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quietly-by-myself · 1 year

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A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 1

Masterlist

CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, injection, referenced past noncon, death wish, slavery whump, carewhumper, doctor carewhumper, dubcon medical treatment, suicidal ideation, medical restraints, psych medication talk, "kid" used to refer to an adult

===

The subject had unmistakeable scars, though Vasiliki didn’t know whether or not they came from Constantine and his bunch. The truth was that Vasiliki didn’t like Constantine, but it was something he’d never let slip. They’d started at the Facility around the same time. It felt like that they were supposed to at least pretend that they liked each other.

God, that was one hundred years ago now. One hundred years of this rotten work.

Vasiliki groaned. Luckily, he only had one patient at a time. Being a higher-up meant that he overlooked the younger doctors who had twenty, thirty a piece had its perks. Constantine only brought Vasiliki the ones he thought that Vasiliki would like. For that, he was thankful.

Eventually, Vasiliki decided to read the subject’s intake paperwork to figure out what surgeries and the like they’d done to him, considering that the subject was transgender. He needed to know what kind of testosterone the subject used. Notes on his behavior were helpful, too, of course.

Surgical History: Hysterectomy - 3 months, Keyhole Chest Reconstruction - 6 months

Medication History: Testosterone, injectable - 1 month to present, Lorazepam, 1 mg - as needed for sedation

So, the subject either had a history of acting out or of anxiety. Honestly, looking at him, Vasiliki was starting to think that it was both.

Training Notes for the Doctor: Manageable overall, anxious temperament, unpredictable at times; responds well to threats including sexual violence.

Had Vasiliki read that correctly?

He wasn’t oblivious to the reasons that most of the subjects were sold off - there were two reasons really. They were either sold to laboratories set on eradication of the dark arts or they were sold as “personal companions.” Few were lucky enough to end up just doing household chores.

However, Vasiliki hadn’t taken Constantine as the type. Normally, he was borderline obsessed with keeping his subjects as clean as possible in every way, so that the “firsts” could be with whoever they were sold to.

No wonder the kid looked so afraid.

Reading through the notes in his chart, all the ways in which Constantine had hurt him, how the scarring around his eyes was from intentional burning - all of it pissed Vasiliki off so much that he decided to go see the subject right away.

To his surprise, the subject wasn’t asleep. In fact, he was languidly looking out the door. The oxygen monitor was reading at 91%. He was still coughing, but at least he was taking up the oxygen.

“Have your name ready for me?”

“Akakios, sir.”

Vasiliki hummed his approval. “Now, Akakios, I’m Dr. Christakos. Do you understand why you’re here?”

“Sir, I was a spontaneous birth from a village.” Tears came to the subject’s eyes, much to Vasiliki’s surprise. Hadn’t the subject cried enough? “I haven’t known why I’m here since I was brought here.”

“Not even during your training?”

“Sir, I thought I was kidnapped. I didn’t know it was training until three months in. I still… this isn’t legal, is it, sir?”

Vasiliki considered the subject before him, Akakios. “Well, then I’m the bearer of bad news. Akakios, you’re legally property. You’re a slave. You were being trained to be sold. I’m here to patch you up.” He sighed. “Your prospects are bleak, my friend. If you’re lucky, you’ll be sold to a laboratory. If you’re not, to a private holder.”

Akakios let out a gasp that quickly threw him into a coughing fit, interrupted every so often by sobs. It was a horrible mix that dropped his oxygen by two percent.

“Try to breathe. You’re sick as it is. Did they not fucking take care of you over there?”

Akakios flinched.

“I’ll take that as a negative.”

Vasiliki stood up. “You need codeine. It’ll help with the pain and your cough. Being what you are, you won’t die from the mixture of codeine and sedatives, so don’t worry. It’ll just knock you out.”

That did nothing to reassure the subject. “Please, sir, just kill me. It’ll be better for both of us. I know you said you’re a doctor and you can’t, but please, it really would be better.”

Vasiliki sighed. Clearly, the sedatives had done little for the subject. In fact, with all this talk of dying and being killed, Vasiliki was glad that the subject was restrained and unable to do anything to himself. Hopefully, the combination of the sedatives and the codeine would do something. If not, Vasiliki would need to put the subject on more pertinent medications and he wasn’t sure if he was willing to ensure the right fit. Vasiliki was no psychiatrist.

“Listen to me, Akakios,” Vasiliki snapped. “You aren’t my property. If I kill you, it won’t be murder, but it’ll be property damage bad enough that I’ll lose my job. I want you to understand that nobody here sees you as human. You’re a mage of the dark arts. Your existence is forbidden. As far as you’re concerned, you aren’t human. So, it’s best that you forget you ever were.”

That, of course, did little to help the subject, but the wisdom would come with time.

“When was the last time you were given your testosterone shot? The chart didn’t specify.”

The subject was a little taken aback, enough so that he stopped his pathetic sniveling for a moment. “This day last week.”

“And you still want that shot?”

“Yes, sir. I can’t live without it.”

Vasiliki nodded, grabbing a pair of nitrile gloves off of the wall. He carefully put them on.

Then, he went back to the sink area, back to the cabinets where he kept all of his medicines. Of course, he didn’t have testosterone on hand, so he had to shout a nurse down who got him the correct dose, pre-loaded for him, of course.

He had plenty of codeine, though. Only in a syrup. That was perhaps for the better.

“Drink the syrup, then I’ll give you your shot.”

The subject once again opened his toothless mouth, waiting, tears still flowing down his face. Vasiliki poured the cough syrup down the subject’s throat, rubbing slightly to ensure it all went down. While rubbing the subject’s throat, he noticed the rings of bruises from where he’d been choked and, of course, the unmistakable love bites.

Vasiliki pretended not to notice and failed.

“Where do they usually do this?”

“My thigh.”

Of course, there were many more bruises and whip marks, too, there. Finding unmarked skin to do the injection in was difficult, too difficult for Vasiliki’s liking. Eventually, he found a place where the bruises were light enough that he felt comfortable injecting. With one depression of the plunger, he’d given the subject the full dose without even so much as a flinch.

“Thank you, sir.”

“At least you know your manners,” Vasiliki scoffed.

He went over to the wall and disposed of the syringe in the sharps bin. A few beats of silence passed between them.

“I’m going to need to take blood cultures and the like. I need to see how sick you are.”

“Why even tell me, if I’m not human anymore?”

“Because you may not be human to me, but I care about my patients on some level. The handlers - you’re a means to an end. Here, taking care of you is my job. Including your mental health. You can’t exactly sell a suicidal pet.”

The bleak look in the subject’s eyes genuinely caught Vasiliki off guard when he turned around. A pang in his chest, perhaps, formed when he saw how goddamn hopeless the kid looked.

“Don’t tell me you’re suicidal right now?”

The subject nodded.

Vasiliki took a rolling stool and rolled up to the subject’s bed. “Well, I’d rather you tell me now than deal with it later.”

Suddenly, that callousness he approached his patients with went away. It felt wrong, when a patient was at such a low point to, well, treat them just as another pet. How was he supposed to not care? After everything he’d seen? Everything that this damn system had put him through?

Cognitive dissonance, maybe, was the word for it.

Suddenly, he realized he’d been too harsh.

The subject looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help your thoughts.” Vasiliki tried to piece together what to say next. “I’ve given you sedatives and the codeine should be working soon.”

Vasiliki inhaled sharply, trying to force the clinical side to turn off for one minute. “You’ve heard a lot today. I’m sure you have a lot of thoughts and a lot of concerns going through your head. You’ve been through a lot… haven’t you?”

Again, the subject nodded.

“Constantine isn’t normally like that.” Hearing Constantine’s name made the subject flinch visibly. “He’s normally more restrained. I wish I could give a rhyme or reason to his actions, but I can’t. Nobody good works here.”

The subject was silent, so Vasiliki continued. “Like I said, I’m here to take care of you. Even if I’m not good, my job is to care for you. Now, the pain should be managed with the codeine. It’ll help the cough, too, and you’re on oxygen. I’ll get those blood cultures. Then, once the results are back, I’ll decide if I want to give you antibiotics. For now, you rest. That’s all, okay?”

The subject nodded. Of course, after one hundred years of being clinical, Vasiliki found it hard not to be when he needed to.

“Okay and Akakios?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I don’t like forcing medication on individuals in your situation if I can avoid it. That being said, there are medicines that could help you cope with what you’re going through. If you want them, you can have them. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll bring you a glass of tea soon. For now, let me collect the blood cultures and I’ll be on my way.”

There wasn’t a sound from the subject after that. Using the IV line that he’d put in earlier, Vasiliki collected three vials of blood, affixing them with the correct label, and sending them off for testing.

With that done, Vasiliki left to go check on how the other doctors were doing that night - and, well, to go make tea, apparently.

===

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @whumpsday @pigeonwhumps @oddsconvert @pumpkin-spice-whump

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 1 year

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srry… disc war bad end au brainrot.

#my art #dream smp #dsmp #c!tommy #tommyinnit #tommyinnit fanart #dream smp fanart #dsmp fanart #tw dehumanisation #tw restraint #this is referenced off a bit from the sorry boys video btw #with the expression

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thelastattempt · 3 months

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#saw someone else’s ask referencing feminism and wrote out a whole tag rant #and it’s not bad or explosive or anything at all #and i didn’t reblog it cause it’s not the ‘me’ show today #everyone should marvel at my restraint

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the-physicality · 2 months

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it really bugs me when "sports journalists" make elimination tables for the pwhl playoffs and then say they don't know what the tie breakers are when they are publicly available

#i have a public twitter account and i could make a nasty little quote tweet public or private #but i wont #i could also email this person with a link to the tie breakers that i have referenced multiple times this season[today included] but i won'#this is called restraint #maybe this is my second subtweet about this situation #knowing that i know more about how the playoffs are decided than someone who gets paid to cover the league is enough

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hurtthemgently · 2 years

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19 for maze

Masterlist

19 (stress position)

From this prompt list

Cw: tiny whumpee, stress position, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper, mild lab whump, non con touching and kissing, burning

The vines that encircled Maze’s wrists pulled him up to where he could stand flat on his feet. He squirmed against the restraints. Kicking and swinging, Maze was able to lift himself up, but couldn’t get out of the vines.

The metal panel that he stood atop was thin, and he was almost scared it’d bend under his weight. Briar lit a candle and lowered it under the panel, and he sobbed, realizing what was happening.

The metal warmed under his feet. Quickly becoming unbearable. He pulled himself up by the vines, grabbed them as the restraint wasn’t enough to lift him, holding himself above the heated surface. The second his feet left the surface, they clicked a timer.

“Wait— please! Don’t leave me like this!” Tears fell, and he writhed to get out of the hold.

“Oh but how else will I find out how long you can hold yourself up? You’re so light, and can lift much more compared to your body weight. I want to know if you have the endurance to match that strength.”

“Please.” His eyes were wide, glassy with tears. A vine wrapped to fit between his teeth. “Mmhh!”

They left the room after checking the timer was working.

——

His arms burned. He couldn’t hold himself up for much longer, but the prospect of the burning metal beneath him was too terrifying to contemplate. He was shaking with effort.

Briar returned, and stopped to examine him with a magnifying glass, checking for burns. He strained as they circled behind him. Without warning, they pressed a soft kiss to his back. The movement pushed him, straining his arms.

He almost fell at this. They went to sit in an opposite corner of the room, reading a book in a language he didn’t know.

——

When he finally fell, his arms were ablaze moreso than his feet where he touched the hot surface. He heard a small sizzle before being lifted. He could only scream behind the gag, barely enough strength to keep his eyes open, much less try and move.

They tilted his chin with a sharp nail, and every little nudge sent waves of agony through his arms, through his stomach. He collapsed to the table when the vines let go.

Laying there, he wanted nothing more than to drift of to sleep, for the fiery ache to fade. Briar marked down the time, and put a gel on his feet.

“This’ll get those burns healed quick and clean, ready for us to test again tomorrow!” They cheered, blowing out the candle to save it for later.

#the gardener and the bug #tiny whumpee #stress position #restraints tw #burning tw #referenced lab whump #non con touching and kissing #creepy/intimate whumper

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serickswrites · 7 months

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Hey it's been quite long I haven't asked, can you please write about what Caretaker would do with whumpee everyday when they are both in the icu room while Whumpee recovers from injuries.

Absolutely, I can write this! (And I haven't forgotten to finish your other request, it's just marinating so I can finish it, lol).

Please enjoy!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced wounds, referenced forced to watch, referenced restraints, hospital, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker stared down at the healing wounds on their wrists. It was either stare there, stare at the wall, or stare at Whumpee. And they'd been staring at Whumpee for the last few hours and couldn't take anymore. It was too hard.

They could barely swallow around the lump in their throat when they thought about the only thing they walked away with from their time with Whumper were these scars on their wrists from the rope rubbing. While Whumpee walked away with much worse.

Whumpee hadn't woken since they slipped into unconsciousness as Caretaker ran to the ambulance with them. Hadn't woken since EMTs worked tirelessly to save their life. Hadn't woken since arriving that the hospital and being ripped away from Caretaker and into emergency surgery. Hadn't woken since Caretaker was guided into the ICU room where they lay, tubes coming out of them in various places.

Caretaker had been powerless to help Whumpee. Had been powerless to do anything except watch Whumpee suffer at Whumper's hands. Watch Whumpee grow weaker and weaker. And finally watch Whumpee succumb to unconsciousness.

They were still powerless and could only watch.

The nurses were kind and assured Caretaker that Whumpee's body just needed some time to heal. That being in a coma helped. That the medical team felt it was very likely that Whumpee would wake again.

The waiting was killing Caretaker. They dragged their gaze up once more so they could stare at Whumpee. Stare at the consequences of their failing to stop Whumper. Stare at their consequences of failing to save Whumpee sooner. Stare at their world that was slowly crumbling.

Caretaker took Whumpee's hand in theirs. "Please, please forgive. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. I need you. Please, Whumpee. I'm so sorry."

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw referenced wounds #tw referenced forced to watch #tw referenced restraints #tw hospital #tw unconsciousness #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #queue

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 8 months

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Whumptober Day 1: Drugging / Truth Serum.

Canon divergence. After capturing Tommy and killing Tubbo when they tried to kill him in the prison, Dream forces Tommy to take some special potions to learn the truth behind the attempt. Warnings for referenced torture and mutilation, eye injury, restraints, drugging, manipulation, self-hatred, victim blaming, and dehumanisation.

ao3 if you prefer

— Tommy winced in pain as Punz kicked him in the stomach again, too tired to even scream anymore. The chains holding him in place kept him from crumpling to the ground, leaving him awkwardly kneeling while his arms strained. They’d already been long forced out of their socket from when Dream had beat him to death, so at least it didn’t hurt any more than usual, but it was exhausting.

Through a half-lidded eye, Tommy couldn’t help but focus on the blood staining Punz’s hoodie a deep red, the chunks of horn and fur still stuck to it. All that was left of Tubbo. He was far too dazed to process that thought- that Tubbo was truly gone, that he’d never see him again. It just felt like a bad dream, like he’d wake up in the bunker tomorrow and message him, and he’d send back a picture of Micheal trying to eat snow or something.

That’s what would have happened, had Tommy not screwed it up.

“Prime, Punz, you’ll kill him; calm down. We need him alive for questioning, dumbass.” Dream’s voice felt like nails on a chalkboard, and Tommy would have flinched if he had the energy. “Besides, I thought we agreed Tommy was mine. Go experiment on the other one, if you can’t keep your anger in line.”

“He killed you!” Punz’s protests sounded more like a child whining than someone actually concerned and angry. If he were more cognisant, Tommy might have been disturbed by how plainly that showed the differences in how the two of them viewed death from everyone else- like a toy cruelly ripped from their hands, not an agonising and permanent inevitability. Instead, all he could think was that he just wanted everyone to be quiet.

“Punz.”

Punz let out an exaggerated sigh before turning away, deliberately smacking Tommy in the face with a swish of his heavy tail as he walked off. The impact against his eye socket sent so much pain through his face that he couldn’t help but gag, even as exhausted as he was. The feeling of the axe tearing out his eye was impossibly agonising, but it hurt worse to have anything so much as brush the empty wound left.

He whined in pain as a gentle hand pulled him up by his chin, forcing him to look up. Everything blurred in Tommy’s mind, leaving only a blur of green and white broken up by the same red as Punz was. “Shh, shh. They’re gone now. It’s just you and me, Tommy. Just Dream and Tommy, like old times.”

The words didn’t really process through Tommy’s head, but he still let out an involuntary shudder. Dream laughed, the sound like another blow to the head.

“You thirsty? I got a drink if you need one.” The clink of a glass bottle taunted Tommy, and he was suddenly aware of how painfully dry his throat was. He nodded his head desperately and, finding himself unable to speak, mouthed the word please weakly.

The smell of magic, sickly sweet yet with the faintest hint of burning flesh, invaded the air as the cap popped out of the bottle, and of course it was a potion. Even in his dazed state, Tommy wasn’t even surprised, just resigned. What did surprise him, as the bottle was gently brought to his lips and he weakly took tiny sips, the insides of his mouth too torn up by his braces for much more, was that he didn’t recognise the taste.

It depended on how a potion was brewed, of course, but even with someone like Wil, who sweetened the shit outta everything, you could detect it behind the flavouring. Healing potions, for example, tasted remarkably like strawberries- Tommy wasn’t sure why, you didn’t use strawberries to make them, but they did- while invisibility potions tasted like cinnamon, and the T Tommy took tasted terribly bitter.

This potion, plain with no efforts to hide its effects, tasted metallic, like the blood on your tongue after a deserved beating, yet it also had a faint spiciness to it. Tommy wasn’t a picky eater- he’d survived mostly on raw meat and dubiously safe berries before Wilbur had taken him in- but the taste was still intense, if not entirely unpleasant. Still, he was so thirsty he could think of nothing but gulping it down as quickly as possible.

Dream ruffled Tommy’s hair as he drank, in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. “See, look. I’m not so bad, am I? Sorry about Punz, he just gets… protective, y’know?” He laughed softly, the sound slightly less piercing. “Now, this, I worked hard on. It’ll dull the pain of, y’know, all that, and… well, I’ll let it be a surprise, actually! That’s fun.” Finally, he moved the bottle from Tommy’s mouth, far before his thirst could be adequately quenched. “Don’t you love surprises, Tommy?”

“No,” Tommy whispered, the words forcing themselves through his throat. They came out dry and scratchy, hurting even at the quietest of tones.

“Oh, it works!” There was a childish glee in Dream’s tone, and Tommy felt a pit settle in his stomach at what that meant. Dream getting excited seemed to always involve horrible things happening. “Okay, so what this does is that it makes it so you can’t lie, and you can’t stay quiet to hide the truth either. I hate that I can’t trust you, Tommy, but trust has to be earned, okay?”

Tommy gave a blank stare, and Dream wheezed in laughter. “Yeah, yeah, probably too much for you right now. Let’s keep it simple, ‘kay? Can you tell me why the fuck you came into my house and tried to murder me?”

Tommy flinched at the slight hiss in Dream’s tone, preparing for a blow that didn’t come, as the explanation forced its way out. “I- I didn’t want to kill you, it’s just- you- you were gonna torture me forever, ‘cause you hate me, you told me yourself. So I had to- to do something first.”

“Oh, Tommy.” Dream sounded weirdly sad, and Tommy couldn’t comprehend why. “I promise, I don’t hate you. I mean, I stayed when Wilbur didn’t, right? I could be your new big brother! Do you like that idea, Tommy?”

“I don’t wanna be alone,” Tommy said pitifully, and he hated himself for it. No, he didn’t want to spend a single fucking second more in Dream’s presence! Dream had to be lying about the whole truth thing, because the idea that- that he could ever answer anything but fuck no was a lie. “I’d- I’d do that, if it meant I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

“See, look? You could have just told me that when Wilbur left, and then Tubbo wouldn’t have had to have died. Do you think that’s your fault, Tommy?”

“I’m not the one who cut his fuckin’ head off.”

“But do you think he’d have died if you didn’t barge in here because you thought I hated you?” There was no venom in the tone, just a sickly sweet kindness, yet it brought tears to Tommy’s eyes. He knew that tone. It was worse than any vicious insult tearing him down could be.

He took a hiccuping breath, unable to stop himself from shaking his head. He made a strangled sound as he bit his tongue, muffling the no his mouth was already forming. He- it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. This was a trick. Yeah. It had to be.

“Aww, don’t sulk, Tommy. I’ll let you have play dates if you’re good. I mean, I’ll certainly need a new subject to figure out immortality with, and that’s a fitting punishment for him, don’t you think?” Dream laughed, a mix of cruelty and childish innocence mixing into a static mess that hurt Tommy’s head. A drink had helped him be a bit less dazed, but he still felt like he was pushing through a wall made of jelly just to think.

“I- no. No, Tubbo- I dragged him into this. I deserve the punishment.” I deserve it. Tommy remembered that thought rushing through his head in Exile. Maybe… maybe it was true. It seemed easier, at least, to believe it. “I’ll take it. Just- just leave Tubbo-“

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was a low growl, and it stopped Tommy in his tracks, air suddenly feeling so heavy he had to hyperventilate to get a single breath. “You both deserve punishment, I think. And that’s the worst punishment I can think of for you. Making you watch as Tubbo suffers the consequences of your actions. Maybe you’ll know better than to fight the truth.”

Was that what he was doing? Fighting the truth? Tommy’s head hurt at the thought. He thought- he thought he hated Dream, he thought Dream hated him. It was fucking confusing. Had he just been lying to himself all along? Was this… was this his fault?

He let out a small sob. “Please. ‘m sorry, Dream.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for anymore. Something fuzzy like television static had raced its way through his body, replacing agony with pins and needles in both his injuries and his head. “I’ll be good, promise.”

A gentle hand ran through his curls, and Tommy tried to focus on the soft touch and not the fear bubbling in his mind, the tingling in his fingers, the claws getting caught in his hair and tugging out strands. “I know, I know. Like in Exile, right? Did you miss that, Tommy? Did you miss me?”

“Mhm.” He nodded faintly, his eye half-shut as sleep felt more and more tempting. “I- I don’t- I don’t miss when you’d hit me, or make me cry and shit, but it made fuckin’ sense, y’know? It made sense, and- and I knew what I was meant to do. I knew what I was.”

“And what was that, do you think?” Dream sounded more curious than demanding.

“A- a puppet. A pet. A plaything.” Tommy felt sick saying it. Even exhausted, it sounded wrong, it sounded awful. Oh, he knew Dream saw him like that; he wasn’t stupid. But he- he wasn’t fucking okay with that. “And you- you were my owner. And it fuckin’ sucked. But it- it was so much easier than everything being all change-y. Even when it’s the good change.”

Dream hummed, sounding somewhat pleased with that answer. “That’s interesting. I’ve always wanted to know how you really saw me, y’know? I’m definitely gonna use that potion more. This is going to make fixing you so much easier.”

Tommy furrowed his brows. “Wha-“

“Ssh, shh. It’s okay now. You don’t need to try and speak any longer.” Dream reached up, releasing his wrist from the manacle with a loud snapping sound that made Tommy’s head feel like it was being hit by a sledgehammer, swiftly doing so on the other side. Without being held up, Tommy collapsed fully onto the floor, his face getting stained in his own blood. He tried to lift himself up fruitlessly but couldn’t even move his arms. “You’ve got a long eternity when you wake up, after all.”

The last thing Tommy heard before the static in his head finally lulled him into a dreamless sleep was laughter, both comfortingly familiar and chillingly a promise of worse to come.

#my writing #ailesswhumptober #dream smp #c!primeboys #referenced torture tw #Referenced mutilation tw #Eye injury tw #restraints tw #drugging tw #manipulation tw #self hatred tw #victim blaming tw #dehumanization tw

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cinna-wanroll · 2 years

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The Force’s Stitching

You may read this fic on here, or on AO3 :)

The 501st was in the open, surrounded by a multitude of catastrophes. Bits of debris were suspended in the low-gravity atmosphere, creating a deadly maze. Behind them, enemy forces aimed to funnel them into a gully and pick them off like a stalking tusk-cat.

Among the warriors in blue and white, Jedi General Anakin Skywalker emerged with a smirk. He was a shadow among the ranks, a hunter on the prowl for scrap metal. To The Hero With No Fear, the party was just getting started. To the droids that formed enemy lines, he was a heat signature that needed to go cold.

With grace and strength beheld by none other than a masterful fool in the face of danger, he weaved further into the trap. While anyone might've called him precipitate, Anakin Skywalker held an unmatched knack for tact in battle. He was not just headstrong; he was headstrong and knew how to twist it to his advantage as readily as he could twist the Force around him.

Drawing the Seppies away from the 212th's infiltration had been easier than expected. They reached the gully ahead of schedule, which meant that the 501st had maybe a minute more to set up their defense mechanisms. It also allowed Anakin a headstart on retracing his steps.

As his men set up the heavy-duty equipment and prepared to extend their shields, Anakin locked eyes with his Captain. Rex's brow was set with determination, sweat trickling down his face. Anakin felt an awful presentiment stirring in The Force as he nodded to his friend. It tugged at his gut as he sprinted towards the prison block, and he set aside all thoughts of what the bad feeling might presage.

"Be in the here and now," he reminded himself. There would be time for devastation later.

[]o[] ~*~ []o[] ~*~ []o[] ~*~ []o[] ~*~ []o[] ~*~ []o[] ~*~ []o[]

Obi-Wan hung suspended, seeing nothing and feeling more than was convenient.

His captors had arranged the prisoners so that instead of cuffs, they were bound together by their hands. The sides of their palms were stitched together so that escape was nearly impossible. With each beating, he could feel the convulsions of his neighbors as they gripped desperately for some relief that wasn't there.

Obi-Wan predicated his life on The Order's teachings, but sometimes patience was more of a struggle than he would care to admit. His palms felt raw and split, and the taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He had learned to accept long ago that The Force was more scientist than merciful guiding hand. It had a predilection for proving the fragility of life and innocence. His first step to patience was acceptance, and his second was a painful awareness. Meditation was the only thing keeping him from tipping over the edge, even when it felt impossible to achieve.

Do, or do not.

In the darkness, ghosts of colors danced some inches in front of his eyelashes. Even in the merciless prison, he marshaled himself into The Force, allowing it to take him anywhere, urging it to take him far from where his mind was wandering ever-too-close to despair. A Jedi did not allow such a feeling to consume them. He took a breath, took hold of the pale colors, and formed them into a lifeline.

The vision that played for him like a holo revealed warmth, and he followed the trail into his memory. In it, he saw late nights of his youth spent with Quinlan and Luminara, the flash of a smile from Qui-Gon, and an exasperated young Anakin. He focused on that time, dissociating from all his present worries about if his old friend was coming to wander through a more comforting association.

In his memory, he and Anakin had been reviewing Jedi history late into the night. Anakin had hated playing catch up but perhaps hated the Republic-Mandalore Treaty even more. The young boy had only made it through the preamble before drifting off in his archive chair. Obi-Wan, who had been tired himself, merely sighed and let a fond smile spread across his face. He had returned Anakin to his quarters, watching over him as he slept. Anakin's restless nights were not unknown to Obi-Wan, and something told him to stay. Jedi were known to be prescient, and Obi-Wan was no exception. That night was rough and long, and Anakin had a fever before dawn broke over the city. Even looking back, Obi-Wan wouldn't have traded a single moment of fatigue for the look of relief his padawan gave him when he awoke.

"Master?"

"Bright sun, apprentice."

"Did you stay here all night?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

A pause.

"You were in pain. I needed to be here for you."

The voices faded away along with the warmth. As Obi-Wan drifted back to the present, light split the dank like a vibroblade, and the soft tones of early sunrise on Coruscant changed to the gamboge of his men.

He screamed as he was torn carelessly from the other prisoners and scrabbled for purchase. His legs shook as he tried to stand, and he collapsed into the arms of a familiar presence.

"Anakin?"

"Hey, old man. Relax, we're getting you out of here."

Obi-Wan groaned and flexed his hands, wincing at the feeling of fresh blood spilling down his arm.

"But, Anakin, the droids--"

"We'll take care of them, Obi-Wan. I needed to get to you."

Obi-Wan took a shaky breath and regarded his old apprentice with skepticism.

"Rash. You do know they outrank the 212th alone by nearly 4,000?"

"Please," Anakin's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, "4,000? That's a tea party."

Obi-Wan swallowed, trying to soothe the dryness in his throat. After a moment, he managed, "What's happened?"

Anakin's face fell entirely, then.

"I can't reach my men. They went radio silent just before we busted the gates."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to soothe Anakin's fears but was interrupted by a distant explosion. He felt the crushing loss like a broken bone and shuddered.

Anakin choked and dropped him to the ground. The last thing Obi-Wan remembered before blacking out was his friend, shrouded entirely in a shadow that hadn't been there before, fighting for even breath.

Anakin, Obi-Wan urged through The Force, peace, please.

#whumptober2022 #no.1 #unconventional restraints #star wars #tcw #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #fic #implied/referenced torture #stitches #cinna1fic

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zorobff · 7 months

Text

little by little. (opla!sanji x fem!reader)

synopsis: a series of events that transpire throughout your time mentoring sanji into a proper waiter, per zeff’s request.

word count: 5.3k

warnings: cursing, smoking, some direct dialogue from opla, zoro wants u but he can’t have uuu, a pitiful attempt at enemies to lovers, this is the plate technique i was referencing btw

the slicing, stirring, and sizzling of the kitchen fades into background noise compared to the two thick accents bickering back and forth. to no one’s surprise, a disagreement between sanji and zeff’s has escalated into another one of their infamous arguments. it was such a common occurrence that almost everyone working at the baratie knew to brace themselves for a yelling match at least once day.

you’re no different as you return to the kitchen from waiting tables and walk right past the pair without so much as a glance their way. instead, you make a beeline for patty’s cooking station. unamused, you ask, “they’re back at it again?”

patty slings a towel over his shoulder as he hands you table 7’s orders. “i told sanji not to put that original dish of his on the menu. he called it a true bluefin whatever the hell.”

“sounds promising,” you joke, collecting the plates from him.

“tell that to zeff,” he replies flatly. “he might even make it tomorrow’s special.”

“dammit zeff!” sanji exclaims, interrupting you and patty’s conversation. “if i gotta sling one more prime rib medium-well, i’m going to drop dead of boredom, you old shitbag!”

“it’s what we serve,” retaliates the older chef.

“it’s an insult to the meat!”

“oh, you don’t like cooking our menu? fine. ‘cause i’ll be more than delighted to give you some other work elsewhere. in fact, you are off the line. you’re going to get out there and wait tables!”

sanji’s jaw clenches at having been demoted but he removes his chef apron regardless. as often as the two of them bickered, he could never refuse such direct orders from zeff. he was the owner and founder of baratie — that was something to be respected.

all of a sudden, zeff calls your name, causing you to abruptly set down the dishes in your hands. what did you have to do with any of this? the older chef beckons you closer with a curled finger and it seems as if every pair of eyes in the kitchen shifts to you. except for sanji’s, who is too busy staring up at the ceiling as if he’s begging a higher power for self-restraint.

it’s ironic how after putting so much effort into being the best waitress possible, you end up in the middle of confrontation – something you went out of your way to avoid. still, your body reacts faster than your brain and you comply, scurrying over to where zeff and sanji stand.

“from here on out, you keep a close eye on him for me.” zeff clasps a large hand on sanji’s shoulder with such force that it sends the younger jolting forward. “i don’t wanna catch him slithering his way back into the kitchen unless it’s to grab orders, ya got it?”

you blink. “yes, chef.”

your response earns you a tight-lipped smile, a rarely seen gesture from zeff. as suddenly as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by a hardened gaze as he turns back to sanji. “if we’re lucky enough, some of your obedience might rub off on this little eggplant.”

the comment earns him an eye roll from the waiter in question, who seems less than thrilled with this new arrangement. “this is such bullshit, old man. you really think she can teach me anything?”

you go to defend yourself, slightly offended by his offhand comment. “hey, i—”

before you can get another word out, sanji interjects, offering you a glance. “no offense, i’m sure you’re lovely—” the moment he takes a good look at you, he trails off. it’s almost comical how quickly his demeanor changes, that signature smirk of his creeping onto his lips. “with an even lovelier face to match.”

you narrow your eyes at him, not charmed by the sudden switch in attitude. “you’re shameless.”

he smiles. “so i’ve been told.”

“we’ll need to work on that.”

his grin widens, if that was even possible. “i look forward to it.”

his smile is a little too mischievous for your liking; you sigh. “can’t say the same.”

ignoring your remark, he muses, “you know, it’s a shame that working under you is supposed to be a punishment. a pretty face like yours is more of a reward, if you ask me.”

“who said anything about a punishment?”

“well, what else would you call this?” he chuckles dryly. “instead of cooking, i’m expected to wait on idiots who can’t tell a rosé prosecco from a cheval blanc. and now i’m being treated like i need a babysitter.”

you fold your arms. “that’s because you do need a babysitter. besides, zeff calls the shots so there’s no use complaining.”

“of course you’d say that.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

he smirks. “i can already tell you’re a professional rule follower. a lap dog, if you will.”

“if you were too, we wouldn’t even be here.” you decide to take it even further, returning his bluntness. “maybe it’d be easier if that ego of yours wasn’t so inflated.”

“damn.” he places a hand over his heart as if you’ve wounded him. “if we’re talking about flaws, though, this might be a good time to mention the stick up your ass.”

“what? i don’t–” you take a deep breath. “listen, zeff is counting on me to turn you into a functional waiter. that means we have to tolerate each other for the time being. the sooner we do that, the sooner we go our separate ways. got it?”

he flashes you his teeth. “yes, ma’am.”

“great. to start, you’re going to wait tables with me.” with that, you walk back to patty’s station.

sanji scampers behind you, smile fading. “you’re joking.”

you shrug, opting to let your silence answer for you.

he continues, “you’re not even going to let me suffer through this alone? i’ve gotta be glued to your hip as well?”

“what’s the matter? i thought i was lovely,” you tease him, feigning sorrow. your faux pout contradicts the way you harshly shove two steaming plates his way.

“not when you’re bossing me around.” he hesitantly takes the dishes you hand him. “i mean, can’t you just let me off the hook? i’ll hide in the supply closet ‘til our shift’s over.”

“good one.”

WEEK ONE.

“welcome to baratie, i’ll be your waitress this afternoon. what can i get started for you?” you ask, ready to jot down the table’s orders on your notepad. “i recommend today’s special—”

an arm digging into your ribs cuts you off. the action is forceful enough to jolt you but light enough not to hurt. you glare at the culprit, who tilts his head expectantly as if to ask, aren’t you forgetting something?

“oh, how unprofessional of me,” you deadpan. “this is sanji, he’ll be accompanying me. we’re training new hires.”

the smile on his face disappears, clearly insulted at being compared to an inexperienced beginner.

you continue, “as i was saying, today’s special is a beef filet with rice and seaweed soup. it was chosen by chef zeff himself.”

that seems to pique the customers’ interests. who didn’t want to eat a meal that had the chef zeff’s stamp of approval? they enthusiastically agree to add it to their order.

sanji scoffs. “that’s not sayin’ much. zeff wouldn’t know a good meal if it kicked him in the peg leg.”

you find yourself cringing as the patrons’ faces contort into shock at the blatant insult. well, there goes your tip.

chuckling nervously, you attempt to redirect the conversation. “can i, um, get you anything to drink?”

dismissing sanji’s outburst, they opt to look over the various wines the menu has to offer. you allow yourself to tune out their indecisive murmuring for the time being. however, sanji soon breaks the peaceful silence.

“you know what, how about i whip up a dish of my own for you two? ’s called a true bluefin sauté, somethin’ that’ll put today’s special to shame. free of charge, of course—”

“okay, that’s enough,” you intervene in between yet another forced laugh. “could you please excuse us for a moment?”

the guests’ irritated expressions fill you with shame — you were used to smiles and hefty tips but never this. you pull sanji aside, ignoring his complaints about the excessive force you use to do so.

“you need to get it together,” you seethe.

“i’m trying my best,” he replies, though there’s a smug undertone to it. “like you said, i am just a new hire.”

you suppress a sigh. “no new hire would badmouth the owner to customers like that. or offer to make dishes that aren’t—and never will be—on the menu.”

“ouch, that was personal—”

“just let patty know we need two specials. and tell him to make it top priority, we don’t want to piss these people off even more. can you do that, please?”

it was clear you were stressed by the mess he’d created, if your pleading tone was anything to go by. sanji decides to take pity on you. he wordlessly retreats to the kitchen to do what you had asked. no quips, no teasing.

for the first time, he follows your instructions.

WEEK TWO.

it seemed as if everyone in the east blue was set on having their breakfast at the baratie.

the kitchen was bustling, cooks slaving over the stove and waiters twisting past each other to grab orders. among them was you, sweaty and thoroughly overwhelmed. despite the task at hand, you can’t help but question the whereabouts of a certain blonde.

“where’s sanji?” you demand while grabbing more steaming plates.

carne, the chef who’d cooked the meals, answers you. “haven’t seen him all morning.”

you groan, using your sleeve to wipe off the beads of perspiration that form at your hairline before grabbing a bowl of oatmeal and plate of fluffy belgian waffles. you knew sanji still wasn’t happy about being a waiter (and he took every chance to show it) but that didn’t matter; it was all hands on deck this morning.

you continue expertly stacking the dishes into your arms and hands. it was a technique you’d learned over the years and now it felt like second nature. soon enough, you’re balancing plates up to your forearms. you’re just about to head back out to the dining hall when you hear a familiar accent behind you.

“we doin’ party tricks now or what?”

startled, you turn around so fast it causes the dishware in your hold to teeter ever so slightly. there stands sanji, clearly finding amusement in how you’re up to your elbows in breakfast foods.

“maybe don’t sneak up on me when i’m holding six plates?” you chastise him.

he chuckles. “sorry, sorry. what did i miss?”

“only the worst breakfast rush i’ve ever seen. where have you been?”

“i was takin’ a smoke outside.”

“productive.” your tone drips with sarcasm. “we’ll talk about punctuality later, for now just take the rest of those plates for me.”

sanji reluctantly obeys, grabbing two plates from the multitude of options and steps back, ready to follow you. you look at him in what could only be described as utter disbelief. he returns the stare and furrows his eyebrows as if he really can’t understand what he’s doing wrong.

“you’re seriously only taking two?” you ask.

“yeah? what, were you expecting me to join your balancing act?”

“it would help!”

“trust me, i’d only make a bigger mess.”

“sanji.”

“fine! show me.”

you squint your eyes at him in irritation. “my hands are a little full right now.”

he purses his lips. “then just tell me how.”

you comply. “get your first plate, put it between your thumb and the edge of your pointer finger. make sure to rotate it away from your body.”

sanji follows your directions, attentively. he glances up at you once he completes the first couple steps, scanning your face for any disapproval. you give him a nod.

“so far so good. next, put your second plate under the first. use your remaining fingers to support it– yeah, just like that. and let the edge of the plate rest on the bottom of the first.”

as sanji carefully carries out your instructions, you notice the determination written on his face. you’d never seen him put so much effort in a task, much less one you’d given him. you could tell it was challenging, judging by the way his hands wobble with uncertainty as he stacks the plates, but not once does he stop. it’s admirable. you feel a smile form on your face.

“okay, what n— what’re you laughin’ at?”

“i’m not laughing,” you defend. “it’s just– you’re really trying. it’s nice. i like this sanji.”

he opens his mouth as if to respond but decides not to at the last moment. there’s a brief silence before he raises his eyebrows to signal he was ready for the next step.

“right. um, the third plate uses your arm and the edge of the second plate as balance points so you’re gonna wanna put it– yeah, right there.”

you take in the sight of all three plates successfully resting on sanji’s arm as one of his trademark grins appears on his lips. clearly he’s proud of himself but as his wide eyes meet yours, you can’t help but feel as if he’s seeking your approval too. you notice that when he glances up at you, there’s an eager look in his eyes as if he’s hanging on to your every breath. you figure it’s normal for someone to want their mentor’s praise, right?

you willingly deliver the encouragement. “you’re a natural. better than me.”

his reply comes so quickly it almost seems as if he’s said it without thinking. “well, that’s not possible, is it?”

his tone sounds warm; sincere. not to mention, this is the first time sanji has complimented your skills as a waitress. you’d received countless praises for your work ethic but somehow, something so simple from someone like sanji makes this different. special, in a way.

“let’s get to the table, food’s gonna get cold,” you say so that you don’t spend too much time replaying his words in your mind.

the journey to said table proves to be more arduous than you’d think. you offer quiet ‘excuse me’s that can hardly be heard over the commotion of the kitchen as your coworkers try their best to make way for you and sanji. some of their eyes linger on the plates that masterfully balance on both your arms but truthfully, the sight of sanji exerting so much effort into waiting tables is more impressive to them. it’s distracting enough to send one of them to colliding straight into you.

your first instinct is to try and salvage as many dishes as possible but it’s useless when the impact is so strong that it sends you stumbling backwards. the only reason you don’t fall over is the firm chest that presses against your back and the two pairs of strong arms that find their way around your waist. the ear-splitting sound of yours and sanji’s plates shattering against the floor is unpleasant and yet all you can think about is how sanji literally dropped everything to catch you.

the waiter you’d crashed into groans, looking down at the mess of broken dishware and food gone to waste. “god, look where you’re going if you’re gonna carry all those plates.”

“i’m sorry,” you instantly apologize, flustered by the rare mistake. “i was just trying to get ahead of the rush–”

“instead, you set us back further.” his eyes flit down to his shirt and then yours. “and ruined both our uniforms.”

the abruptness of your mishap (and your skinship with sanji) had robbed all your attention, causing you to overlook the various creams and sauces that now bleed into your shirt.

“watch it,” sanji warns him, finding the man’s aggressive tone intolerable. “if you worked half as hard as she is then maybe there wouldn’t be such a need to catch up on orders.”

your coworker fixes sanji with a glare for intervening. “i’m not talking to you, pal.”

“well, i’m talking to you. and i’m thinkin’ of taking this discussion outside if you don’t apologize for being a jackass.”

that earns him an irritated sigh. however, he complies. “i’m sorry. can i get back to work now?”

sanji remains unimpressed. “don’t apologize to me. apologize to her.”

he doesn’t even try to hide his eye roll before he gives you a lackadaisical apology. “i’m sorry, alright? tell your boyfriend to back off.”

he stomps away, leaving you even more rattled up by his last comment. slowly, you turn around to sanji, unsure of what to say. you take in the stains that litter his suit, though he seems unbothered by it. his stare is heated as he watches the man leave. however, when he notices you staring, his gaze softens.

“what was his problem?” he asks you with a chuckle that sounds out of place in a moment like this.

in any other situation you’d poke fun at sanji for also having gotten worked up but you choose not to. him getting so angry on your behalf felt… strange. not unwelcome, though.

your reply is simple. “y-yeah. real asshole.”

he lifts a brow. “you okay?”

you nod a little too hard. “i’m just not used to situations like that. thanks for stepping in. and, you know, catching me.”

sanji glances away when your look of pure gratitude becomes too much for him to handle. “i couldn’t have you eat shit and be out of commission, zeff just might decide to mentor me himself. and no one wants that, right?”

you can’t help but laugh at the dismissive demeanor he was putting on when he’d literally just threatened a man for you. “right.”

he clears his throat. “let’s go get cleaned up then.”

“sorry,” you blurt. “about your suit, i mean. it’s all dirty now.”

he shakes his head. “wasn’t your fault. if anything, i should go force an apology out of that jerk.”

“well, while you do that i’m gonna clean this mess up.”

“no need.” he shoots you a sly wink. “i’ll make him do that too.”

WEEK THREE.

you find yourself clearing off an empty table on a somewhat slow thursday afternoon when the baratie’s newest guests catch your eye. they look nothing like the stuffy moneybags that frequented the establishment – far from it. in fact, you find yourself having to do a double take when you notice that one of them is wearing overalls. it’s refreshing, you think, occasionally glancing up at them as they settle in.

when you head back to the kitchen to grab menus, you bump into sanji, who’d arrived from his break.

you glance at the clock on the wall. “was that actually only ten minutes? i’m impressed.”

sanji exhales as he does every time he feels sheepish about following the rules. “don’t get used to it.”

you disregard his comment and instead hand him a couple menus. “come on, we’ve got a table.”

he frowns. “i just got back.”

“you’ll live. i think it’ll be a interesting one.”

that was an understatement.

“welcome to baratie. my name is sanji. what can i get for you?”

sanji’s customer service voice never fails to amuse you. it sounds too forced, too sharp; as if he’s just dying to spew a one-liner or two. you have to admit, though, he’d done pretty well ever since you started letting him take the lead. there was a clear improvement from when you’d first started, a little over two weeks ago.

“one of everything!” the one with the straw hat enthusiastically exclaims.

another, more feminine, voice joins the conversation. “maybe save that for after we find the one piece.”

there’s a brief pause before sanji speaks again, this time in a tone you know all too well. “didn’t see you there, madam. would you care for an aperitif to start? we have several rare micqueot vintages in stock. or perhaps you’d like a glass of umeshu? you know, something sweet for someone sweet.” he ends with a wink.

she cringes. “is there something wrong with your eye?”

you can hear sanji’s smile in his reply. “just blinded by your beauty.”

out of all of sanji’s antics, this somehow feels like the worst one yet. you’re not entirely sure why him blatantly flirting with the woman feels so unbearable but you decide to chalk it up to your professionalism. if any of your fellow waiters flirted with a customer you’d be just as upset… right?

“zeff told me he doesn’t like you terrorizing the female patrons with your flirting so why don’t you knock it off?” you tell sanji, your words carrying an unusual edge to them. “you’re one shitty pick-up line away from a restraining order.”

although you mumble the last part, both sanji and the table seem to pick up on it. your bitterness earns you a surprised tilt of the head from the blonde; it wasn’t like you to have such outbursts, especially not in front of guests.

“relax,” he says, still taken aback. “it’s called working the table. you should try it sometime ‘cause that attitude isn’t gonna get you anywhere.”

a monotonous voice cuts through the tension. “so about those drinks...”

you and sanji pause your discussion to get a look at the face behind the remark. lidded eyes that appear to be permanently hazy return your stare, through lashes so long you can’t help but admire them. the man who they belong to is comfortably splayed out on his side of the booth, calmly observing the two of you. though, it seems like you’ve caught his attention more than anything else. though his gaze seems uninterested, he still effectively studies every inch of you.

sanji seems to pick up the stranger’s staring problem too. he sharply inquires, “is there something on her face?”

the man turns to him once he’s finished sizing you up. “i’m just an observant guy.”

“observe the menu instead, hm?” suddenly, sanji’s tone sounds a lot like yours; irritated and displeased.

“no need.” the green-haired swordsman turns to you. “a beer, please.”

you hold the male’s gaze for a second before nodding. apparently, the eye contact is too prolonged for sanji’s taste because he cuts in, attempting to move things along.

“what about you, madam? anything i can get for you?” you notice he’s using that voice again.

her answer is plain. “water.”

somehow, he manages to complicate it. “still, sparkling, mineral? with ice or without? cubed or crushed?”

“regular water in a regular glass. thanks.”

he beams. “right away.”

“and what about the rest of you?” you ask to impede sanji from asking the woman any more questions.

“two beers,” the one with dark skin says. “i usually have three but–”

“and a milk!” the straw hat adds.

“got it. anything else before we go get those drinks for you?”

a raspy voice speaks up. “do waiters usually come in pairs here?”

you shake your head. “this is a temporary arrangement. he just needed some extra training.”

“that depends on who you ask,” sanji clarifies before narrowing his eyes at the man on the left of the booth. “why do you care anyway, mosshead?”

before you can scold sanji for giving customers rude nicknames, the customer in question swiftly corrects him. “the name’s zoro. i was just curious as to why such a good waiter would be partnered with someone so… incompetent.”

“curious?” scoffs the woman to his left. “since when are you ever curious? about anything other than alcohol, that is.”

“certain things catch my attention once in a while, nami,” he replies, nonchalantly. though he mentions his colleague by name, it’s clear he’s really speaking to you. “it’s just not often that my standards can be met. but when they are, i’m left with no choice but to show a little interest.”

your head tilts at the double meaning his comment carried. though you admire zoro’s ability to be a smooth-talker, you find that that’s where his appeal ends for you.

“high standards, hm? then you’re dining at the wrong place,” spits sanji in an attempt to get zoro’s attention off of you. “only thing that isn’t shitty is the drinks which we’ll be getting for you now, if you’ll excuse us.”

sanji hooks an arm around your shoulder before he spins on his heel and leads you both back to the kitchen. you look over your shoulder, offering the table one of your customer service smiles as an apology for your abrupt exit. sanji’s strides are long and purposeful; he’s angry, you realize. although, you can’t blame him for having such a sour attitude when you yourself aren’t too thrilled either.

you don’t speak to each other for the rest of the shift.

“you smiled at him.”

you sigh, setting your book face down to glare at sanji who stands in the doorway of the quaint breakroom. “i’m on my break, sanji.”

“so am i,” he retaliates, pulling a stick out of the worn-down cigarette box in his pocket as if to prove it to you.

“so it’s not enough that i’m stuck babysitting you when we’re on the clock? you’re gonna start seeking me out in our free time too?”

he purses his lips. “pretty much.”

his stubbornness is unsurprising but you just aren’t in the mood to tolerate it today, not when he’d worked your nerves earlier with his flirtatious behavior. deep down, you know you only have yourself to blame for getting so unreasonably angered by that. maybe that’s what upsets you most.

you sigh. “just tell me what you want.”

“i want to know why you smiled at that asshole.”

“asshole?” you repeat, laughing. “i know you have a potty mouth but god, take it easy.”

he licks his lips. “see, now you’re defending him. what for? do you know him or something?”

“do i have to?”

“no, but... it would be nice if you did. it would help me understand why he was talkin’ to you like that. all flirty but secretive at the same time. it was like you two had some sort of inside joke.”

“so a man being interested in me is so unfathomable to you that i have to know him or else it’s a joke?” you ask, tone heated.

“no, that’s not–” he groans. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“what about you and that girl? nami, was it?” you sneer. “if zoro’s considered flirty then i don’t think there’s a word for what you are.”

“you’re mad at me for trying to earn a tip?” he asks, squinting his eyes at you. “you told me to be nicer to customers. i was being nice.”

“you were really selling it,” you scoff.

“don’t believe me?” sanji challenges you. “have you ever seen me flirt with a girl that’s not a customer? a girl that’s not you?”

the words tumble out of his mouth haphazardly, as if they’d been weighing heavy on his mind for a while now. as an attempt to recover — an attempt to make it seem like that admission didn’t mean something, he calmly lights the end of his cigarette. he then brings it to his chapped lips and takes a long drag.

you take the moment to really think about what he’d said. sanji was charming by nature and, of course, he knew that. not only that, but he used it to his advantage. people tended to tip better when he was laying it on thick, that much was true.

however, his second question takes a lot more thought. now that you really think about it, you realize he’s right. you’d never seen sanji flirt with another waiter or member of the staff. you were the only waitress he spoke to that way. the realization makes you feel warm in the face.

“i don’t just flirt with you, you know. i do so much more. remember that plate trick you taught me? i practiced for nights on end ‘til i could do it with my eyes closed. and i don’t tell customers how brainless they sound half the time because i know you don’t like it.”

you only watch as he paces back and forth, rattling off these thoughts that have clearly been plaguing him.

“you still never flirt back, though,” he continues, quietly. “lately i’ve been starting to think that you don’t actually like me at all. that’s the only reason i was being like that at the table. i knew i was only kiddin’ myself but still, i wanted to see if there was a small chance you cared.”

“i…” it’s all you can say. seeing this raw, insecure side of him has left you truly speechless.

he fiddles his cig between his fingers. “listen, i wouldn’t blame you if—”

you finally find your voice. “i like you.”

his voice trails off, engrossed in every word you speak. it’s a simple three words and yet he’s attentive as he waits for more to be said.

you begin to ramble, “i like your passion for the things you care about. i like how you always say what you think. i like that you always have my back. sanji, i… really do like you.”

he gives you a weak smile. “that’s nice, sweetheart, but i don’t think you like me the way i like you.”

“just because i don’t flirt much doesn’t mean i can’t have feelings for you, idiot.”

his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, processing your words. “you— feelings?” there’s a pause. “good ones, right?”

you can’t help but giggle. “yes, good ones. sure as hell not the ones from three weeks ago.”

he joins you with a laugh of his own, which sounds wobblier than usual. he pulls out a chair next to you, as if this moment has left him so shaken up that he needs to sit down. “who would’ve thought? god, i… i can’t believe it.”

“i’ve never heard you stutter so much,” you tell him, tucking a thin strand of blonde hair behind his ear. when your fingers graze against the skin, it’s warm to the touch. cute, you think.

“i just never expected you to give me a chance.”

“a chance? to do what, exactly?” you prod.

he straightens up. “to make you mine.”

your breath hitches in your throat. “sanji—”

“i’m not going to ask anything of you just yet. i think we should take our time. i want to show you that i can be exclusively devoted to you before we go any further. it’s only fair.”

your heart thumps wildly in your chest at the sincerity behind his words. “you’re willing to wait just to prove yourself to me?”

he nods, taking one of your hands and squeezing it. his dedication required no words.

“so that means no more flirting with the female patrons? even when i’m not there beside you?”

he shrugs as if it’s common sense. “if there’s no pretty waitress i want to make jealous then i don’t see a need to flirt.”

you nudge his shoulder. “and what about your tips?”

“small price to pay.”

satisfied with his answers, you lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek; it feels giddy and spontaneous. sanji’s palm instinctively comes up to rest on the spot where your lips had been. he grins before attempting to speak—

a thick, husky accent shakes the walls. what makes it more terrifying is that it’s calling both yours and sanji’s names.

“break time’s over! get your asses back out there and wait some tables, now!”

#if this shit gets like 5 likes i’ll be happy #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #opla sanji x reader #opla x reader #sanji fluff #sanji angst #sanji imagine #sanji oneshot #one piece x reader

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bratphilia · 7 months

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grasp (w. afton x reader)

request: "I don’t really have a coherent story (just some thots) but i’d kill for some sort of smuttyyy ficlet that has the reader who is very short as in 4 foot 10 and has petite features (just like me 😵‍💫) being picked up and slung over Matthew Lillard!William Afton’s shoulder 🥴🥴 Include reader being scared and trying to wriggle free??? (due to her seeing or knowing something she shouldn’t have about Raglan) and some name-calling like ‘little one’, ‘good girl’ & ‘atta girl’ 🤤 - 🧸"

note: hi nonniebear!! i'm sorry if this fic is a little rushed but i tried to stay true to what you requested! hope you enjoy and feel free to keep sending in more ideas :)

pairing: steve raglan / william afton x reader

tags: bondage, praise kink, fingering, squirting, begging

fuck. you're really in for it now.

this yellowish, decaying rabbit stalks towards you, and there are four, sentient and bloodthirsty animatronics behind you.

you're stuck.

even worse, the rabbit came from the entrance, so if you were to try to make your escape that way there was a likelihood of you running into his knife.

"please," you find yourself pleading. "please don't kill me."

the rabbit laughs menacingly and bends down to your level. "how about this? i'll give you a head start."

without any further questions you bolt through the maze of halls and towards the office. you crouch down in front of the vent the rabbit was referring to and unscrew the bolts barricading it. thank god you're small enough to fit in the vents. this might actually work.

then you hear unmistakeable, thumping footsteps coming towards you.

it only hurries your actions. your heart rate rapidly increases. the screws are so aged with rust that it's hard to—

the door opens with a loud thud. you scream at the noise, and again when you're being lifted off the ground. it's the yellow rabbit.

it slings you over its shoulder with unmatched strength. you wail incoherent words and pleas as you pound the back of the suit with balled fists.

"help me!" you scream out to no one. "somebody help!"

the rabbit wordlessly carries you down the hall, to one of the locked doors you dared not to venture into during your shifts. it carried you down a couple stairs and then set you on a dentist-office-style chair.

at this point tears are rolling down your face. eyes are shut in fear of looking your captor in the eyes. uncontrollable sobs escape your mouth, praying that these aren't your final moments. then the rabbit wraps both hands (paws?) around your wrists and holds them to the arm handles so that restraints can bolt around them.

"oh, save it," he says, clearly annoyed with your crying. "i've heard it all before, you don't deserve to die, and all that."

your eyes shoot open. the rabbit's voice no longer sounds robotic and you realize you actually recognize it.

in a very dramatic fashion, it's steve raglan. your career counsellor, a.k.a the man who got you this job in the first place.

he almost looks ridiculous in the rabbit suit, which admittedly doesn't add much to his already sizeable frame, but you can't find the humor in the situation in which you could be seconds away from dying in.

"why?" you find yourself asking, suddenly more curious than hysteric. "why give me this job if you were just going to kill me in the end?"

"because you got a little too close to the truth, and for some reason, those brats up there were unable to take care of the job themselves," he snarls resentfully. he must be referencing the animatronics. it makes sense now— the kids in the drawings with the yellow rabbit on the wall.

"it was you. you killed those kids."

steve gives you a horrible smile. one that almost makes you weak, with that dimple you recognize from many conversations in his office. "you finally figured it out."

he walks behind you, shuffling around in the suit, and you crane your neck around to see him taking it off. he's wearing a white tee and dark purple slacks. he's not particularly muscular, but not thin either. it's a build specific to middle aged men. you hate to admit it, but your face flushes when you notice how large his hands are.

he catches you looking at him and smiles, cocking his head curiously. "see something you like, little night guard?" instantly you whip your head back around. your head is at a moral war with itself, with you being disappointed in yourself that you were actually checking out a child serial killer.

but steve doesn't leave it alone. once he abandons the suit, he swiftly strides over you. he places both hands on your restraints, caging you in. you shrink into yourself.

"i think," he says lowly, "i might have a different use for you, little one. one that we can both enjoy."

you swallow, not saying anything. steve reaches a hand up to slide down your face then cup your jaw. his hands are cold to the touch and it sends shivers down your spine.

you find your voice. "don't touch me."

"don't touch you? are you sure?" he says cockily and you can only glare at him in response.

"what if i just..." he trails off, sliding the hands on his face down your neck, your chest, abdomen, and eventually your core. he presses his hand there hard, making you jolt upwards and whimper. "so you don't want me to touch you, is what i'm hearing?"

fuck. this undeniably hot serial killer has you at his disposal and you can't help but feel turned on. if you're going to die, and your chances really aren't looking good for you, maybe you should just...

"please," you murmur, closing your legs so they trap his hand there.

"please, what?"

you swallow. "please fuck me."

"'atta girl." he grins from ear to ear. "y'know, all that begging you did earlier really did a number on me, but i must say i love this change of heart."

steve starts to undo the buttons of your slacks and begins to pull them down, leaving you bare in your underwear. it's at this point you realize how wet you are, and you try to relieve the tension in your core by squeezing your thighs together but he grabs your legs and presses them to your stomach. you're just so malleable to him.

he tugs off your panties and discards them mindlessly. "look at that," he marvels at your bare skin, "so pretty, little one."

you squirm against the restraints a little. at this point the anticipation will kill you faster than he will. you wish he would just touch you already, but you had to admit all his praises were only adding to your arousal.

steve decides to sit a little further down the chair and wordlessly plunges a finger inside your pussy. he goes deliberately slow, clearly gaging your reaction. "fuck," you mutter, and it takes all your strength to not buck your hips into his movements.

"you need this, don't you, sweet girl?" he muses, stopping the thrusting of his fingers, but still keeping them inside. "tell me."

"please, please, please..." tears coat your lashes from all the teasing. "'need it so bad."

he gives you a kind smile, one you haven't seen since you were back in his office. "good girls get what they ask for. "

steve slides in a second finger and begins to pump faster. it's an improvement but you find yourself needing more. you buck your hips up hoping he would get the message and he simply laughs lowly as he adds a third finger into the mix.

his pace gets progressively faster over time to your delight. the noises coming from your center is absolutely obscene. you can feel your juices dripping down onto the seat.

"ah — ah!" you cry out, feeling your orgasm nearing. "i'm coming — please, slow down—"

you squeeze your eyes shut. all the sudden the chair is abnormally wetter than you would have expected and— oh.

your face burns bright red. "i-i'm sorry..."

he's shocked, mouth agape and eyes slightly widened. then a wolfish grin spreads across his face. "don't you dare apologize, little one, let's try that again."

#william afton #steve raglan #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf smut #william afton x reader #william afton smut #fnaf x reader

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