's parents left town over there making decorations, and begrudgingly, Coryo joined you after realizing you weren't only there to drop things off.

He never pictured himself spending so much money on orange and black coloured paper, but here he was. The list of things he would do for you is growing by the day, surprising even himself.

You had put a lot of time into your costumes, with Tigris's help over the last couple of weeks. It wasn't anything crazy, just a white dress and some small angel wings, and for Coryo a gray shirt with leather straps, some light chain mail on the shoulders, and silver sleeves. You were very proud of them, but you hadn't shown him yet. You would be Romeo and Juliet, and you thought it was just perfect.

You smile as you knock on his bedroom door, already in your costume. You would get there a little early to help Sejanus with some final touches, but you did have a lot of people confirm with Coryo that they were coming. You were excited.

He opens the door, his breath dying out in his throat as he takes in your outfit. He must have died and gone to heaven. "Well hello, angel." He grins as he regains himself, opening the door fully for you to come in.

"Do you like it?" You ask, giving a quick spin even as you're holding his matching costume behind your back.

"You look beautiful." He says quietly, nodding as he eyes how the white satin clings to your figure. He couldn't think of a more fitting costume for you; although to him, you always looked like an angel. But now, more beautiful than ever. Ethereal. "It's stunning, love."

"Thank you!" You smile, pulling his forward and holding the folded mix of fabrics up to him. "This is yours."

"Mine?" He asks, a confused smile on his face as he grabs it and unfolds it carefully. "What is it?"

"You're a knight!" You say, clapping your hands together excitedly. "Well, you're Romeo as a knight. And I'm Juliet." You grin, holding the hem of your dress and prompting him to look at it again.

"Romeo and Juliet." He chuckles, nodding slightly as he looks between the two.

"Yeah!" You smile excitedly. "Romeo! Here's drink. I drink to thee."

He laughs, nodding as he closes the door behind you and pulls off his shirt to put on the costume you made for him. "I love it, Y/N/N. Thank you."

"Of course." You nod excitedly. "I've always wanted to do a couples costume."

"Is that a thing?" He asks, getting ready to pull it over his head.

"Yes. It's so sweet! Couples will wear matching costumes and that's how you know they're together, I always loved looking at other peoples." You explain. "My parents always do matching costumes. One year, they both dressed up as cats. My mom made the ears out of felt, and they carried Tybs to the door with them to hand out candy. It was so cute. Like I said, they do matching costumes every year."

In your rambling, you don't notice how he freezes up completely, face falling. Hesitantly, he pulls it over his head. "How do I look?" He asks, gluing a smile back on.

You smile, nodding at him. "So handsome, Coryo." You confirm. "Tigris helped me make it."

"It's... a little uncomfortable." He tells you, pretending to adjust the light chainmail that hung over his chest.

You frown, reaching out to help him adjust it for a moment. "Is that better?"

He hates to do this- it fits perfectly, but he can't have people knowing you're together. Not yet. "Uh..." The hopeful look in your eyes breaks his heart. "Yeah, that's better." He nods, relieved by the smile that returns to your face.

"Are you ready to go, then?" You ask, tilting your head at him.

"Just give me ten minutes, love. Would you mind gathering up our drinks?" He asks, kissing your forehead.

"Of course, Romeo." You giggle, turning on your heel and leaving, closing the door gently behind you.

He hates himself for what he knows has to do.

When you got to Sejanus's house, you were practically vibrating with excitement as you ran around hanging up decorations and placing and replacing drinks and snacks on the tables, moving them around.

"Sej?" You ask, standing on a stool to be able to reach up above a doorframe.

"Yeah?" He calls back from across the room, turning to look at you.

"I'm out of tape, could you grab me another roll? We brought some, it's in the kitchen. Coryo will tell you which bag." You explain and he nods, giving you a quick thumbs up as he walks by and down the hall.

Walking into the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes go wide.

There's Coryo, holding out the front of his shirt over the sink and pouring a glass of red wine down the front. Extremely, very intentionally.

"Uh... what are you doing?" He asks, and Coryo's head snaps up, eyes panicked.

"Uh, shit, I..." He laughs slightly, placing the glass down quickly and turning on the tap. "I tripped and, god I don't really know. I'm just trying to get this out..."

Sejanus nodded slightly, trying to hide how unconvinced he was. "I don't know if that will come out." He states.

"Shit..." Coryo sighs, albeit dramatically. If Sejanus hadn't just seen him do what he just did, he would be convinced. Coryo would make a good actor. "Well... Do you have something else I could wear?"

"Yeah... uh, yeah. Just go into my closet and help yourself." Sejanus tells him, gesturing down the hall.

"Thanks," Coryo says, brushing past him eagerly all ready to go and change into something else.

Your friend swallows, watching him as he disappears down the hall. Sejanus knew you had spent hours putting together that costume for him, could he even tell you that he saw Coryo ruin it on purpose? It would break your heart- but he did really want to know why.

Sejanus couldn't tell you. You were having fun, or at least trying to, and he didn't want to ruin that. People were talking to you, and to him, which was kind of new territory for the both of you. Your interview and your kindness in classes and to everyone you met did wonders for your reputations as "District kids". Surprisingly, your classmates had lots of questions and none of them seemed to have any real problems with you in a less pressurized setting. The alcohol was likely a contributing factor.

"Yes! Well, we'd go to the lake a lot. Oh! So, one time, my brother and I spent all day dragging this old barrel up a cliffside just to hang it off a tree at the top. We just spent our time doing the most random stuff." You giggle over the music, clutching your glass to your chest as you continue on a conversation with Hilarius, who you saw as a new friend even though Coryo wasn't his biggest fan. You had probably a little bit too much to drink, spurred on by your nervousness.

"A barrel..?" Hilarius laughs, tilting his head at you.

"Well, yeah, what kind of stuff did you do for fun, then?" You ask over the loud music.

"Chess, I suppose. Reading, I don't know. Fun wasn't really on the schedule." He explains.

"Well, I'd rather drag a barrel up a hill than do nothing, wouldn't you?" You laugh.

"Touché." He tilts his glass at you before taking a sip.

"Y/N, can I steal you for a second?" You hear Sejanus say in your ear, suddenly beside you and you nod, politely dismissing yourself from the conversation.

You follow him down the hall to an empty corner. He couldn't take it anymore, he had to tell you. "I'm sorry about Coryo's costume, I know you worked hard on it." He says honestly.

"It is okay. Spills happen." You smile.

"Well, yes..." He agrees, looking around quickly to make sure he can't spot Coryo's blonde hair in the vicinity. It was a rare moment he wasn't with you, so now was his only shot. "But... it wasn't an accident."

"What do you mean?" You ask, tilting your head at him with a slightly nervous smile.

"Y/N I... I watched him pour the wine on it. Like, very intentionally."

You don't know what to say, slightly shocked. After a moment of him watching your expression evolve, you begin to laugh. "No, no. Sej, I love you, but how much did you drink before we got here? Because he wouldn't-"

"Nothing." He answers shortly, giving a firm shake of his head. "Not a drop, Y/N/N. I swear."

Your smile fades slightly at his abrupt statement. "Well..." You say quietly. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, but I know better than to be the one to bring it up to him. You should ask."

"I mean, he said it wasn't very comfortable before we left the house. Maybe he just didn't want to hurt my feelings." You smile to yourself, nodding as you decide.

"By ruining something you made for him? Yeah, that'll spare your feelings." Sejanus scoffs, looking past you once more to make sure Coriolanus wasn't nearby.

"He tried to spare them, I assume." You sigh, giving him a reassuring smile in hopes that he won't let it worry him. "It's okay. Thank you, Sej, for telling me, but it's really not a big deal."

The knowledge that Coryo ruined his costume on purpose was eating you alive. The feeling of dread sat deep in your chest where it apparently couldn't be drowned out with more wine or posca or anything that you could find or was offered to you. It made you so horribly sad, that even though you couldn't seem to find your boyfriend in any room of the large house you weren't sure if you even wanted to.

Talking to strangers helped, meeting new people. Some people you shared classes with, and you could mostly discuss that. It was a lot of explaining and reexplaining that people in the Districts were more or less normal, just with less access to resources. You got a few laughs out of that, but a surprising amount of understanding nods. Maybe all hope wasn't lost.

You were here to have fun. It wasn't like Halloween parties back home, and the sheer volume of boys in their own father's old peacekeeper uniforms was chilling to you. Even back home, where you knew those old uniforms were lying folded up in an attic somewhere, very few kids would dare touch them even to make a joke out of it. You couldn't take it anymore, deciding to just step out onto the back patio to get some fresh air.

The air hits your lungs and brushes over your skin, instantly giving you chills but you don't mind. Hearing talking over to your right, you take a look only to see Coryo with a few of your classmates, smiling as he leaned back against the wall of the house. A couple of faces you recognized, and one you didn't.

You smile as you walk over to them, squeezing in next to Coryo. "Clemmie, Livia. It's good to see you." You smile at them, and Clemmie gives a polite nod while Livia just takes another sip out of her glass while the other boy with them just continues talking.

"I don't believe we've met, sorry." You smile at him during a break in his story, extending a hand to him. "My name is Y/N. What's yours?"

He laughs, hesitantly shaking your hand. "Festus. Festus Creed." He tells you.

"Lovely to meet you, Festus." You grin. "Are you a friend of Coryo's?"

"Yeah, you could say that." He chuckles and you look up at your boyfriend who suddenly looks annoyed, rolling his eyes.

"I just love meeting his friends." You smile excitedly. "Are you studying at the university? I haven't seen you before." You say, folding your arm around Coryo's and he tenses up, not so subtly shaking you off.

You look up at him for a moment, a confused smile on your face from his actions.

"Would you mind giving me some space?" He asks coldly, almost glaring at you. Your eyes flick to his, but it's dark. They're cold, icy blue even in the poor lighting. His cheeks are flushed, but maybe that's from the chill.

"Oh, sorry." You laugh nervously, taking a step back and abandoning your conversation. "I... um, I'm gonna go get some water. It was nice to see you." You wave quickly to his friends, turning and heading for the door.

"Sorry, apparently my tribute gets touchy when she drinks." You hear Coriolanus laugh behind you as you enter the house again. It was met by laughs from the rest of the group he was with, and your heart dropped practically out of your chest and onto the floor. You wouldn't have been shocked if you looked down and saw your white dress absorbing the remains of your heart.

Your white feather angel wings catch on the curtain of the door as you close it behind you, and you want to scream and rip them off as you feel tears well up in your eyes. You look around for your best route of escape, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest begin to build.

You'll have to go along the wall- clinging to the outside of the room as you avoid the chaos of the middle in an effort to make it up to Sejanus's room. You'd be alone there.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you keep your head up, eyes locked on the entrance to the foyer with the large staircase, which you know you can take to get to your friend's room. Your fight or flight is kicking in, you think, as the music and laughter and voices fade into nothing. You almost expect the familiar clang of a metal weapon to sound out in front of you as it slams into the wall- but you have to make a very conscious effort to remind yourself that you aren't in the arena anymore. Even if it felt like it more and more with every step.

Shutting the door to Sejanus's bedroom, you quickly shuffle over to his bathroom and lock yourself in, freezing when you catch a look at yourself in the reflection. She was hardly a reflection of you; tear-stained cheeks, angel wings- when you knew that these days you were just about the farthest thing from it. You had changed. You hardly recognized her, and that's the thing that forced you to look away.

You don't even hear someone enter the room until there's knocking on the bathroom door. "Y/N? Are you in there?" Lyssie asks, concern dripping through her tone.

You sniff, quickly wiping your eyes. "Yeah! Yeah, I just need a moment." You choke out, trying and failing to keep your voice steady.

"Are you okay?" She asks through the door, wiggling the handle now. "What happened?"

"I'm fine just fine." You insist, laughing nervously as you look down at how badly your hands are shaking.

"Can I come in? Can you open the door for me?"

God, how you wished it was Lucy Gray on the other side.

But Lucy Gray isn't here. Lysistrata Vickers is all you have- so with shaky hands you reach for the door and unlock it, letting her in. She won't hurt you, you're sure.

Her eyes are already wide with worry as she gets her first glimpse at you. "Oh, Y/N, what's wrong?" She asks, stepping in and quickly closing the door behind herself. "Here, sit down..." She nods to the floor, which has clearly been recently cleaned. Even so, she pulls a towel from the rack and lays it out for you to sit on.

"I'm just a little too drunk." You sniff, trying to dismiss her worries, and slide down against the wall on top of the towel she laid for you as sobs take over you.

"Want to tell me what happened?" She asks again, hurriedly reaching for a smaller towel and wetting it with what you assume is cold water, wringing it out before joining your side on the floor.

"Nothing." You shake your head and bring your hands up to cover your face as you cry into them. "I can't... I can't tell you."

"Okay, that's okay..." She soothes you. "Here, this will help. Can you move your hands for me?"

She doesn't want to touch you, no one really does. You lower your hands, squeezing them tight together in your lap as she carefully reaches up to dab the cloth across your forehead. It does feel good on your burning skin.

You focus on taking deep breaths, trying not to embarrass yourself any further.

"There you go..." She smiles. "You're good at this."

You laugh through your tears. "Well, it comes with my title, I guess." You sniff, wiping your cheeks again.

"I'd bet..." She hums. "But you're doing great."

You just nod slightly, running through lines in your head out of nervous habit. "I love him, oh, I love him; but he won't let himself be loved."

You don't even realize you're saying it out loud to yourself until Lysistrata speaks. "Is it... Is this about Coriolanus?" She asks, and you don't want to tell her that it's a quote from a story of her namesake because ironically, she is right, and ironically, that was the only line you could think of when you strained to remember any of it.

You nod slightly, biting into your lip and letting your shoulders shake with the latest round of sobs.

"Oh, I'm sorry..." She gently rubs your shoulder. "He's... He's not very sensitive to people's feelings. I know that. Just try not to take it personally. It's not your fault."

"How could it be anyone else's?" You sniff. "I embarrass him... But I try so hard to be good. I try so hard..." You cry, wet eyes making it hard to see.

Lyssie looks at you, a little confused. "What did he say?" She asks.

"That..." You hiccup, trying to breathe through it so you can explain better. "That I needed to give him space, all I was doing was standing next to him." You sniff again, wiping your eyes. "And he called me his tribute to his friends- it made me feel just sick... And earlier Sej told me that he ruined the costume I made him on purpose, we were supposed to match! Now I just look like I'm desperate for people to like me- dressing up as an angel when everyone here knows what I did! I don't know what I did wrong... Why does he hate me now?"

She watches you silently, trying to put together the pieces.

"I don't understand." You say again, shaking your head. "He told me he loved me this morning! I don't know what I did to change that..."

"Sorry, he said he loved you?" Lyssie asks, eyes wide.

You nod slightly, looking over at her. Why does she seem so shocked?

"Wait, Y/N..." She pauses, shaking her head slightly. "Are you guys like... together?"

"Mhm." You swallow, wiping under your eyes. "But apparently not anymore."

"Oh my god, I had no idea." She stammers out, snapping out of her shock to pat the cloth on your head again.

"You didn't?" You sniff. "He didn't tell you?"

"No." She shakes her head, but quickly continues. "I'm sorry, he doesn't tell much to anyone, though..."

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the wall. "I should have known this couldn't work. I feel so stupid."

"He shouldn't have led you on like that..." She replies quietly. "I don't know a whole lot about you, but I know you're not stupid. I also know that Coriolanus always gets what he wants, one way or another."

"I just want to go home..." You cry, shaking your head. "I want to go home."

Lyssie looks back to the door, gently dabbing the damp material across your forehead. "I'm going to go get Sejanus, okay? Can you hold this on your head for me?" She carefully passes the cloth into your shaking hands and you nod, leaning your head down against it instantly.

She gets up and leaves, carefully and quietly closing the door behind herself. If one person in this city knew even a little bit about what you were feeling or how to help, it would be Sejanus Plinth.

taglist: @soulessjourney , @that-veela-girl , @dreamyysouls, @rockstarbfs, @maysileeewrites , @baybieruth , @kitscutie, @fratboyharrysgf0201 , @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @drewsandsebastianswife , @niicole-87 , @queenofshinigamis , @innercreationflower , @nallasstuff , @iovemoonyy , @thatmarvelchick19 , @wearemadeofstardust0 , @regulusblackcore , @puredreamagination , @fantasticchaosthing , @becauseseaotters , @secretsicanthideanymore , @strawberryflavouredkisses-deact, @cascadingbliss

okay suddenly tumblr isn't letting me tag more people than this so i just made some cuts unfortunately :') i just left the max amount of people i could whose users i recognized and see in my notifs all the time :) if you're not on here and you should be i'm so sorry!

also this taglist is closed now!! if you’d like to get a notification when i update, turn on my post notifications!! i promise i won’t spam y'all :,)

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sturnlova · 1 month

Text

First time ( C.S )

(Chris Sturniolo x Female reader)

( Warning : Smut, F & M receiving, kinda new to writing, not proof read all the way, pet names, fluff, i don’t know what else 😭 )

Chris : Orange

Y/N : Pink

Matt : Blue

Nick : Purple

Nathan : Red

(Word count : 900)

——————————————————

Me and Chris have been best friends for over 8 years and i’ve told him every secret expect one, i’m a virgin, but i didn’t feel the need to because he can’t do anything about it. well at least i thought he couldn’t

“Exactly bruh, Y/N when your fucking someone would u let them do anal cause i personally wouldn’t” i giggled at his comment and so did everyone else but i didn’t really now what to say since i’ve never done anything romantically like sex, it’s not like people didn’t want to do it with me i just wasn’t ready. Nate went on for a while about fucking girls and his own experiences until i grabbed my phone and hoodie and hopped off the couch to go to Chris’ room and lock myself in there until i was ready to come out. I heard Matt whisper yell at Chris to go check on me and find out what’s wrong.

“Y/N let me in please, i wanna know if you’re okay, what happened Y/N/N”

“please go away Chris it’s embarrassing it doesn’t concern you anyway.”

“ I’m not going away Y/N/N cmon we’re best friends you gotta tell me ill tell you a secret if you want me to”

A minute after i unlocked the door, Chris opened it to see me with a puffy face due to the tears of embarrassment i shed. “Wanna sit and talk about it, i promise i won’t judge ” Chris moved us to the bed and laid me on his chest for we could talk about why i was crying out of nowhere.

As we laid down and made ourself as comfortable as we could i let out a sigh and a whisper into his chest “i’m a virgin at my grown age, Chris i just don’t want to do it with someone i don’t connect with, you know.” Chris just runs his fingers through my hair as i talk about how i feel embarrassed about being a virgin and why i still am one.

A uncomfortable silence forms until Chris cuts it with a knife “if you don’t wanna do this we can forget about it but do you want me to help, like platonically of course.”

“Help?”

“Yeah help.”

“You will tell me how to do it?”

“Of course Y/N no one has to know if u don’t want people to know“

He stands up and asks if i’m 100% sure, “im 101% sure Chris” He takes of his top and i take this as a queue to take mine of to, chris is there with jorts on and i’m left with shorts and my bra on which he unclasp with a bit of a struggle, but it’s fine. He leans down to kiss me softly but passionately.

He lays me down on the bed and crawls on top me of me. He pulls down my shorts and panties, leaving me naked well he still has his shorts on. “Chris please can you take ur shorts off, or do something please, it feels weird being naked and ur not.” “yeah sweetheart i’ll take it off don’t worry” He takes them off as he speaks.

Sweetheart?

I have to be honest with Chris because after all we are best friend’s “what if it hurts Chris, many get a towel in case i bleed.” “It’s ok we don’t need a towel but i’ll be slow i promise and you can just tap my arm 2 times if u want me to stop, ok?” i nod my head in response. He spreads my legs open and places my ankles on his shoulders. He teases my pussy hole a bit making sure i’m stretched before anything more happens.

“Okay I’m ready Chris just go slow” he slowly adds his length to me, i hiss in response as this is a new feeling and his definitely not small “you ok? want to stop” “no no keep going” He finally adds it all to me and starts moving, i can feel his balls against my butt it’s a bit funny to me only because this is the same boy i used to force to let me practice make up on. He continues his thrust at a steady past well whispering praises in my ear.

I’m a moaning mess under him due to all the new sensations i’m feeling; his tip hits my cervix with every movement he does. Chris giggles, “what’s so funny lover boy?” “the fact you can barely talk ” “shut up” i say between my moans.

“Y/N i’m really close ok, i want you to cum all over my cock” he whimpers as he moves slower and sloppier. “Let go baby” we finish together and giggle at each other’s sweaty tired faces a couple seconds after. We lay in bed together naked in a comfortable silence.

“You did so good Y/N/N i’m so proud of you. Thank you for being comfortable with me.” he kisses my check “you want me to get ya dressed for we can go back down? Or you wanna stay here for a bit ” “Yeah can you please get me dressed before someone walks in, and also i know i don’t have to much experience but you’re good at fucking” Chris giggled and pulled out of me to add my clothes and his clothes back on.

Chris puts his clothes on then grabs me by the waist and puts my clothes on until Nate walks in our room.

“Did y’all fuck?”

“what?” i say with a tone that clearly had attitude to it.

“No we didn’t do that, she had really bad stomach pains and was crying so it might i’ve sounded like moans but it wasn’t..”

“Oh sorry than but why is she naked?”

“Nate get the fuck out”

Chris whispered in my ear “I’ll drop you off home baby” i started to blush and nodded my head and looked down.

✧༺✦✮✦༻༺✦✮✦༻✧

It’s been 4 months since Chris admitted his feelings to me after “helping me” and i couldn’t be more thankful. I now have the best boyfriend i could ever ask for, we also have an annoying but loveable Nate who saw us Post sex.

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo smut #smut #chris sturniolo x you #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo fluff #sturniolo fanfic

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carmyboobear · 1 month

Text

Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets.

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful.

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low.

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume.

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked.

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer.

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore.

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop.

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger.

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead.

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on.

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though.

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing.

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back.

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question.

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign.

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen.

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in.

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think.

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest.

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence.

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie.

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front.

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out.

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you.

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway.

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them.

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong.

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture.

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to.

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions.

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide.

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container.

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter.

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh. He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour.

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off.

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list.

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift.

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline.

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice.

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself.

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there.

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep.

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something.

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her.

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break.

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen.

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth.

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.”

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles.

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments.

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm.

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you.

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose.

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place.

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses.

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard.

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment.

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling.

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges.

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time.

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends.

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination.

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked. We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so.

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?”

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you.

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is.

You don't really care, though.

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him.

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important.

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now.

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is.

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away.

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want.

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive.

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?”

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm.

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.”

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled. Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead.

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth.

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway.

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden.

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head.

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you.

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice.

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that.

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at.

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door.

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

@zorrasucia

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konigsblog · 9 months

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Hi! This is my first time asking something :D

Do you do anything, not nsfw? And if so, what would some random könig headcanons you agree with? Like habits and stuff you’d think he’d do? (does that make sense lmao)

If you just do nsfw you could make them nsfw headcanons.. Or just combine both aha

**HII.. i do write for sfw and fluff, as well as angst it's just not really requested as much as smut :) but here, hope you enjoy this!!! 🌙

silly könig headcannons

⭒ mentions of weed use, fluff.. 🌷🎀

⭒könig who prefers cats over dogs. they're quieter and calmer, has a ginger cat called ‘spice’ that's fiesty to new people. he loves the animal to death, and hands it to his oma when he's on deployment.

⭒i've mentioned this before, but i feel like könig was in a band as a kid, just a school one. he played the drums and was pretty emo in his teenager years...

⭒he sleeps in the weirdest positions. he'll either wake up with his body contorted into different ways, his arms above his head and across his chest with his legs intertwined with eachother.

⭒he's an easily jealous person, always top of his classes and getting 100% on his tests. his mother always wanted the best outcome for her son, so she was shocked when he decided to join the kommando spezialkräfte instead of becoming a doctor or a lawyer.

⭒has 100% attempted to get up but fell because his legs were stuck and tangled in his bedsheets.

⭒gets second hand embarrassment far too easily. he's cringing on the inside when someone does/says something stupid.

⭒absolutely hates the summer. it's horrible; everybody's sweaty and stinks, missions make him want to peal his skin off. definitely prefers autumn/winter.

⭒his favourite food to eat whilst sick is soup, a special homemade soup him and his mother made together while growing up. her own special recipe that he only teaches to his closest of friends.

⭒loves late night conversations. they're so deep and understanding, chatting for hours 'til your jaw hurts and the sun his peaking through the curtains.

⭒either drinks black coffee, really bitter. or drinks the most sugary coffee ever, no in-between. (tell me your opinions)

⭒is a morning person. gets up early and has his breakfast, something quick and easy, like toast or porridge (oatmeal), has a morning shower 'nd everything. (i love adding salt to my porridge/oatmeal)

⭒hates when people say germany and austria are the same. will definitely have a whole rant about the differences 'til you understand fully.

⭒smokes weed a lot, pretty much an addict. he says it's to calm his nerves down but he gradually started doing it more and more often. a stoner fs.

⭒enjoys movies, a lot. he loves sitting down with a blanket beside him, covered in orange cat hair. will probably make a bowl of popcorn to eat whilst watching, but ends up eating it all before he's even 30 minutes in.

big, bear hugs. we all know that the big, brute and towering man gives amazing hugs, but he really wants to lay atop of you, to cage you with his warmth.

⭒has a tendency to over share, rants sometimes while pretending to be confident, finding anything to talk about before feeling a bit uncomfortable with what he'd said.

⭒isn't shy. it's my biggest pet peeve when people make könig out to be someone shy, scared, ect.. he's not shy, he's socially anxious, but that doesn't make him quiet. he either puts on a front and pretends to be confident with a cocky, loud personality.

⭒absolutely adores milk. he drinks like a gallon in two days, that's why he's 6’10.

⭒enjoys mint chocolate chip ice cream, hates strawberry, especially if they have chunks. (self projecting)

⭒enjoys doing the dishes, finds it satisfying. until he touches food and gags.

⭒avid banana hater, the texture to the taste, everything about it makes him feel ill.

⭒listens to music for hours, usually something rock or heavy metal, loud music in his ears and the loud explosions gives him some hearing damage.

⭒usually smells woodsy, fresh cut trees and vanilla.

⭒germaphobe. doesn't like being near people when they're sick and will avoid them, probably because he gets sick too easily, despite having a strong immune system.

⭒isn't a very emotional person, he has sympathy for others but can't express it through tears and emotions. he's cold and aggressive to the recruits, blaming them for his issues because he struggles taking blame and fault for situations and needs a punching bag.

⭒owned a fish when he was around 7, cried because it died. turns out it was alive and he saw it swim down the toilet. never got another fish again, traumatized.

⭒doesn't like being told he's in the wrong, will refuse and deny it 'til he's forced to either apologise or end the friendship.

⭒curly ginger, or wavy ginger, you can't change my mind.

⭒doesn't really understand tiktok that much, or instagram. not really something that he's interested in, but occasionally uses twitter for like 5 minutes.

⭒has anemia, or iron deficiency. takes a couple naps a day because he doesn't like taking his supplements.

these are all i could think off 😵‍💫 tell me your personal headcannons!!

banner credit; @cafekitsune

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betweenblackberrybranches · 4 months

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What kinda wings do sun &moon have? Sun probably look pretty with the wings of a comet moth. Or wold that b more eclipse style?

Well it is weird, their wings kind of deflate when not used and when they are deflated they are just brown and more sturdy but when they inflate they look somewhat like this:

Moon has shimmering blue and purple ish wings that are kind of fuzzy, his are the smallest ones. They are extremly beautiful in my opinion!

Sun has orange yellow wings with dark spots and a bit of a golden shimmer to them in the right lighting. Also very pretty.

His majesty king eclipse has stunning red blue and yellow wings. Though dont tell him i said that i would never hear the end of it.. but yea his are the biggest wings and he seems to be very good at flying.

Oh man wings are so cool i wish i had them too i feel like barbie from fairytopia up in here. Do yall know how annoying it is to live here? All buildings are made for people who have wings, they dont have any fucking stairs here!

These are the butterflies i took inspiration from

The common blue is actually my favourite butterfly of all times since i was a kid, they are just so small and fast and pretty, though i have to say its name is way more funny in german because the term for common here is gemein so they are called Der gemeine Bläuling. But gemein also means mean which cracks me up every time. Like imagine you talk about an animal/plant/mushroom and then its just like yea this is "the mean red squirrel". Anyways i just think its funny to give moon the wings of the mean blue because jea he sure do be that

Ill stop rambeling now

#fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf eclipse #sundrop #moondrop #dca #daycare attendant #dcamv #fae au #my art #well anyways sure am happy that noone is sneaking up on me right now

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skele-ghost · 22 days

Text

Baby, it’s Hot Outside: Part 2 (electric bugaloo)

MDNI, 18+, Warnings: Omegaverse, illness, being sick, near-death experience (NDE)

Masterlist

You’re quite adamant that you’re not in heat. It’s impossible. But you are sick with something, so you let Soap put you on bed rest. He gives you extra blankets, which you find odd since you’re hotter than hell, but they do make the floor a little more comfortable underneath your sleeping bag.

When you wake up it’s the evening, and you feel like you’ve taken the worst nap of your life. The sunset shines orange and gold rays into the little cabin, illuminating enough to still see what’s inside. And what’s missing.

Soap is a few feet away, reading a book with one of those silly headlamps.

“Where’s my equipment?”

He startles, quickly turning to you. “Ah, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Where’s my equipment?” You repeat as scoots over to you, opening and offering a bottle of water.

“Gaz took it to he and Price’s cabin,” Soap explains while you gulp down the water, quenching your thirst. “Just for convenience.”

“I’m not going into heat,” you grumble, sitting up and wincing at the ache in your skull.

“Yeah? How do you feel?”

You whimper, “like shit. Like the flu, but not the flu.”

“Lay back down,” Soap urges you, a hand on your shoulder. You do as he says, eyes shut in discomfort. “Just sleep it off, angel.”

You hope that you can.

—

You can’t. You get the distinct feeling that this isn’t something you can sleep off as you wake next. You don’t know what time it is, but daylight has already broken.

Something else is different, and it takes a moment to register that it’s you. Your cheeks are flushed but not because you’re hot—well, it is because you’re hot, but not in the temperature way.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so horny in your entire life. You squirm to get some friction between your legs, and it’s like your body has produced a whole bottle of lube in your pants. You buck your hips but the sensation makes your stomach roll and you grimace.

Footsteps sound on the porch and the screen door opens, revealing Soap once more. You look up at him through half lidded eyes, frowning.

“Heya, bonnie,” he greets, crouching down next to you with a plate in his hands. “Do ya think you could eat for me?”

The smell makes your stomach curdle. Vienna sausages, fresh out of the can. You’d all been subsisting on it for a week, and you normally have no qualms about them. The barbecue ones were great.

But the smell of meat right now is torture. You shake your head.

“Please? Just a little bit, you need to get some food in you,” Soap pleads.

Thinking about eating it is worse, so much worse. “I’ll throw up on you if you don’t take that away,” you manage, your voice raspy.

Soap’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Alright, alright! Rice, then?”

You eat maybe a cup of rice before your stomach insists it’s had enough—sipping on water calms it a little, and you fall asleep once more.

—

You wake up crying. That’s never happened to you before, and you’re not sure why you’re crying until someone’s hands are on you.

Your bones ache. It’s like having your own personal migraine in every one of your extremities, and you sob at the sensation.

“Go! Get a couple of Ghost’s shirts, and a blanket, just make sure it has his scent on it!” Soap orders from above you.

You can hardly see him through your tears or hear him through your sobs and pleas. His hands are on either side of your face, trying to wipe the tears away as they come.

“Shh, (Y/N), I know it hurts, darlin,” he mutters to you. “Gaz’ll be right back and we’ll make you feel better, alright? Take some deep breaths for me, you ain’t breathing right.”

You try but it’s moot. All you can manage is to beg him to make it stop and tell him how much it hurts, which doesn’t improve anything.

Footsteps pound on the floor and then someone presses something up under your nose. It smells woodsy and musky and also a little minty; somehow, it makes the aching dull down.

But it causes a new kind of problem as you calm down, tears drying up and your breathing evening out: it makes you horny again, but also lonely?

It’s something you’ve never felt before, a painful aching in the chest, like missing someone, longing for them in a way that has you almost in tears. It makes you whine.

You hardly even register Soap laying down beside you and pulling you into his arms. He smells like it, too, and you snuggle into him, laying your head against his chest.

A stone of guilt is sitting heavy in your gut, however.

“Soap?” You ask, your voice sounding pitiful and whiny to your ears.

“I’m here, hen,” he says, a hand smoothing down your sweat-soaked back.

“Is Ghost gonna kill me for this?”

He freezes for a moment, “what’re you talking about, angel?”

“We’re having an affair.”

Soap laughs and your brow furrows.

“Ghost isn’t gonna get jealous of you, bonnie. He knows you need someone right now—and he don’t mind sharing, either.”

“Oh,” you say in reply, mind too boggled to really wrap itself around that.

“Close your eyes, darlin, get some sleep. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

—

Soap’s a fucking liar.

It feels like you’re baking in a hot car—it’s the hottest, most humid day in history, and you’re sitting in a black car in a blacktop parking lot, and you’re dying.

It’s suffocating, and you can’t will yourself to move or open your eyes. It’s dark but you feel like the sun is beaming down on you full blast. You skin feels like fire and your blood is hot, too, pumping like magma down the side of a volcano.

You’re dying, you’re certain of that—but you don’t have any time to think about it as you feel yourself slipping deeper into the darkness.

—

A/N: I remember spending days writing this. And it’s so short, what the hell. Also, I think it’s only called magma when it’s inside the volcano and it’s lava when it’s outside, but ‘magma’ sounds better.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #task force 141 #cod omegaverse #omegaverse au #omegaverse #cod x fem!reader #cod x you #cod gaz #cod price #cod soap #cod ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #141 x reader #baby it’s hot outside

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blocklists-just-4-u · 4 months

Note

hi, have you made a gimmick account blocklist? I know it's a MASSIVE ask, but it could be so so so useful to people who don't ever want to be gimmicked

What is a gimmick blog here as well as a good list there are two types of gimmick blogs imo, one is the listing blog, such as how many 7's, identifying blogs ect, the other is character blogs such as @black-magic-osha or @sans-in-heat, ill be covering the first kind as holy fuck its hard to tell sometimes... Also anon you owe me, I've basically invited hell onto this blog @alphabetcompletionist completes the alphabet @dailyquests daily quests @t-counter @q-counter @e-counter @r-counter @y-counter @i-counter @a-counter @k-counter @z-counter @c-counter @b-counter @identifying-cars-in-posts @identifying-scotland-in-posts @identifying-horses-in-posts @identifying-planes-in-posts @identifying-guns-in-posts @identifying-phones-in-the-post @identifying-trains-inposts @identifying-pokemon-in-posts @identifying-typewriters-in-posts @identifying-uk-trains-in-posts @identifying-ssobreeds-in-posts @identifying-spacecraft-in-posts @identifying-sharks-in-posts @identifying-dogs-in-posts @identifying-dinosaurs-in-posts @identifying-dolls-in-posts (look i could keep going but this post would be 600 @'s long so no?) @how-many-letters @punctuation-completionist @numberscompletionist @asciicompletionist @seven-counter @one-counter @two-counter @three-counter @four-counter @five-counter (no six counter??) @eight-counter @periodiccompletionist @rainbow--completionist @in-the-bible @colourpickingpride @post-store @free-post-store @i-remove-color-from-posts @i-say-ok @orange-content-rater RIGHT IM DONE, enjoy anon you owe me one

#blocklist #block list #blocklists #block lists #block #gimmick account #gimmick blog #gimmick #tumblr #hellsite #hellsite (derogatory)#tumblr culture #tumblr things #just tumblr things #i will now be cursed forever

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sturnsgirl · 4 months

Text

WRONG PERSON.

C.STURNIOLO / / y/n-pink // chris-orange // NSFW!!

In which Chris send a certain pic to the wrong person..

Heyy its Madi! -This is my first story! - 18+

will be taking requests-link at the end!

I was at my best friend's house which was the triplets.

I'm closer to Nick than I am to Matt and Chris.

At the moment, we were watching Outer Banks. Chris sat on a different couch from Nick and me, while Matt was on another couch as well. Nick and I were sitting on the same couch, with my legs crossed over Nick's legs. We had just finished the second episode when Chris got up to go to the bathroom.

"Hold up, I'm going to the bathroom," Chris says, looking down at his phone as he walks past me and Nick towards the bathroom.

not even 2 minutes later my phone buzzes. It's a notification from Snapchat that read..

"New snap from Chrisss 🫶"

I open the snap to see a dick, Chris's dick.

I was shocked for a second until my phone started blowing up

CHRISSS🫶-

SHIT NNONO NO Y/N THAT WASGT MEANT FOR U STOP FUCK IM SORYY SHITTT

ME-

calm down dont apologize its a nice dick.

CHRISSS🫶-

upstairs my room now.

I squeeze my legs to ease the tension between them and get up.

"I'm gonna go to bed now guys ill see yall tomorrow," I say not wanting anytime to see Chris and what his dick would do to me.

I go upstairs to Chris' room seeing he was already in there.

"Shit" Chris huffs out.

He gets up and without another word, he grabs my waist pulling me in for a kiss. his tongue sliding on my lips for an entrance which I give.

he slid his tongue down my throat with his hands roaming all over my body somehow he unstrapped my bra and started sliding his hand to my shirt pulling away

"you sure ma?" he asks. shit that fucking name had me weak to my fucking knees.

"yes, Chris. please" I huff barely managing to control myself.

"Please what mamas? use your words baby. "

"please fuck me chris." i say barely above a whisper.

not even finishing my sentence Chris grabs my ass and lifts me onto him dropping me on the bed un-clothing me. he takes my bra off my shirt,and my pants leaving me in only my white laced panties while he takes his clothes off above me revealing his 8 inch hard cock leaking pre-cum.

i sit up grabbing Chris' shoulder.

"chris sit down" i tell him. he grabs me rotating our postion so im now on top of him. i move lower down taking his 8 Inchs in my hand moving my hand ever so gentley before kissing the tip and licking his slit.

"mmpgh fuck." Chris huffs

with that i take all of him in me at once deep throating him all moaning on his cock sending vibrations all on his body

"mmph mamas your..so.ff..ffcuking good oh ugh right there ma dont stop." chris moans out barely being able to contain hisself.

i bob my head up and down his dick before he starts up again.

"Ma..ma Im gonna..Cum ugh dont stop mm" he groans

I pick up my pace and not even a few more movements he fills my throat and i swallow him all pulling out the while strips of cum following.

"ugh that was amazing ma holy shit" chris huffs. without wasting time he picks me up so hes now above me

he basically rips my panties off and throws them somewhere in the room teasing my folds.

"so wet for me ma" he says taking his two finger rubbing circles up and down my folds teasing me to my max

"Chris pl..please stop teasing i..cant please"

"Okay mamas" he says shoving his finger in me stretching me out. only the two finger he put in me sent me to let out the most pornographic moan loud enough matt and nick could have heard us.

"mamas be quiet we wouldnt want matt and nick to hear now would we?" he asks slowing his pace. i couldnt even manage to spit words out noding my head and biting my lip.

"good girl" he says going back to his pace

he starts to move his fingers at an unreal pace adding a thrid finger sending me near my climax.

"CHRIS MMPH" i moan loudly "im gonn..a CU..m" i spit out

"Not yet ma i wanna fuck you senseless" he says pullin his fingers out putting them in his mouth.

"mm ma you taste so good mmph" he says taking hand hand speading my legs open teasing my enterance with his tip rubbing up and down.

"chris please." i mumble

"please what mamas" he says knowing hwat hes doing to me.

"please fuck me chris" i moan out and with that chris slowly enters into my pussy groaning

"augh" chris groans "your so tight ma holy fuck." he mumbles

"faster chris" i say barely managing my words out.

Chris starts to move faster and faster to the point where hes moving at an animalistic pace. at this point im a moaning mess trying so hard to be quiet.

chris' thrust grow quicker somehow making me reach my climax

"augh im so close mamas cum with me" he says

"yes..chris" i say reaching my climax holding in til chris tells me too cum'

After a few more thrusts chris ques for me to cum

"now ma cum now." and with out any ferther we both came on eachother our warm white liquids oozing on eachother.

"holy fuck ma your amazing" chris says flopping next to me

"what are we now chris?" i ask

"your mine."

-Madsssss

follow me & @is4belle new TT- @sturnsma

request down below or here! -> https://www.tumblr.com/sturnsgirl/737532144341090304/hi-im-madi-im-a-day-1-chris-girland-i-started

#sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #foryou #tumblr fyp #smut #pics #not safe fw

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vixensbrainrotts · 5 months

Text

Tokyo revengers headcanons

Content: Tr headcanons

Content warnings: None I hope, please let me know if there are any!

Vixen's two cents: I’ve been wanting to dump all my headcanons somewhere for a while now so here! I don’t think that these are all, but I’m gonna make a second post about any further headcanons I have. Also, i apologize for not including everyone here, ill make sure to include them next time. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, please tell me about it! Don’t be afraid to send me requests either, I’d love to write most anything (I’m uncreative sometimes)! Oh also, what are some of your headcanons? Do you agree with any of mine? I’ll link the part two once i figure out how to do that lol

(VOLUME II)

Kokonoi who is genuinely so bothered by bugs you won’t believe it. He has to leave the room as soon as he sees the „threat“, and fast.

Izana who curses loudly on Filipino whenever he accidentally hurts himself. You can hear him shout from across the whole house when he bumps himself on a corner.

Chifiyu who has a passion for graffiti. He loves tagging and wild styling and spraying elaborate throwup-styles on walls on Toman turf.

Inui who is colorblind, which is really unfortunate because he has an interest in fashion and styles. He relies on Koko for the greater part, but has recently discovered apps that identify color, which has vastly improved his personal style and allowed him to take on more challenging shades.

The Katawa twins who have an honestly really impressive Pokémon card collection and often play against each other to pass time. The amount they have spent on it is sorta concerning and more often than not stop by the little magazine store to buy another pack to "improve their decks" before gang meetings.

Hakkai who has a distinct dislike for the color orange but keeps finding himself surrounded it. He hates it but the walls in his room are orange. He could puke because his favorite faux-fur-coat is a darker orange. There’s no reasoner doesn’t like the color but something about it makes his skin crawl.

Hanma who is German/Russian and makes sure everyone knows it. He is proud of his heritage and will often use German and Russian idioms when conversating. It’s all fun and games till he starts swearing in his mother tongues during fights, bashing in his opponent’s skulls whilst cursing in a foreign, very aggressive manner.

Nahoya and Souya who work like devils in the kitchen. It’s a perfect tandem in between them, they somehow always know what the other wants and needs. If Nahoya needs a hand in opening the oven, Souya’s doing a 360 no look opening. If Souya’s hands are messy from kneading the dough, Nahoya automatically turns on the tap for hand washing. Twin telepathy is real and they’re the number one proof.

Mucho who can’t do shit in terms of math. You need him busy? Ask him for 7x9 and he’ll be unresponsive for the next 3-5 minutes. It’s really frustrating to him because he genuinely puts in so much effort to understand the formulas, but the numbers simply don’t click in his brain.

Smiley who got the smiley piercing the moment he found out about it. It’s really impressively healed and works so well on his face. Some even say that his smile has gotten wider ever since he got it. He also has a poorly healed nose stud on the left side that he only keeps in for sentimental value. He got it in the seventh grade during school and he got his ass whooped when he came back home with it.

Kisaki who unintentionally practices calligraphy because he writes exclusively in cursive. All of his notebooks look fake because all the letters look identical and everything is evenly spaced. The highlighter girlies in his classes wish death upon him on a daily.

Rindou who’s cracked at Chemistry for no reason. He doesn’t even have to try, it’s like the formulas unfold in front of him and the laws and rules just make sense. He can’t even explain it but ask him anything, and I mean anything he can give you the right answer. Just don’t ask him to be your lab partner. He has a nasty history of breaking test tubes.

Kakucho who knows how to dress. Like really know how to dress. Anywhere, anytime he’s looking like a Pinterest board. He doesn’t really try or occupy himself with things fashion, but he just looks so good and coordinated all the time. He thought it was natural to know what looks good or not, so he’s sometimes a bit perplexed by the things that his peers wear. He tries to be nice when he tells them it doesn’t work, but comes across a little brash because it frustrates him.

Kazutora who has unnaturally sharp canines. Like, it’s kinda scary sometimes because they poke out of his mouth even when it’s closed. He’ll commonly run his tongue over them when he’s bored, poking and prodding at them to check if they’re still sharp. It’s one of the features of his face he really does like.

Mitsuya who gossips like a Girl. He lives for drama and tea (silently) and due to his club being occupied by mostly girls, he’s surrounded by it constantly. The girls talk and talk and talk and he eats it up. The scary part is that he remembers nearly every part of it, so he knows so much. He’ll never share it with anyone but likes to know what’s happening. Sometimes he even correctly predicts scandals due to background knowledge.

Leading from the last one, Mitsuya who has a deep voice. One that rumbles softly when he speaks and sounds like the ocean when he laughs. It’s a killer during after-noon classes when he has to present or read something cause it has such a calming effect. He’s put multiple of his classmates asleep accidentally.

Draken who know just the tiniest bit about sowing from helping out in Mistuya’s workshop. He knows how to close a seam, he knows how to sew a button and he knows how to patch a hole and that’s it. He’s lowkey proud of it though.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x you #Tokyo revengers headcanons #headcanon #headcanons #tr headcanons

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madelynraemunson · 1 month

Text

mini series

GO BACK | NEXT LEVEL 🔒 | theme song: new divide - linkin park

player zero: level one

ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴛᴀQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ — ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀ ꜰᴀɴ — ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪʀᴛᴜᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ (ᴠʀ) ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱ ᴠᴇɢᴀꜱ ꜱᴘʜᴇʀᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟ ꜱʜᴏᴡ.

I remember black skies, the lightning all around me.

disclaimers: 18+, psychological thriller, blood, violence, sexual themes, swearing, reader interacts with the st characters, eddie falls for reader who goes by “zero/000, player zero”, reader’s gender identity isn’t specified but does have a vagina, unintentional plot divergence, upside down exists, vecna/001/henry exists, everything is basically canon until reader shows up… 😳, joseph quinn cameo at the end | pairing: eddie munson x reader x joseph quinn

a/n: enjoy everyone! i’m sorry this took so long to come out but i am committed to only releasing my best work to you guys 🩶 i hope you all enjoy level 001!!

[WC: 2.0k words]

“Player Zero…do you copy?”

🎮

By the grace of your headset, you begin to scan the dark, almost void-like, aperture that’s hijacked your surroundings.

“Copy,” you report back to James.

“Excellent.”

Everything around you is black, a noisy puddle sits at your feet. The room is crisp from the AC, and the props smell like rubber tires. And soon, with a push of a button, you will come face to face with the Mind Flayer, saving everyone from this ill-fated town once and for all.

You can’t believe this. What thousands will pay to do, you get to experience for free, having been one of the few selected to try out the new Stranger Things: Virtual Reality Game at the Las Vegas Sphere. (Not to mention, you're the biggest Stranger Things fan in your hometown and quite possibly the biggest Joseph Quinn fan in the state of Nevada).

Eddie's death left you completely shattered. He just fit in so well with the older members of the party that you were almost certain the Duffers would keep him around. But to your despair, alongside many others, they did what they do best and killed off another fan favorite.

But there was something beautiful that came out of Eddie's death. Because of Stranger Things 4, Joseph Quinn has been getting booked for acting gigs left and right, getting asked to come to fan conventions, and you were able to find a community on Tumblr who shared the same love for him and Eddie Munson, and with that notion alone, means the silly metalhead lives on through you guys.

Your dream is to meet Joe one day. You’ve been frantically saving up for the day you get to hug him and thank him for everything he’s done for you and others. Whenever that may be. Until then, all you could do is support his work and contribute to all of his supporting franchises. Much like this one.

“I can’t wait to tell all my mutuals all about this game,” you think to yourself.

James permits you to walk around in order to adapt to your environment. You’re already planning what to tell your friends based on your observations so far. But since pictures aren't allowed, your phone remains in your back pocket for the time being.

“Alright Player Zero,” your guide further instructs you. “You’re going to walk through the gate. And from there the game will begin.”

“And what if I need to pee?”

The comment earns you a chuckle from James. “That’s fine. You’ll just have to take your headset off and call out to me.”

James asks you if you have any other questions. You couldn’t help yourself.

“Will I interact with any characters? Like Eddie?”

“No Eddie unfortunately, it’s primarily the Mind Flayer,” James answers honestly. “Goal of the game is to fight the monster.”

“Understood,” you pout in disappointment.

“Hey but I’ll be surprised if you run into anyone though,” James laughs. “Tell ‘em I say hi if you do.”

Just then, a neon orange projection appears from the corner of your eyes, followed by some squelching noises that gnaw uncomfortably at your ears. And as you get closer to it, you can hear the shrieks of some very familiar, unearthly creatures.

“Walk through the gate now, Zero,” James instructs you.

You take a deep breath, a little scared at how vivid the graphics are but reassuring yourself that all of this is just a game.

“Walking,” you report.

Hobbling into the gate, the synthetic warmth massages your ankle as you squeeze your way on in. You land on the bottom tier, a floor below the floor you started on... one that you weren't aware existed until you continued to walk around.

“This isn’t so bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Just then, the noise around you cuts off and your headset broadcasts to black.

Tssssss.

Unsure whether or not this was part of the game, you continue to tread around the nothingness that is around you. Holding your arms out to keep your balance doesn’t seem to help, because the more you graze onto nothing, the more panicked you become.

This is odd. Where’s the Mind Flayer?

“James?!” you call out, your heart nearly beating out of your chest now.

Nothing.

Suddenly, obnoxious TV static overpowers your headspace. It’s accompanied by lightheadedness, the brightness of it all mercilessly stinging your eyes, and the high-pitched feedback noise that soon fills your ears is probably enough to make you go deaf for the day. Great, now you know why this is a trial run.

“James!” you hiss again quietly. “Anyone?!”

No response. You were never warned about this part. Was this even supposed to happen?

Absolutely frustrated now, you reach for your headset to get out of the game yourself. But to your surprise, you’re stunned to have gotten two palms full of your hair, and part of your face. There was no headset on your head. You’re walking in a void of nothingness, with no one around to help you.

“I need to pee…” is your final attempt to connect with somebody.

The ear-piercing, scratching sounds start up once again. This time grainier, louder. It continues for a while as you run around in a panic before halting to complete radio. silence.

“Wh-” you pant. “What’s happeni-”

JOLT!

“OH SHIT!”

You’re then met with an abrupt, devastating PUSH that sends you flying across the room and down — what you could only describe as — an endless black hole. Your hand clutches at your chest as an attempt to soothe yourself. You’re almost sure your heart stopped for a minute due to absolute shock.

SMACK!

In a millisecond, your body lands on a prickly patch that you soon make up to be loose straws of hay. Blending into the scenery now is that of a remote grass field, with the smell of fresh trees and newly cut blades of grass dancing around your nose.

You can’t think of any place in Las Vegas that would have a barren field like this. Nor can you think of a town nearby with this much of a Midwestern flare, this much empty — and grassy — land, and this much Kodak green undertone to its atmosphere. Unless…

It can’t possibly be. Are you in Hawkins?

You're standing around like an idiot trying to figure out how this could've possibly happened.

You knew this experience was 'all-immersive', but judging by the description, you were supposed to be taken to the Upside Down... and the backwoods by Reefer Rick's hideout was a long commute from. Was this Mind Fight going to be after-the-fact?

Trudging towards Reefer Rick’s now, you begin to think of other ways to get James' attention. But when you hear the faint voice of someone else coming from inside the abandoned lake house, suddenly getting out of the game becomes less of a priority.

“Eddie…” the familiar voice softly commands.

Eddie?

The voice you register belongs to no one other than Gaten Matarazzo, or Dustin Henderson in this sense. But that’s impossible, you think to yourself. James said that there were no characters in the game.

“We are on... your side...”

Oh, it’s this scene. Peaking through the door that was open a mere three inches, you're stunned to see the four dimensional manifestations of the characters you've grown to love right in front of your very eyes.

IMPOSSIBLE.

It's them. You almost stumble backwards when you see Sadie Sink and Maya Hawke alongside Gaten; and despite having their backs towards you, you know it is for sure them, and not some workers hired to play the part.

Your eyes travel to the corner of the room. Very much to your surprise, evident by the butterflies in your stomach, you're met with Joe Keery as Steve Harrington, and Joseph Quinn... the love of your life... in the flesh... your Eddie. Both characters are too focused on each other to even register your presence. If they are even able to see you at all.

You continue to be the fly on the wall while taking a few collected deep breaths. There's no way that they're in front of you right now. There's no way a whole SCENE from the show is panning out in front of you right now. Almost as if it's real time.

“I swear on my mother!” Gaten Dustin continues, trying to reason with Eddie so he can drop the knife and let go of Steve. He turns to the others for help.

“Right?! Guys?!”

“Yes, yes we swear,” the party clamors together in attempts to calm Eddie down.

“On Dustin’s mother,” Maya Robin attempts.

“Yeah, Dustin’s…Dustin’s mother…”

Keery’s voice is strained as he gulps in fear. Reasonably so, because there’s a knife pointed at his throat in this scene.

You clear yours at the doorway, causing everyone to deadpan to you in shock. So they can see you. And sure enough when this happens, that’s when your gaze lands on him. And his gaze lands on you.

It’s insane. It’s like you are looking Joseph Quinn in the eyes, but at the same time, it’s not him. It is literally — Eddie Munson. He's even more beautiful than you imagined.

“On Dustin’s mother?” you speak.

“Jesus, where did YOU spawn from?!” Gaten Dustin exclaims.

“Who’s that?” Sadie Max wonders.

“I…don’t know,” Maya Robin answers.

Immediately, Dustin runs to shield Eddie from your sight. But it’s already too late. And plus, Eddie’s eyes have already met yours. Studied yours.

“I’m…” you speak. “I’m here to help.”

You figured while James figures out what the actual fuck is wrong, that you’d interact with the characters. They’re right in front of you after all, and actually responding.

"I'm Zero..." you explain to them. "I'm not... I'm not from here, but I know a hell of a lot about this place. A lot more than you guys think."

“You know about what’s going on around here?” Robin inquires.

You nod. “And I know part of who is behind it all, and what we can do to stop him.”

"H...him?"

Eddie's timid stare pierces straight into you. It's enough for your knees to buckle, but you know you have to keep yourself collected otherwise the projections of these characters would probably freak out at you.

You hear a tiny thud sound against the wooden floor. Eddie has dropped the knife. Breathing a sigh of relief now, Steve sinks to the ground to gather himself. Meanwhile, a small circle gathers around you.

“There are… greater forces at bay,” you explain. “And it goes way beyond what you know about the demogorgons, the shadow monster, the Mind Flayer… There’s this... really powerful warlock…and a shadow that looms over him to do some really horrible things. And it’s not who you’d expect.”

“You know about those too?” Steve asks.

You nod. Eddie only seems more confused.

"A lot more than you know..." you warn him. "Trust."

"What else do you know about?" Dustin questions.

"I know about Eleven, and Will," you answer. "And how they're safer in California than here, but that doesn't necessarily exempt them from danger."

They all exchange looks with one another.

You can't help but look over at Eddie again.

"I know what happened to Chrissy," you say to him. He looks back up at you. "She's that nice girl from the middle school talent show, right?"

"I left her there," is all he says. He knows you understand what he meant by it. "I'm just a coward."

"You're not a coward, Eddie. Nothing you could've done could've prevented what happened at the trailer."

“Zero…” Dustin whispers to himself. Then he looks up at you with suspicion. Pointing an accusatory finger at you, he says, "How do we know you weren't sent by Hawkins Lab to spy on us?! You're a number after all."

"I'm not a number from the lab, trust me," you roll your eyes, slightly annoyed at Curly and his superstition. But it makes sense. "I don't even know Eleven, okay? Just think of me as... a guardian. From another universe. I think I was sent here to help you guys. I know how this shit ends, after all."

“How does it end?” Eddie asks you. “F-for us? For me?”

You turn to him in anguish.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” you respond honestly. “But if you guys are open to my help, I can get us out of this mess unscathed. Build up some leeway.”

You turn to Max who only seems to be backing further away from you. It's definitely in her character to do so, Maxine has always struggled to ask for help. But you know, deep down in those fearful blue eyes, she wants your help as much as she wants to run away from it.

"And we're gonna break you out of that curse," you say to her.

You're no expert on the laws of space-time, but it doesn't take a scientist to realize that you're in a different Hawkins reality. And knowing there are countless outcomes and experiences for existence, you can make this reality your own.

Which means, if you choose to stay in this 'game', and play the cards correctly, the Eddie standing directly in front of you has a second chance at life.

Now’s your chance to fix it. And experience an altered timeline. You don't know how this is possible, but it is. And after all, the Rule of Probability states, "the probability of an impossible event is Zero."

“If you guys want to save everyone in Hawkins, including Eddie and Max, you guys have to do EXACTLY what I say do you understand?”

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cyberpunk dividers from: @k1ssyoursister @sillycircus-decoarchive

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